The Rowdy Boys

When people ask me what I do, I usually tell them, "I do God's work."  And then when they give me a strange look, I add on, "I teach junior high."  That typically brings about a sympathetic head nod or maybe even a "better you than me" sigh of relief.

Most of us were weird in junior high.  Or mean.  Or obnoxious.  Or just weird.  Junior high is a time where nothing about ourselves seems to make sense.  Physically, emotionally, academically... strange stuff is happening; it ain't pretty.

Junior high is all about pack mentality.  There's safety in numbers.  Find your group.  Follow the leader.  Do your best to just blend in.  In a way, it's not all that different than what you should do on the first day of prison.  Unlike prison though, you don't have to shank someone in the yard the first day.  You only have to find the one kid who's weirder than you feel.  An emotional and mental shank, if you will.

And that idea -- that idea about being like everyone else, the idea about not standing out, the idea about not rocking the boat -- that's what makes it so hard to teach kids about kindness to others, especially those that are different.

That's why I liked this video so much.

It reminded me of one of my favorite camp stories.  I worked for 8 summers at a camp that mainstreamed children with special needs into cabins of "normal" campers.  There was a family who came to camp.  The parents were older, with grown children, and they had then adopted 3 children with special needs.  The oldest of these kids was Sean, a young man with cerebral palsy.  He was in a wheelchair and difficult to understand, but Sean was blessed with the biggest and brightest smile in 4 counties.  Wherever he went, he brought sunshine with him.  He was loved by every member of our staff.  In his last summer at camp, Sean was put in a cabin of uber-popular teenage boys who would be staying for 2 weeks.  Sean would only be there for one.

Although I knew that Sean's counselors would take care of him, I worried that these boys (who could be rough and loud and, let's be honest, a little obnoxious) would either A) overwhelm and intimidate him or 2) completely ignore him.  I crossed my fingers, hoped for the best, and kept my eyes peeled.  

I knew things were going okay; I hadn't been called for any major problems with them so that took care of concern A.  I wasn't so sure about the second.  It wasn't until the boys figured out that not only was Sean going home while they would stay another week, he also probably would not be back the following summer.  They came to us at lunch, asking if they could throw a goodbye party for Sean after Free Swim.  They planned to let Sean go early with his counselor, and they would get ready.  The boys -- these rowdy, self-absorbed, uber-popular knuckleheads -- gave up their favorite activity to decorate their cabin with streamers and banners and homemade cards.  When he and his counselor pulled up on the golf cart, the boys were lined up on the front porch to welcome him back, hooting and yelling and dancing around.  Sean was so excited, clapping and swaying, that he almost fell out of the golf cart, and his smile could have powered all the lights in Fort Worth AND Dallas in that moment.

In that moment, though, Sean's smile had nothing on the smiles of those 9 other boys.  When I saw that kid at the end of the video, describing how that play changed him, how it made him want to be kinder and more helpful to others, I saw my rowdy boys in his face.

In my circle of camp friends, it is well-known that I had not wanted that Unit Coordinator job with those god-awful teenagers that summer.  I had been a little-kid counselor, and I had kicked and screamed about taking that job.  I was an elementary education major until that summer, and when I think about memories like that, it's no wonder that I switched the following semester.

Throwing that party for Sean didn't mean those boys were any less rowdy or any less of knuckleheads.  It didn't mean that they never caused me trouble again or never made another mistake.  It didn't even guarantee that they would see the importance of their own actions.  But it did mean that, for a few minutes at least, they were a lot less selfish and a little bit more grown-up. 

Those moments don't happen often for teenage boys, but when they do, it's important to stop, think about all those sympathetic head nods, and know, "better me than you".

The Thursday Night Blues

I got the Thursday night blues, I think.

Those nights have been pretty special to me for the last 8 summers.  Our camp's closing campfires were on Thursdays.  We'd have a great camp dance and then head to the point for a huge fire and awards.  No matter how hot it had been that day, there was always a breeze off the lake.  Occasionally, there'd be a fish jump or Big Sam, the camp dog, would bark at absolutely nothing to protect us all.  Each counselor recognized the Broken Arrow winner in his or her cabin.  We recognized the campers and staff of the session.  But mostly it was the sounds of the cicadas buzzing, the fire crackling, and children singing.  That's what I miss most tonight.

I have to admit, I always felt closer to El Tesoro than I did to Camp Carter... except on those nights.

No one could touch a Thursday night at CC.

I miss you guys.

The "not taller than me" fire rule was never obeyed.

Broken Arrow winner

Lighting our candles

Passing the light

One of my favorite campfire moments with Caleb singing.  Still gives me chills.

And the last links are a nod to Jamie Fletcher, King of Begging for More Singing.  These were after our last campfire in 2012, after all the kids had gone back to cabins and we were singing only for the CIT's and ourselves and then later in the office.  None of us had any idea that it would be our very last Thursday night together at Camp Carter.  

Jamie is also known for recording you when you don't realize it -- which is what he was doing that night. Therefore, sometimes things don't sound so great, and you never know what you might have said.  Normally, I'd be mad, but now I'm so glad he did.  It makes me happy to hear our voices together -- even if it's just arguing over keys afterward (like I know anything about singing on key) or the forgetting of words. Big Sam, the camp dog, even makes an appearance in one track. 

Letting Go

I'm a camp girl.  It's true.  I am.

