A camp story

(or The Importance of Being Ernst)

By Angela Beairsto

As I was folding a load of clothes (a lighter load, now that two of my four children are away at college), I was surprised to see a faded, red YMCA Camp Ernst t-shirt. I immediately flipped the shirt to its back and scanned the long list of small-print names in search of its owner, since all of my children attended Camp Ernst in Cincinnati at one time or another. It took another search—for my reading glasses—before I finally made out my third son’s name, with the last name misspelled, as usual. When he first wore that shirt, my son would have been in fourth grade, a newcomer to Camp Ernst. I smiled at the memory of him in that shirt, then hanging to his knees, now a perfect fit.

When I was growing up, “camp” simply wasn’t part of my family’s vocabulary. My campground was the den, where I gathered with friends for an overnight in our sleeping bags, where we roasted marshmallows in the fire and giggled late into the night. I treasure those memories and didn’t realize I was missing out on anything until years later, as I listened to my husband and our adult friends recall their memories of camp: adventures in the woods and on the water, songs and ghost stories by the campfire, friendships formed with both fellow campers and counselors, and lessons to last a lifetime. The envy I felt led me to search for a camp for adults like me, who had missed out on this indelible part of childhood. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find one, and my husband stopped me just short of registering for a kids’ camp when he said, “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll pass as a fourth-grader.” My hopes were dashed, and I had to content myself by dreaming of my own children’s future camp days.

As my first son reached prime “camper age,” around fourth grade, I could barely contain my excitement; I did lots of research and talked to friends and parents in search of the perfect camp—the camp I’d always dreamed of. I discovered a plethora of options: baseball, church, math, writing, rock-climbing, acting, space, chess and even circus camps. In the end, though, I settled on an old-fashioned, overnight, week-long YMCA camp about an hour outside of the city: Camp Ernst.

As do so many other parenting milestones, sending a child to camp became a learning experience. I read every article I could find, talked to every parent, teacher and pediatrician who could offer me advice, and made lists upon lists. My husband just shook his head as he watched my son drag his overstuffed duffel down the stairs. I had packed shorts, t-shirts, underwear and socks (each set neatly squeezed into a Zip Lock bag labeled for each day of the week), sweats in case of cold, at least two swimsuits, two large bath towels and as many washcloths, a rain slicker, a plastic bag labeled “dirty clothes,” a flashlight, #50 sunscreen with insect repellant, hats, sunglasses, extra contacts, a shower caddy filled with labeled bottles, shower shoes, stationery with pre-addressed, stamped envelopes (one for each day), a cool “camp journal” and lots of hand sanitizer.

“You really didn’t ever go to camp, did you?” said my husband.

During the hour-long drive to camp, I reminded my son how much fun he was going to have and how, whenever he felt homesick, he should look at the family photo I’d tucked into his bag. “It’s natural for a child to get homesick at camp,” I told him, “but this week is going to fly by!” My husband never said a word.

As the teenage counselors directed us into a parking space and another gave us my son’s cabin assignment, my stomach began doing flip-flops. What was I doing? What if my son wasn’t ready for this? “Don’t be nervous,” I encouraged my son. “Let’s go see your cabin.”

We finally arrived at Cabin 4, breathless after having hauled that huge duffel. I anxiously looked around for Kyle, my son’s best friend; at least my son would have one buddy for the week. “Well, let’s get you settled,” I said, smiling brightly.

I stifled a gasp as we entered the cabin, already full of sleeping bags, fans spinning in high gear, and the pungent smell of dirty laundry, probably from the previous week’s campers. I sprayed the thin, plastic mattress with a can of Lysol I’d packed “just in case” and made the bed with a baseball-themed sheet set, sleeping bag, pillow and extra blanket, pulled from the duffel.

As I was exchanging nervous glances with a couple of other moms who were also “nesting” their boys, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “This must be your first time,” said a warm voice. “Don’t worry. He’ll be just fine.” Before I could thank her, she tossed her son’s bag on his bunk, leaned down to give him a hug, wished him a good week, and was out the door. Following her cue, my husband said, “OK, son, your mom and I had better get going.” Resisting the urge to pull my son to me, I blew him a quick kiss instead and headed back to the parking lot, tears streaming down my face.

That long, hot week in July was one of the most miserable of my life. I passed the time shopping for snacks and trinkets I knew my son would enjoy at camp, writing him notes with attached photos of us at home (to ward off homesickness), and checking the mailbox daily for letters from my camper.

Finally, toward the end of the week, an envelope arrived, and I immediately recognized my writing. Barely containing my excitement, I settled into a favorite chair with a cold lemonade, ready to savor the letter. “Dear Mom and Dad,” it began. “I am having fun at camp. Love, Patrick.” That was all!

“Poor guy, he probably just doesn’t want me to feel bad,” I told my husband. “I’ll bet he’s miserable. Maybe I made a mistake.”

“Sounds like a classic case of ‘kid-sickness’ to me,” he said.

When pick-up day came, I arrived half an hour early, anxious to whisk my son away from his misery, promising myself I would never, ever send him away to camp again. I found his buddy, Kyle, talking to a boy I didn’t recognize; Patrick was nowhere to be seen. When I poked my head into Cabin 4, all I recognized was his bag, packed neatly on his stripped bunk.

“Where’s Patrick?” I asked Kyle.

“Oh, he went with David and Luke to the camp store to get a t-shirt.”

As I turned around, three boys were heading up the hill toward me, talking and laughing. The look I got from my husband stopped me from rushing to hug and kiss him. “Can I come back next session?” Patrick quickly asked, as all three boys anxiously awaited my response. “David and Luke are coming, and we want to go back to the ropes course. Pleeeaaasse….”

All the way home, that boy could not stop talking about camp: the campfires and ghost stories, the raid on the girls’ cabin, the food, the polar bear swims. As I unpacked his bag later that evening, I was impressed by how neat it was, until I realized that almost everything was still sealed into Zip Lock bags, save a couple of shirts, a pair of underwear, a lone, unfamiliar sock, and a wet swimsuit smelling of mildew.

My four children are practically grown now, but they still reminisce about polar bear swims, cabin mates, and all they learned at camp. I learned a lot, too. For one thing, I put away my Zip Lock bags and permanent marker and let the kids do their own packing. They took less and less to camp, but returned with more and more—and what they brought home couldn’t be labeled with permanent markers or packed into a plastic bag. They returned with self-awareness, self-confidence, an appreciation of nature, good friends from shared adventures and adversity, survival skills, a healthy glow that didn’t just come from the sun, and a never-ending love for camp food. Camp was a gift, an indelible part of the fabric of summer, that each of my kids will carry forever.

As for me, I still feel camp-deprived, and again I’m researching camps—for me. Once the last child is in college, I’ll start a new packing list: sunscreen, reading glasses, hat, chocolate, wine….