Letters from Camp
In 1967, at
the age of 10, I attended an overnight camp for the first and only time. An older
neighbor girl had been going for years and raved about all the great times she
had had, getting into all sorts of delightful mischief I was excited to become
a part of.
I begged my
parents to go. They were neither rich nor poor but scraping together the
hundred bucks or so for my sister and I to attend wasn’t easy. We were not a
family that camped or took vacations except to visit relatives so this was
indeed an extravagance, one that I hoped would be a fun-filled adventure my
first time away from home.
When we
arrived at the camp to be dropped off, the accommodations seemed a bit
underwhelming. The cabins were rustic complete with peeling paint, metal bunks
and spider-webs draped through exposed rafters. They were arranged by campers’ age
and my sister’s cabin was far away, which wasn’t much of a problem as she was
two years older, bunking with friends and wanting little to do with me. I was
assigned to a cabin with seven girls about my age who I had never laid eyes on
before.
I started
feeling uncomfortable almost immediately. I had always done well in school and
made friends with my teachers who enjoyed me because I was quiet, thoughtful,
and smart, but in the company of these seven strangers, I felt completely
alone. I never felt more like I didn’t belong and there I was, stuck for two
weeks, at my own request.
I knew
right away that I wasn’t going to survive so after one night in the damp and
freezing cold cabin, I asked to call home and be picked up. Apparently, there
was some rule against this and I was told to hang in there.
I soon began
wandering away from camp in search of a pay phone which required the campers
and staff to come looking for me. I never
found one but I disappeared with such regularity that they added it to the camp
schedule.
2:00 Archery
3:00 Tennis
4:00 Look for Susie who’s trying to escape from camp.
They always found me.
The only
thing worse than the weather (and the activities and the other kids) was the
food, but there was one thing in camp I truly looked forward to each day. It
was called “Quiet Time” during which we were told to stay in our cabins and
write letters home to our families and friends. It was exactly the escape I’d
been looking for, a place to pour out my heart, complain, and connect with the
people I was missing. And because my mother saved EVERYTHING, I still have
those letters.
They are
riddled with details about my two weeks in hell where I was forced to play
“stupid games,” admissions to my dad that I had made a mistake and that “I had
no one to blame but myself” and apologies for wasting his money. I wrote about
anticipating packages and letters declaring dramatically, “I wait each day
longing for a piece of gum,” promising to write more letters and requesting
that more paper be sent.
Finding these letters is bittersweet because I
am not only confronted with my younger, introverted self, but I see that the
woman I became and the path that followed was already established and clearly
defined at the age of 10. A person who didn’t quite fit in and who then, as
now, uses writing to express her feelings and transport herself from difficult
situations.
~Published August 2. 2014 The Buffalo News
~Published August 2. 2014 The Buffalo News
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