I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.

But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.

If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.

I spent four summers as a child at camp.  I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995.  And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another.  Until this one.  For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.

How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now).  It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss.  But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt.  I've run out of room for the hurt.

I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard.  They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage.  And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup. 

I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago.  I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words.  I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie.  Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me.  It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength.  It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever). 

There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.

Sometimes, I don't think of it at all.  And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia

• the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
• the sound of the bell at mealtimes
• Flag Medley
• the thrill of finding a friendship rock
• the tepid water of July creek walking
• the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
• the smell of cedar
• the sound of cicadas
• the shake of the swinging bridge
• the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
• the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
• the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
• the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
• the cool breeze through the chapel
• the singing, the laughter, the tears
• Diet Cokes and picnic tables
• the sweating at Council Fire
• the sweating at lunchtime songs
• the sweating at rest time
• the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
• My God, the sweating.  Always.  The sweating.
• the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
• sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
• Screened in cabins
• Screech Owl
• The Big White Truck
• The lock on the CC
• The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there.  Nobody could open that damn safe.)
• dancing on desktops in the office
• late night programming
• 2 AM all-camp planning
• Montana's cheese fries
• trail rosters
• circle-up
• the Blackmon-Mooring van
• the Live Oak grove
• the Redwood 'Hood
• the Horizmen
• fireworks on the Brazos
• secret campfires at the point
• secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
• Pig-Out Day
• the glare from the road
• the shade of the trails
• dance parties
• kitchen raids
• ice cream on the back porch
• and on and on and on...

So when the invitation came to return for the day, we went.  None of us were sure we wanted to.  The wounds and scars on a few of us are still fresh and tender.  Of course, I was afraid, as always, that Sad and Bitter might hitch a ride too.  But there's safety in numbers, solace in friends, and salvation in letting go. 

And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp.  See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends.  So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.

It was pretty amazing.

The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp.  Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.

Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time.
I love the casual hand in the pocket.  No big deal.

A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge. 

Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"

Hayrides up to middle camp.

A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking

something inside the new lodge.

Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.

There's still water in Fall Creek.  It's obviously not July yet.

The new equestrian center.

The new lodge.  

The new office.

Marcus making friends.

Tyler, just dealin' with it.

Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney.  And a little photobomb by yours truly.

Sweet giggles.

This is the old bell.  It is a fixture in the life of camp.

These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.

18 years in the blink of an eye.

The new "old" bell.  But still old friends.  They're the best kind, you know.

On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer.  They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge.  To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.

As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history.  I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all.  I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart.  I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.

But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz,  I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.

And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.

Pass It On...

There is a song I once sang, at a camp, not so long ago.  Its opening lines are:

"It only takes a spark
to get a fire going,
and soon all those around
will warm up to its glowing."

It's a song we sing to celebrate the love of God, but, for me, it's also about celebrating the warmth we find within one another.  The friendships we form and cultivate.  The knowledge and guidance we provide to one another.  That's what camp does -- more than any other place in the world.  The light we find in each other, even those of us who may be old friends, grows within us and begins to change us.  And it burns so brightly we feel as though the darkness may never creep up upon us again.

But it does. It always does.  And it threatens to snuff out our joy, our hope, our light. 

Last night, one of my camp family, Matt, was killed in a car wreck.  This morning, one of my most precious and joyous friends, Jarrett, called to tell me.  The pain in his voice and in his tears, the confusion and loss, cracked my chest open with grief. 

Matt was a wonderful young man, and in the short summer that I knew him, I found him to be quick to smile but long on patience.  He always seemed to be just off to the side, watching first, but wherever he appeared, he brought a calm and a peace to the situation.  He had a quiet air and a quick wit, and to sit next to him at dinner was the prime spot to catch one of his quick jokes.  As his supervisor, I cannot say I knew him well, but I know that he was well-loved by his friends and well-respected by his peers. And if you were to know them, you'd know what a fine compliment that is.

All day, I have grieved and worried.  I have felt that darkness, so familiar an old friend, scratching at the door of my heart.  When I heard Jarrett's voice on the phone, I felt my light flutter, and I worried.  I worried about how these kids -- my kids -- will mourn Matt, the toll that grief exacts on people so young.  How the unfairness of a life gone so quickly, so abruptly, can burn a hole in your spirit and rage uncontrollably.  I worried -- I worry -- that it will engulf them.

I thought about Matt all day, and I thought about those closest to him.  The more I thought about him, the less I cried.  I even began to smile as the sun set before me.  Because while he is gone, he will not be forgotten.  The light of Matt, that spark I saw 2 summers ago, won't be snuffed out.  It can't be because it burns on within each of us that had the privilege to know him.  And it burns strongest in those who loved him best.

The SFA crew -- AJ, Matt, Jarrett, and Destiny

Matt, at home on the range.

 



And they're not the type to let it flicker out.  They will pass it along -- sharing his smile, honoring his life.  I know this much to be true.

This one's for you Matt, and for all those who loved you, from the very first week you were a part of our camp family.  Thank you for your spark.

True Story: John Deere Changed My Life

When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout.  In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp.  The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach.  I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.

Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.

• I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
• My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
• In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
• At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
• I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
• At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
• At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
• Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
• Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
• Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
• Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
• I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
• In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
• In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
• Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
• Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200. 

