Willa left for camp today. It’s a three-night trip with her schoolmates, but from the way the whole family is feeling, you’d think she just left for college. Simone, Dave and I keep reviewing the schedule. “I wonder what she’s doing now?” “It says tree planting. Do you think she’s wearing her boots?” I just realized I forgot to pack her sunblock, which, in Australia, is like not having gloves on Everest. We’re already planning a dinner for when she returns – three days from now – and can’t decide between pesto and puttanesca.
We moved to Perth in January, and we’ve had more family bonding than all seven seasons of Growing Pains. Today we’re Three’s Company missing our pal Larry who’s at The Regal Beagle. My wise friend Ruth said it’s natural; of course we’re all feeling a bit anxious. “It’s the first time a member of the team is leaving for awhile.”
When I was a kid, I spent a week at Camp Swig, a Jewish camp in Northern California, where Hannah Schwartz slapped me across the face. We had just returned from a Shabbat service, held in a small, outdoor amphitheater where ancient Jews presumably fought to the death. On the way back to our cabins, Hannah and I stopped by the canteen to buy Mint It’s-Its. We were dressed in white, the required color for Shabbat service, and the perfect option for girls who are five minutes away from getting their first period. I don’t remember what Hannah and I were fighting about, but the chocolate from my It’s-It got all over my Lands-End culottes. My face stung and things were never the same. The next morning, I ate breakfast with Sarah, the girl who was allergic to grass, and watched Hannah at the next table, laughing with her new friends.
When I was thirteen, I went to a French immersion camp in Minnesota. I wasn’t wearing white but I did get my period. I put the maxi-pad on upside down, and buried my cut-off jean shorts in the forest. Sabrina, my cabin counselor from Cameroon, winked at me that night as we sang Bonne Nuit Mes Amis. Did she know? Did I remember to flush?
In high school, I was a counselor at a summer camp for visually impaired children. I loved this camp, despite being persistently hit on by a twenty-six year old Pakistani counselor who, upon learning of the death of his brother, left camp to return home and marry his brother’s fiancée who was also his cousin.
I also have happy memories from camp. In Minnesota, I got to wade in a lake after dark and watch the reflection of the stars dance all around me. At Camp Swig, I learned the long and glorious prayer, the Birkat Hamazon, and made a dream catcher out of popsicle sticks that hung in my bedroom for years. I just never had that whole camp-changed-my-life thing. My friend Jason swears that his summers at camp were some of the best times of his life. My cousin Emma’s eyes well up at the mere mention of River Way Ranch Camp.
I don’t know what Willa will think of her first camp experience. I just can’t wait until Friday, when I can grab her off that bus and hold her tight.
