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by Ofer Aronskind
Whenever I hear someone talking about getting in touch with their "inner
child," I'm a bit perplexed. For me, the problem's
always been about connecting with my "inner adult." Considering
the fact that I am a father of three teenage sons, I figure it's
about time I start viewing myself as an actual grown-up. The problem
is I don't. Other than an occasional glance in the mirror, I still
feel like a kid inside. Thankfully, I do have my boys who function as
a perfect excuse for my childish behavior. I know we shouldn't
throw a football in the house but what can I do . . . it's the
boys' fault. I know a man my age shouldn't snowboard down
double black diamond trails but hey . . . my boys pushed me too hard.
The same built-in excuses work for drinking milk right out of the carton,
walking into the house with our muddy shoes, allowing our dog to eat
out of our plates, and so on.
I can't help it; it's just
so much more fun being a kid than an adult. Now,
when I stop to think about why I still feel that way, I can't help but
look back at my childhood. And when I reflect back to my childhood,
I can't help but think about camp; sleep-away summer camp that is. I
blame it all on camp. I had so many good times, made so many life-long
friends, and have such great memories from the many summers spent there
that I just can't let go. I don't want to, even if that means
I never get in touch with my "inner adult." So
what made camp so special? Why am I so fixated on it? And why can't
I get rid of that nagging "inner child"?
Well, for one thing,
my camp experience started at a young age. I was
six and my sister was four when my parents (who were teachers during
the school year) accepted jobs at a camp in the Berkshires. They worked
during the day and slept in the staff quarters at night. My sister stayed
with them, but I was a regular camper and slept in a bunk with the other
kids. That was the beginning. We came back to that camp for many summers
until my parents scrounged together what little money they had and bought
a camp of their own just a couple of miles away. It was thirty-six beautiful
acres on one of the most pristine lakes in the Berkshires. We owned
that camp for many years, and I grew up there. From camper to counselor
to unit head and eventually camp director, that place witnessed my coming-of-age.
Unfortunately, the camp was eventually sold — the bunks, dining
hall, little theatre, the arts & crafts shack, the rec hall, and
the sports fields are all gone, but the place still very much exists
in my mind. It is the place where I learned to make friends. It's
the place where I learned to be independent, think for myself, and deal
with problems, think them through, and implement solutions. In short,
it was a parallel universe that existed very far away from the rest
of the world. It was a place that had no limitations; a place where
you could be anyone you wanted to be. Camp more than anything else shaped
me and made me the person I am today. And, even more importantly, sleep-away
camp is the place where I made friends that lasted me a lifetime.
To
this day, when one of my "camp friends" calls or
Facebooks me (I guess it's become a verb) or, in those more rare moments,
when we actually get together in person, there
is an immediate bond that transcends any friendship one may have developed
in adulthood. There is something about a camp friend who knew you when
you were a kid; when money, social standing, and the country club where
you golf doesn't mean a thing.
Yeah, that was camp. That's why I
think back to it constantly, that's why I cherish
my camp friends, and that's why I still feel like
a kid inside.
Originally published in the 2009 March/April
issue of Camping Magazine.
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