Almost every decision I've made, every goal I've accomplished, and every dream that I've dreamed has been a result of my time at camp.  Nearly every person I interact with on a frequent basis is somehow a result of my time at camp.  Every place and moment and friendship is connected, and camp is the undercurrent of them all.

All because of a John Deere tractor.

This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth.  As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go.  We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days.  I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation.  Or walk 60 miles.  Or jump rope a thousand times.  But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life. 

Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve. 

If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways: 
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top.  Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign". 
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount.  You don't have to pay right away.  You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.

And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter.  Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!

The First "First Day"

I always say that the best part of my summer job as a camp director is bearing witness to the moment that a child falls in love with camp.  It is, truly, a magical moment. 

The other amazing part (and privilege) is watching that child grow up and bearing witness to the change he or she has upon the rest of the world. 

This is Katie.  She is the human, of course.  I'm sure I have clearer, better pictures of Katie, but this just happens to be one of my favorite pictures of her because I think it encompasses who she truly is and has always been: loving, kind, and generous.

Katie is a kid that I've known as a camper, Counselor-in-Training, Junior Counselor, Senior Counselor, and, for the last two summers, as one of the CIT Directors.  In every one of those roles, she has been the same: loving, kind, and generous.  And incredible.

And, tomorrow, she'll be a second grade teacher.  An incredible second grade teacher, I might add.

So, my Katie-did, as you begin your very first day in this new career, I want you to remember something.

You are more equipped for success than 90% of the teachers in the field.  You have lived with your classrooms for years, surrounded by a tribe of dirty-faced, question-filled, needy (and sometimes whiny) children for weeks at a time.  You've taught them to chop vegetables and cook over an open fire.  You've hiked and played and explored and prolem-solved in the 110 degree heat.  You've held the hands of countless homesick children, dried their tears, and found a place for them to belong.  You've explained the multi-step mysteries of the shower to dozens of clueless 7 year-olds.

Reading and fractions can't be much more difficult.   

Tomorrow, seventeen tiny faces will stream through your classroom door.  You will probably not feel ready, but believe me, little one, you are.  You've been ready for this since the first day I met you.

Tomorrow will fly by before you know it.  As a teacher, your life will be filled with a great number of "first days of school", but you will only have one first "first day".  Savor it.  Whether things go perfectly (they won't) or completely fall apart (they won't), it will be a day unlike any other.  And this is the beauty of teaching... every day, every moment, is a brand new chance for the best day ever.

Those 17 faces?  They will wear you out.  They may drive you crazy, even.  Remember: that's every kid's job.  So what do you do?  Love them.  Be kind to them.  Be generous with your time and attention and spirit.  I know you will because that's who you are, sweet friend.  It's who you've always been, and they are going to adore you for it.  They will be, I predict, the luckiest 2nd graders in the state of Oklahoma.

Have the best, most wondrous, first "first day" ever, Ms. Krambeer.  And then, maybe a drink and a nap.  You're gonna need it.

I love you, kiddo, and I'm so very, very proud of you.

The Slightest Touch

Camp is hectic right now.  Hell.  It's been hectic for a month because that's what camp is -- hectic -- the very nature of the beast.  But I try hard to slow down a few times each day and snap a mental picture of the beauty that truly surrounds me.

Tonight there was a moment -- a sweetly perfect moment -- that summed up all the reasons I do this job, this crazy, hectic, tiresome job.  And it was a moment so innocuous and slight that it overpowered me with its sheer simplicity. 

It was one of our campers, completely blind, who stood unknowingly in the middle of the "last song circle" at the dance. It was another camper, completely unknown to her, reaching forward to place his hand on her shoulder, including her in the fold without forcing her into line.  A touch that allowed her to be connected without being swallowed up.  He held it there for the entire song, never breaking that connection.  I'm not sure anyone else noticed, but it caught me so unaware that I felt the hot tears of surprise building in the back of my eyes.

And that is what all of our campers and CIT's and staff have done this week for our Lighthouse kids -- welcoming them in without swallowing them up.  Moving the circle instead of moving the child.  Accepting that we don't all fall into line the first time but saving a spot for when you do. 

I think often about the beginning of a wave -- the tiny splash that creates the ripple that builds to the wave that washes over us all.  It begins with the slightest movement:  a raindrop, a fish flop, a breath of breeze.  Is that how all great movements begin, how all great revelations occur?  With the slightest touch? 

My Lord, I hope so.

One is Silver and the Other Gold

I've waited for a few days to write this post.  (In truth, it will probably turn out to be a series of posts.  A lifetime love is hard to capture in one entry.) 

Remember, I needed a bit of time to get back on the "normal" side of the Nostalgia Line?  Well, tonight I spent one last evening with several of my wonderfully sweet and dedicated summer staff.  The twinge to float down Amnesia Lane was there, but it did not leave me in a tearful mess on the drive home.  No tears.  That's the green-light for thinking about the past without calling up all of my friends, blubbering the words, "Remember when...?  Waaahhhh..."  No tears = safe zone.

At the end of the summer, I couldn't help but start to think about the past and how my life in camping has come full-circle.  How 25 years ago, I was changed without even knowing it.  And I'd catch myself, looking at my counselors and campers, wondering where this journey would take them in a quarter of a century.

