Shower The People You Love With Love…

My bloodhound nose caught a familiar smell while it was walking outside with me this morning. I pointed it high up in the air, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing that yummy smell, just like a pointer puppy, and was instantly transported back in time to a place I’m way too old for and will never go back to again: camp. Camp was my home away from home for part of each summer in the 1950’s and 1960’s, my safe haven. Pretend to breathe in that campish smell with me as I return, like I often do in my imagination whenever I need to feel better (which I do, oh I do do do).

            Look, my dad’s car is inching its way down camp’s narrow, dusty, woodsy road. As it pulls into the parking lot, watch me dive out the door like I’m entering a swimming pool filled with warm water. Feel that welcoming We-Love-You-Sharron, Oh-Yes-We-Do atmosphere suck us up like a powerful vacuum cleaner. Can you hear it announcing with its smells that we’ve returned to that magical world of woods, water, mosquitoes, campfires, songs, camp friends and adoring counselors?

            Walk with me to the MOP, the Make Out Place, where I once dragged poor Peter Linton, who wasn’t ready to make out, let alone be alone with me. The MOP, that supposedly secret place where you could hunker down among the bushes and kiss each other a few times before being spied on. Watch the kids standing on the roof of the youngest kids’ bunk as they watch the kissers. Laugh as I crawl out to the cheers of all the little girls from my sister’s cabin, who call out my name like I am a conquering hero, emerging from the trenches.

            Wake up with me to either a loud, gonging bell or reveille played on a trumpet. Watch me reach for my glasses, which lie on top of my wooden orange crate, then cover your ears as I start talking a mile a minute. Empathize with me about the time I wet my bed, when I was much too old to be doing such a thing, and was so afraid of being found out that I told my counselor I wanted to go home. Hear her tell me that Alison Lee wet hers, too, and watch us become instant pee-pals. Check out my impetigo that was once so bad I had to visit the scary crone, Helen the Nurse, who held me down so she could scrub off my scabs. That she thought this would make me get better is still a mystery to me, but bear with me as I put up a screaming fight each time she scrapes my arms and back with her nail brush.

            Watch me canoe, swim, water ski and then swim some more. Run around with me as I play Capture the Flag with flour bombs that I love to throw at the opposing team. Be my partner at the square dance and enjoy that ancient record player scratching out those old timey tunes. Can you see me in the dark? I’m flirting with the boys as they bow to their partners, dosey-doe and allemande left. You know, we had real callers, sometimes, along with a tall microphone that stood outside, connected to speakers. A thin man and a short, square-dance-skirt-wearing woman stood beside him, calling out each dance move.

            Sign up with me for the Ping Pong ladder, which I always wanted to climb to the top of, but never did. Play tennis with me on the terrible, rutted courts and cheer me on as I win the girls’ doubles tournament, my first time playing for real.

            Sit outside on KP duty and peel potatoes with me in front of the screened-in kitchen. Help with Set Up and Clean Up duties, even though I remember washing the dishes more clearly than I do setting the tables. 

            Join me in singing songs throughout the meal, like, “Here’s to the cook, the cook, the cook. Here’s to the cook, the best of them all. She’s merry, she’s jolly, we like her by golly” or “Oh the Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord, for giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the apple seed, the Lord is good to me.” Scream out, “Here’s to Sharon and the way she does the hula hop. Here’s to Sharon and the way she does the hula hop. Here’s to Sharon and the hula ho-op. Sharon is a social flop, she can’t do the hula hop” and wait for me to get up and gyrate wildly in front of everyone. Notice how there’s only one “r” in my name, because I didn’t add the second one until I was much older. Or better yet, shout, “Happy Birthday, hunh. Happy Birthday, hunh. There is sorrow in the air, people dying everywhere; but Happy Birthday, hunh. Happy Birthday, hunh” as we celebrate someone’s birthday.

            Stand in line with me at the One Utensil meal, where we will pick one out from a big box as we enter the dining room and eat with it, even if it is a potato masher or a rolling pin. Celebrate Backwards Day, when we wake up to taps, wear our clothes inside out, walk backwards and eat dinner for breakfast. On rainy days slosh through the puddles with me in bare feet, with a poncho slung over us to keep us dry.

            Hear me tell ghost stories at night. Watch me practice kissing with my pillow, write letters home at rest period, get mail from family and friends, read with my flashlight after lights out, then sneak over to the boys’ side to shortsheet their beds. Adore each cookout, canoe trip, Color War, Carnival and Last Dance, where we will wear dresses and make finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Sing with me around campfires and on the steps of my bunk. Watch me learn to play the guitar by practicing the strum to Jamaica Farewell on my counselor’s back. Allow me to include you in the camp skits that I wrote the words to. Play the guitar with me some more and cheer me on as I learn new finger pickings. Memorize all the words with me to every Joan Baez album.

            Rip open a Care Package filled with food I am never allowed to eat at home, like Kosher Salami, Cheez Whiz, Cow Cheese, Peanut Butter and Ritz Crackers, which I love to eat late at night, while my counselors are out (until a skunk finds our food and ruins that secret pleasure forever). Watch me shriek with delight the day my brother’s best friend sent me that gigantic envelope filled with gum that we aren’t supposed to have, but somehow, no one notices. Hoard it with me for the rest of the summer, and make gum wrapper chains out of the empties, like I do. Admire them hanging on the wall next to my bed.

           Weave zillions of lanyards, as if you had repetition compulsion. Work on a new creation each day, attaching one end of it with a pin onto a shoe or the end of cut-off jeans to finish as we sit around, talking, waiting for dinner or lunch to start or free period to be over. Learn the box stitch and use as many different colors of gimp as you can to make each and every lanyard stand out.

           Quick. Whoosh back to reality with me, because that’s it for today. 

           I want to thank you for returning with me to that safe, loving place where people loved me, they really loved me (yeah, I’m channeling Sally Field) and I wasn’t unlovable, like I often felt (and still sometimes feel) at home.

           I know, I agree with you – it was awfully brief, but that’s all camp memories are – quick trips. Ahh. Things are gonna be much better, right, James Taylor?