By
Wendy Mogel, Ph.D., published in the January/February 2006
issue of Camping Magazine; copyright 2006 American Camping Association,
Inc.)
I went to camp for sixteen years. The whole
happy slog: day camp, sleep-away camp, CIT, junior counselor,
counselor, head counselor.
At Belgian Village Camp in Cummington, Massachusetts, the birthplace
of the American romantic poet William Cullen Bryant, we had vespers
in an elegant clearing in the forest called “the green cathedral.” My
friends and I sat by the pond for hours (hours!) catching tree
frogs and daydreaming. Backstage smelled of clown white and musty
taffeta. While riding bareback (Bareback? Someone call risk management!)
a bee stung my horse. I was thrown to the ground and broke my leg
but stayed out the summer and learned to fish.
A fourth grade teacher told me that she can predict which children
will be homesick on the annual four-day nature retreat. “The
ones who can locate their flashlight, sweatshirt, and warm socks
in their duffle bag are not homesick. The ones who can’t
find their stuff are.” She explained that this first group
of children have either packed their gear themselves or with a
parent’s help. The second group, the homesick, has been packed
for.
Kids, at camp you will get all kinds of valuable gifts: you will
get homesick, other campers will be mean to you, the food won’t
be great, you’ll be cold and hot and hungry, and you will
get injured! At least a splinter. At least I hope all of this will
happen to you because otherwise you are deprived. Of life. Of its
thorns and its roses.
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