When I was 10, I spent my first summer at Camp Cibola, a Girl Scout camp only about 5 miles from my house.  I can clearly remember asking my parents if I could go, worried that they'd see the price and pass out.  But they didn't, and over the next 3 summers, my dad made deals to help with the mowing and maintenance of camp and my mom -- a cosmetology student at the local community college -- sold hundreds of boxes of cookies to help defray the cost of a week or two at camp.  Literally, one summer, I am fairly certain the CJC Bulldog and Lady Bulldog basketball teams paid my way in mountains of Thin Mints.  It slowed them on the court a bit, but their cookie addictions helped change and shape my life.

My camp was forced to close when I was 14 due to financial constraints, and my friends and I were sad.  I didn't realize at the time what it was that we were really losing.  To the naked eye, it's just a few acres with some cabins and a pool, but for me, I realize now, it was home. A beginning, a spark.  Smells, songs, tastes, sounds... little snippets of the past catch me in the strangest of times and will flash me back 268 miles and 25 years.  It's the only kind of time travel I believe in.

Here is Camp Cibola for me:

• The smell of the Arts and Crafts building -- old stone and clay and tempra paint.
• Archery with Ernie the Archery Dude.
• My achievement beads -- specifically the crimson beads for bullseyes at Archery
• the redwood deck outside the dining hall
• mail call -- to this day, I still have yet to receive a letter from my mom while at camp.
• the Canteen
• trying to figure out all of the counselor's "real" names.  I'm still disappointed that B.G.'s real name was "Lanetta".  And "Froggy" will always be "Froggy".  Never Tracy.
• sleeping in the covered wagons with the flaps raised.
• sleeping in the covered wagon at the end of camp after the canvases were taken down
• stealing plums from the Chief Crazy Horse's (the camp director's) trailer while we were supposed to be typing the camp newspaper.  It's funny now that she never stopped replacing them.
• the mimeograph machine in the A&C building, cranking out copies of said newspaper.
• red, yellow, green swim caps.  I'll never forget the day I earned my green cap and went off the diving board.  I learned how to both swim and dive at camp, skills I will always owe to Momma Duke's fierce determination to get me to "put your dang face in the water, Nazworth!"
• the cinnamon and nutmeg smell of sweet potato muffins from the kitchen and peanut butter and honey on my pancakes.
• Three Brownie Bites and a Prune-a-Day.  Le sigh.
• The Buffalo Song
• Sleep-overs and star-gazing in the valley meadow.  And the smell of freshly mown grass.
• The cross-tie "bridge" on the forest trail.
• Fruit-flavored snipe hunts armed only with my pillowcase and a broken flashlight.  I still don't know how the counselors got that snipe smell to permeate our adventures.  My only guess is sno-cone syrup.  Or Kool-Aid packets.  I was terrified and thrilled all at once. 
•  skits and songs at the ampitheatre.
• red sashes on the color guard at flag ceremony and complete silence at flag before singing Taps.
• Kelly, the lifeguard, making friendship bracelets at the pool every day.  She held them in place with a band-aid, and she had a weird tan line where the band-aid was every day.  Now, I realize that maybe it wasn't the best idea for her to be crafting while guarding, but back then, she was just plain cool.
• platform tents
• the god-awful smell of the latrines and the intense heat and humidity of the showerhouse.
• Ivory soap in panty hose hanging from the trough sink.
• one-match fires
• chicken pot pie and macaroni and cheese cooked over the campfire.
• Greens and whites, knee socks and hats.
• canoeing across Lake Greenbelt with the staff when I was a P.A.T.  Then into town for Blizzards and Chinese Fire Drills on Main Street.
• Christel, Sarah, Erin, and Cara -- my camp buddies.
• Being severely homesick the first night only to realize that being homesick was a drag.
• aluminum foil boats with candles lighting the pool.
• the first s'more of the summer
• the last song of the summer... "mmm-hmmm... I want to linger..."

About 12 years ago, I took another of my camp friends (from my 2nd camp), Courtney, to see my old camp.  Even though it'd been closed and the land sold, no one developed it.  We hopped the fence, and after being closed for a decade, it was like looking at a skeleton of someone I loved.  The structures were still there, but the beauty, the spirit, the essence... had died long before.  They now only existed in some film I never took the time to develop and the memories, so clear in my heart.  I thought for a moment that I would simply sit down and fall apart.  But I didn't.  I walked her all over that camp, risking snakes in the grass and a nice trespassing charge, just to paint a picture of the place I loved so dearly if only for a short time.  I knew that she was one of the only people who would understand this need to say good-bye.  In our 16 year friendship, I'd have to say that afternoon was one of my favorite moments; it was the melding of my old camp life and my new camp life. 

"Make new friends... but keep the old... One is silver and the other gold."

On the Dangers of Nostalgia

Nostalgia is always a tricky thing for me. It's a fine line between visiting the past through a couple of fond memories and wallowing on your couch, scrapbook in hand, wishing for days and moments and people who are long gone.

I came home tonight from this summer's camp staff banquet, feeling especially nostalgic. I thought about writing a post about my first camp counseling experience from so long ago, but I am fully aware of the line tonight. And with just enough vodka in the freezer to free up both my tears and my dialing finger, I'm going to pass. Vodka and scrapbooks are a recipe for a sniveling disaster.

So maybe tomorrow. But if you get a phonecall in the middle of the night, don't judge. It's just the scrapbook talking.

For Karen...

This is a speech I wrote to celebrate a co-worker's 20th summer at camp.  I don't know many people that can do any job for 20 years, let alone a job that involves 110 degree heat, silly songs, and crying children.  But she has, and we threw her a great surprise party.  It was my honor to try to capture how much she means to our campers as well as our staff...

20 years
7300 days
175,200 hours
10,512,000 minutes


For a woman who, as a math teacher, has dedicated her life to numbers and equations, this is the breakdown of a lifetime achievement.


But you know me, Karen Demore. I don’t work in numbers and equations. And, at heart, neither do you really because the most important moments cannot be measured or weighed. They can be gone in the blink of an eye or stretch across decades. They are beyond price and heavy in value.


Most people can’t, or won’t, dedicate themselves to a job that does not produce immediate results. What would our world be without our immediate results? Yet you have dedicated yourself in not one, but two jobs – teaching and camping -- where the depth of your work and the reach of your heart may never be known. There is always hope, of course, that the long talks and lessons delivered will change the course of a child’s life somewhere down the road, but for the most part those changes are never known. Whether coming through the door of your classroom or the gates of this camp, children come in, stay a while, share successes, and maybe even a few heartbreaks. But inevitably, they leave, and you are never quite sure of the impact you have left upon them. It takes a patient person to do this, but you remind us always in your own words, “I’ll wait.” And wait you have.

20 years
7300 days
175,200 hours
10,512,000 minutes

That’s a lot of waiting, Momma. There’s just no immediacy in those kinds of numbers. In 20 years, you’ve seen the arrival of 4 different U.S. Presidents. You’ve seen buildings crumble and governments fall just as you’ve seen entire cities rebuilt. In the last 20 years, you’ve gone from having never heard of the internet to having your very own blog. You’ve moved from a pay phone out front to a cell phone in your pocket and from delivering camper mail to delivering camper e-mail. Twenty years ago, your love for Camp Carter was born, even before ¾ of this year’s summer staff was born. But like I said, it is never the major events that mean the most. It’s never the major events that change paths.

How many of you have known Karen for 20 years? Stand up, and remain standing. How many of you were campers here who grew up with Momma’s voice ringing through the dining hall or flag? Stand up and remain standing. If Momma has ever tied your rag or presided over your leathers or raggers ceremony, stand up and remain standing. If Momma has ever talked you through a problem or some homesickness or said a prayer for you when asked, stand up and remain standing. If she’s ever given you a high five or a hug or a smile when you thought no one else noticed, stand up and remain standing. If she’s ever told you to “stop smiling”, “quit having fun”, or that you should “stop growing”, stand up and remain standing. If you’ve taken “The Hike That’s Not For Wimps,” stand up and remain standing. If you’ve ever won Momma’s clean cabin award, stand up and remain standing.

10,512,000 minutes
175,200 hours
7300 days
20 years

Look around. These are the lives you have touched. The paths you have helped create. The moments that you share. They are beyond price and heavy in value because the human heart doesn’t calculate such things. So the numbers are nice; they help us to understand the time and commitment you’ve given to all of us, but I have one more math problem for you. Did you know that the human heart beats 42,075,904 times per year? Multiply that by 20.

Wait, don’t worry… the English teacher has done the math already, Ms. Demore.


It’s 841,518,080 beats.

And I can say, with confidence, that with each one, your heart has beat for the Lord, for your family, for your friends and students, and for each and every one of us and this camp.


And for that, you get a standing ovation.

And How Was Your Day?

Today,  I:

• taught Young Grasshoppa how to drive the mule.  Welcome to a lifetime of hauling water and running errands and worrying that you're going to run out of gas in back daycamp.
• left to take an ESL certification test.  This was my un-fun 3 hours of the day.
• ordered 18 slushes at Sonic Happy Hour, and made some counselors coming off the hill from horseback very, very happy.  Their happiness cost me $0.65 each.  Totally worth it.  Even with the mean stares from the 3 carhops who had to bring them out to me.
• went to free swim with the camp dog, a labrador retriever that doesn't like to swim and hates gunfire.  He's an epic failure at being a retriever but a compete success at being a camp dog.
• made myself a "princess" dress out of paper towels, duct tape, and spray glitter.  I also wore a cow head bonnet.  It's a long and weird story.
• wore Bubba Teeth for most of the evening.  I went almost 80 minutes until I got the perfect 8 year old double take.  God bless her polite attitude, but her face was absolutely priceless.
• sang camp songs - lounge singer style - on the mule with one of my all-time favorite, laugh-a-minute friends, Alison.
• sat in the cabin floor, playing cards with a camper when I should've been doing rounds.
• listened to the same camper tell me that yesterday, she hated it here.  Now, she never wants to leave.  One day.  That's all it takes sometimes.  Screw rounds. 
• got peeped on by Big Momma Raccoon who so desperately wanted to join the party at Ikerd L that she was pressed up against the glass door like some sort of animated suction cup Garfield cat.  A raccoon in search of Skittles and Ring Pops.
• searched for a canoe full of the CIT's bedding somewhere in the middle of an extremely dark lake.  Better luck in the morning, boys.
• fed the camp dog half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I am a sucker for the camp dog.  He is a sucker for pb&j.
• laughed my ass off with some of my cutie-pie staff in the office on time-off.  They make me smile.  I hope they continue that trend all summer.  Please.  Please let them continue to make me smile.

So that was my day.
 
And people wonder why I still do this job.

When Life Hands You a Trashbag Full of Rotting Spaghetti Sauce...

Yesterday, as stated before, didn't start out so hot.  And by the time I reached camp, problems just kept arising.  Here's a quick recap:

• A huge windstorm blew down several trees (and their myriad of branches) around camp.
• The electricity was knocked out at half the cabins and the dining hall. 
• That dining hall bit is important later.
• The infirmary had a huge tree down and with it came a power line.
• So, if you went to close to the infirmary, you just might need the infirmary's services.
• We had to call our maintenance and facility director.  On Father's Day.  Whereupon he worked all day.  On Father's Day.  He loves us, but still...
• No internet = no access to server spot or printer = Deana having to handwrite all rosters and schedules.
• Deana hand writing rosters and schedules = amazement by all counselors who can't remember a time without the internet or computers.  I think they expected me to take out my dentures for my next trick.
• No electricity in the dining hall = no way to cook.
• 36 Domino's pizzas cost $247.50.  In case you were wondering.
• 36 Domino's pizzas = happy kids.
• 40 mile per hour winds = no campfire at the point.
• Counselor getting a shock in the shower = nobody showers and everyone brushes their teeth from the igloo cooler we placed in your cabin.
• Electric company showing up = power shut off everywhere.
• Hello, 9:30 bedtime.  Maybe we should cut power off every Sunday night.
• A trip to check the dining hall reveals a power line sparking in a tree.
• Hey, Oncor.  You just thought you were done.
• Remember the no power in the dining hall?  That includes the walk-in fridge AND the freezer.
• Thousands of dollars of food in the freezer in peril.  Hundreds of dollars of food in the walk-in sitting at 60 degrees.
• Walk-in clean-out = a trashbag of spagetti sauce and berry cobbler leaking down my leg and a showdown with the dumpster raccoons.
• It also meant dealing with these two characters.

I know it looks like a scene from "Dexter", but it's not.

All in all, most would count it as a lousy day, full of emergencies and mishaps.  But most would also have checked out as soon as they found out the internet was down.  Not us.  We worked hard, and our counselors handled each obstacle with grace and patience.  I just say that it's another day at camp.   When life hands you a trashbag full of rotting spaghetti sauce, the only choice is to roll your sleeves up, cover your nose, and hope it doesn't break as you shot put it into the dumpster. 

And remind yourself, "Rotten sauce or not... this is still way better than working in a cubicle."

Separation and Suffocation

Tonight a little row of 5 year old teeth grinned a big grin at me.  Tonight, I watched ten little 5 year old fingers grip an arrow and break it in half.  An arrow that meant that she was good enough - that she was loved.  Tonight, I watched twenty adults melt into the ground as she skipped back to her seat.  Tonight, I saw two little 5 year old eyes look upon her counselor with love and concern.  Tonight, I watched that counselor face the unfairness of only loving someone for six days, and I could not help.

Because by tomorrow, that 5 year old smile, those 5 year old fingers, those 5 year old eyes will be gone. We will never know for sure where her journey will take her, and the not knowing scares me to death.

Sometimes the unfairness of the world suffocates me.

The Tiniest Glimpse...

Yesterday was kind of one long, crazy, what-the-hell-just-happened kind of day.

Lots of things made me happy, but some things made me terribly sad.

And a couple of things made me downright, mother-effing, rage-a-riffic.

In investigating one of the terribly sad, rage-a-riffic items on the "never dealt with that before" list, I found myself shutting up for once, sitting back, and watching my dear friend work his magic on this kid.  This wondrous little boy with a lifetime of worry already on his seven year-old shoulders.  It was just the smallest of things... a smile, a brush of the hair, a pat on the back, a silly expression, a tenderness not usually shown... but it was just the tiniest glimpse.  A glimpse of where this friend's been.  A glimpse of what he'll be one day.

And all the rage was gone.  Gone in the tiniest glimpse.

No Words...

My heart is full. 

Two parents came to speak to our staff tonight about the topic of parental expectations when they drop their precious children off for camp.  Our counselors, both rookie and veteran, asked insightful and appropriate questions.  They listened.  They smiled.  They risked asking questions that might result in an answer they wouldn't like but still needed to hear.  They rocked.  Completely.

I was like a proud mom.  Seriously, I was a little bit giddy.

But these parents.  These parents really got me.  I've known each of their families for almost 8 years, and I truly appreciate them, but tonight I was blown away.  They spoke about what camp does for their children.  What it has taught them.  The independence it's helped to create.  The relationships that they've formed as a result.  How it's brought joy into the lives of all their family members.  They put to rest some concerns of our newer staff members and validated the hard work and dedication of our returners. 

All in all, it was probably only about a 35 minute session.  But it was some of the most rewarding 35 minutes I've ever spent.  To see a child grow up before you is an amazing gift, but to hear someone thank and praise those counselors and staff members who played such a hand in their growth and then to express their faith and belief in our program... that's even more incredible. 

To thank someone, sincerely and without expectation, is a kindness that has no equal.  I literally can't find the words to express how I feel except that:

My heart is full. 

And I hope that yours is as well.

On Being "Camp Tired"

My body has yet to adjust to "camp time". Even without kids in camp, the days go on forever, and the work never stops. Even a "fun night" requires planning, shopping, set-up, clean-up. Totally worth it, but also totally time-consuming.

So, no, my body is not handling the transition well. My knee hurts. My ankles are swollen. But more than anything, I'm just sleepy.

So sleepy that I dozed off in the Jack in the Box drive thru line.

At 10:45.

Seriously.

Summer 2010 (As Told by iPhone Camera)

All signs point to the fact that fall is fast approaching. Camp is over. I've been stocking up on blue and black pens for school. The Earth has officially rotated so that Texas is approximately 3 inches from the face of the sun.

But it's been a great summer. One of the best in a long time, and I'm sad to see it go. Here are some of the reasons I will miss it dearly, as told by iPhone pictures. Truthfully, I'm too damn lazy to carry a stinkin' camera, thus the photos by phone. The camera capabilities alone made the kool-aid worth the taste.

Poppa J:

Stylishly dressed as always. He's basically the male version of Tyra Banks. Fo' sho'.

Or the the female version. I don't know that there has ever been a better sport than this kid.

Love him.

The kids:

Seeing successful moments with kids. The little one is a kid I wasn't sure would make it through the first day. The big kid is someone I've watched grow up for 5 summers now. He's a big part of why the little one lasted all six days. Sometimes, success passes generation to generation right before your eyes, and it's beyond words.

Or Homesick on First Night to Candle of Hope winner on Last Night. All at the age of 6. Lovely.

Fun field trips:
Ciaran and (practically) his winnings in Shreveport which, for the record, is not in Arkansas. Closer than you might think, but still... not in Arkansas. Not. At. All.

Taking Jamie and Ciaran to the House that Jerry's Ego Built. It's easy to love something you swore to hate as long as you're with people who make you smile.

Ryan, Jamie, and I heading to the Ballpark to ruin Cliff Lee's debut. Truthfully, the Baltimore Orioles ruined Cliff Lee's debut; we just witnessed it. But it didn't deter Ryan's love of the Rangers. Look how happy.

Surprise Visitors:
If camp is like a t.v. show (as Jarrett's theory proclaims), one of my favorite things are the special guest stars. KJ and her sweet puppy, Maya, were two of the best. Even if Maya did steal my bed when I took too long to brush my teeth.

Overcoming Fears:
I overcame lots of fears this summer, and, of course, some are still standing on deck, but this one is done. Anyone who knows me understands that I'm not usually down for such a thing as a snake bracelet, but I'm willing to do almost anything for a homesick kid. Including letting a wild beast make its home on my wrist for 15 minutes.

The Randomly, Awesomely Funny Moments (in truth, there are far too many to list/photograph):

Like Jamie's continual Web MD'ing. New day, new diagnosis. This was one of the last "sickly" moments, whereupon he took his temperature every hour on the hour. First, it was 98.2 (not super-abnormal) then 98.6 (normal, right? No.). Fever, rising "by the minute". I did feel slightly bad when he really did turn out to be sick, but honestly it was bound to happen at some point. Better tonsilitis than angina or colon cancer.

Alison "lifeguarding" at the pool. Granted, there were no actual humans in the water at this time, and she is, in fact, not a lifeguard, but it still made for a good photo opp.

Laughing, loudly. All day. Every day.

This was when Jamie forced Alison and me to be "trolls" at the low bridge. Once we stopped being offended, we laughed our asses off at anything and everything. I love this picture because I can almost hear the laughter skipping across the Trinity.

Closing Campfire:

It's no secret that the last night of camp is my favorite. It could be the togetherness. It could be the smell of hundreds of campfires past. It could be that it's the few moments where all is quiet, peaceful, and still. Mostly, it's all three.

Broken Arrow Award

The Circle of Light

And, one of the best parts of camp is making new traditions. Caleb capped off every Thursday night with this song.

Summer 2010. Hallelujah, indeed.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Today was a hard day.

An unbelievably hard day.

Today was the kind of day that makes you question not only the choices of others but also your own personal choices in what kind of life it is that you mistakenly signed up for. Emotionally, physically, and mentally draining.

But this is what I learned about myself.

I can do the things I wasn't sure I could. I can put aside my own whiny tendencies to support those that need me more than I need me at any given moment. And, yet again, everything I've learned in the past 15 years really does come through when you need it most, and, yes, I am still learning each and every day.

And, today was surely not the hardest day ever. It just felt like it.

But I also remembered that others, when you need them most, will always be there. Whether it's a hug, or a smile, or a meaningful text, or a free Diet Coke, or a visit even though you don't have time to visit, or just continuing on their way without questions but with the knowledge that they just have to carry on. Those are the important things to remember as you lie in bed.

It's my self-appointed job to go around saving others every day, trying (sometimes in vain) to fix the unfixable, and feeling the pain/joy of being needed and purposeful. But some days, even the savers need to be rescued, the fixers feel broken, and the driven lose their way, and that's just how it is. Hopefully, when that happens, someone will be waiting patiently to pick you up, dust you off, and send you back into the fray.

So tonight, this one's for the Cavalry because it's almost time to saddle up again tomorrow.

Yellow Candles and the Art of Being Present

Today, I lived my life as a bystander.

I missed my opportunity to be present and attentive to the world spinning and humming around me.

I was disjointed and disappointed, and I let that get the best of me.

I hate that.

And then, a kid... a kid who has bitterly opposed any and all authority for the past 5 days, all snarls and eyerolls and teenage annoyance... snapped me back to reality.

Want to know how he did it?

He cried. This too tough 15 year-old wise ass, sobbed throughout closing campfire. He wept for almost 20 minutes, at first quietly and then not-so-quietly, until his counselors pulled him away to check on him. Then he revealed that he was sad because camp was ending. Here's a kid whose smart-mouth and shit-eating grin and eff-the-world attitude had steeled him against almost any kind of real emotion for God only knows how long. And he was so present in that moment, so sad and scared and unsure, that he forgot to be ashamed of his tears. It was stunning.

After campfire, when he came to grab his Foster Kid Cocktail of Meds, he asked me if he could keep the candle he'd made for our closing ceremony. He told me he wanted to bring it back next year. All I could say was, "Sure. Of course." It was such a sad little candle, no bigger than something you'd find on a birthday cake, but he held onto it so tightly that it made my heart ache.

I had a different post all planned. I'd been writing it in my head all day. It was going to drip with smart-mouth and eff-the-world attitude. It was depressing and angry and spiteful. But the whole time I was typing tonight, all I could see was that crappy little yellow candle in his hand and his eyes, red from crying, and I couldn't leave it alone. I arranged and re-arranged and changed it up a hundred different ways, but to no avail. The whole thing felt disjointed and disappointing, and I've had enough of that today.

I hope that kid never loses that candle. I hope he does get to bring it back next year. I hope that when he gets back to his home, he takes a piece of all of us with him. And I hope that I can remember tomorrow, what it's like to be present... fully present... for the world spinning and humming all around me.

The Wild Girl

Today, I witnessed a miracle.

People say that all the time, but I rarely ever believe in it. I think the word is over-used and under-appreciated. When everything is a miracle, then nothing can be miraculous. All the shine is faded.

But not today. Today, I witnessed a miracle. And her name is Sophia.

Ten summers ago, I helped start off a day camp for blind and visually impaired children, and Sophia was one of our first campers. At only about 8 or 9 years old, she was a little ragdoll of a thing, and she had three basic words -- "no", "yes" and a high-pitched screech to indicate either extreme excitement or extreme displeasure. Neither of them was especially delightful.

Sophia had no social skills. She had little gross motor control and even worse fine motor skill. To be in the dining hall, where plates and cups and silverware clanked and scraped together, and where children and teenagers talked in overwhelmingly loud voices, was sheer torture. At horseback, two people had to hold her steady in the saddle because she did not have the muscle strength to hold up her own head and upper torso which slumped over the reins. She looked like a little wild girl, born into nothingness and no one, but still managing to somehow have on clean clothes and bows in her hair.

Sophia's mother would not admit that anything, other than blindness, was at play in the mind of her child. And I got it, why heap more devastation onto an already devastating situation? But I couldn't understand that when she looked at her darling girl, she only saw what she wanted to see -- what she could bear to see. When her mother came to the closing ceremony, however, she could not deny what she saw: lots of other children, just as visually impaired as her own, who were speaking and moving and interacting all around Sophia. Literally. Around. Sophia. She slumped and fidgeted and barely lasted the hour without losing control. It was a visual reminder of what we, and probably her mother as well (deep down), knew already. Sophia was locked away, and no one seemed to be able to find the key.

But camp was the key. Or, at least, it was the hand digging around in the purse, searching for the key, brushing it with our fingertips and glimpsing it just enough to know that it was in there somewhere. I fully believe that. I will never accept anything other than that.

Sure, there were therapists and teachers and people who knew more than us helping her each and every day. And those people, especially her mother, deserve most of the credit. But I'm not sure that anyone, and I do mean anyone, cared more and cheered harder for a child than her camp counselors did. Every summer, more of Sophia came through. First, there were things like getting in the pool or eating with a knife and fork. Then came the mimicking and parroting of voices, sounds, and songs. Her mobility improved. Her language barriers began to crumble. And each time I saw her, she was a little more grown-up and sitting a little straighter in that saddle.

Four years ago, when I became the assistant director at my "normal kid" camp, my week with those wonderful day-campers and Sophia slipped away by the wayside. I could visit at the barn or even take a dip with them at the pool, but they stopped being my kids and became someone else's. And that included Sophia. Sometimes, I watch them amble down the road toward the pool or archery or canoeing with their canes and sighted guides and wheelchairs, and I am filled with both joy and regret because although I will always belong to them, they no longer belong to me. I barely know most of the campers anymore. None except Sophia. And, of all of them, the little girl who didn't speak, the wild girl who locked herself away, she was the least likely to remember how to heal my heart simply because she seemed to be the least likely to remember me at all.

But today, in the camp store, the little girl who didn't speak, spoke to me -- the me she hasn't known in four years. She smiled, yelled "Deana, Deana, Deana!" and giggled. Then she squealed the names of my friends, her other biggest fans, and my heart could not be contained. Not only had the wild girl remembered me, she could also place me with the other people who had loved her and adored her for so many summers. In her head and in her heart, we all live in the same place -- in the same place she keeps camp.

She squeezed my hands, put her palm to my cheek, answered my zillion questions, and made me realize all over again what is truly important in this world. How does that happen in the span of 5 short minutes in a crowded camp store? I will never, ever know, but I'm so glad that it can.

I think I could write about that moment for the rest of my life and never perfectly describe it to someone else. There aren't enough words to describe today because the only important words, the only words that mean anything at all, were the ones pouring from her mouth.