Lily's Lament

Hello. My name is Lily, and I'm a camp junky. I started young; church camp at six months old. My parents were Directors for a weeklong junior high camp. I wore a shirt bragging "I survived the Colby Bear." I got passed around from campers to counselors to parents. My parents weren't to blame. It was only one week per summer. Who knew summer camp could become an addiction?

I got to run wild in later years. My shirt was electric orange with black lettering. I thought it was cool. It also served as my mother's visual tracking system. My brother and I painted rocks, counted bugs, splashed in the creek and fished in the horse trough. Sometimes I got to play with the 'big kids', and I trailed after the campers and counselors. I discovered campfires. I learned camp songs.

Eventually, I was sent to camp with church friends. That wasn't as much fun. I wasn't cute or special or little. I couldn't run wild. I had to stay with the group and stick to the program. But we had campfires and sang camp songs. And my shirt was green with a white silkscreen of Strawberry Mountain.

I went to Girl Scout camp, too. Horses. My shirt was blue, or maybe turquoise. My horse liked Oreos. I breathed dust and dirt and unflinchingly mucked out corrals. I lived in my boots. We learned the Legend of the Peace Tree and more camp songs. I slept on a cot under the pine trees under the stars.

My sister came to Girl Scout Camp with me the next year. She didn't like the outhouses. She didn't like the food. And her hair turned green in the pool. But she liked the campfires, and songs. I rode horses and slept under the stars again. My sister slept on a cot on a platform under an old army tent. She said she would come back next year, and she did.

But I went back to church camp. I was finally a 'big kid'. My shirt was grey with the camp name screened on the breast pocket. By this time I was pretty good at staying with the group if not the program-- we all wore perfume and makeup and ran from the bugs. But we also hiked to the cross to watch the morning sweep over high desert and chaparral. I said goodbye to childhood friends there.

We met again the next year, half-strangers. But I brought new friends. I stopped buying camp shirts. I joked about feminist theory and was taken seriously. We played and danced and smuggled gummi bears. I was more interested in the talent show and dance than campfires and songs.

I started to think maybe I had outgrown summer camp. But I accepted a weeklong counselor position. I signed up my youngest brother as camper and my mother was camp nurse. I laughed and played and taught songs. But high school graduation loomed. One more summer of camp, I vowed, and then the end.

I laughed. I froze. I mourned the serious illness of an old friend, and I betrayed another. I met an old crush from my early camp-kid days. I examined myself, and I rediscovered someone I thought I knew. We had campfires. We sang. I didn't look back. I didn't cry on the road home. But I couldn't say goodbye.

Two years passed.

I flew to Germany. I wore a blue hedgehog sweatshirt, a bandana, and camp jewelry. It was my first full summer of resident camp. We learned to speak German and Girl Scout and Militarese. I lived in platform tents in Frohsinn and Sonnenblick, Marchenwald and Abendrot. We pitched G-2s and retied soldiers' knots. I learned what Regional Differences really means. We laughed and cried and chased military girls up hill and down. I watched the AirForceDads climb the flag pole to cut the flag loose from the tree while the ArmyDads shouted assistance from firmly on the ground. We rebuilt that camp. I left exhausted, and cried, and swore "never again."

I returned carrying a bag of cookbooks and a kitchen scale. I wore an apron and an admin fleece. I worked 16 hour days in the kitchen, 'supervising' two people younger and smarter than me. As Captain Lily the Blackhearted I dressed as a pirate and served vegetables twice a day. We couldn't always make it to campfires, so we sang in the dining hall. I didn't cry at the airport, and I swore "This was the last time!"

But...my sister wanted to come, too.

So we flew back to Germany, lugging sleeping backs and backpacks and scaring the Airport guards by getting sick in halls. It was a gift to Pippi: Lily B. and Pippi C. Blues. The C stands for Cacophany. And yes, they're sisters. No, not twins. We wore toe socks and blanket skirts, roped hair or orange yarn braids. I greeted old friends and met some new. I worked with pastels and beads and paint and clay. I shared my joy in creating. Pippi finally got to ride horses at Girl Scout Camp. We herded goats and learned folk dances on Midsummer's Eve. We held campfires and sang. I said goodbye. I didn't cry--until the plane touched down at LAX.

Pippi went to Girl Scout Camp without me. It was dusty and treeless and dry and hot; cooler in the kitchen than outside. I'm not dumb. Just desperate. So of course, I had to come, too. I wore an apron. I lived in relative luxury: four solid walls and a roof, carpet, electricity, even closets. I worked 14 hour days and was generally known as 'Pippi's sister'. Pippi carried a backpack filled with 25 pounds of food, water, first aid supplies and IP. We still had energy left for campfire, though, and we sang. We both said "never again." But we lied.

Pippi flew back to Germany for music and camp and school. I wore an apron again, and was asked "Where's Pippi?" It was still dusty and hot and dry. I still lived in relative luxury. We only worked eight hour days. Less people, less labor hours, less training, and more stress. I got offered a sous chef job for next summer, next camp--

and then I snapped.

I spent ten days in a splint before a cast juggling Workers' Comp and hospital schedules and miles. The slight angle in my forearm just adds character. And it made a good story:"There was this great big moose walking along the road behind the dining hall..." I begged to stay. It was the first real indication of my addiction. What kind of person breaks an arm at summer camp but begs to remain? I didn't want to answer that question. All I wanted was to continue, full arm cast or no.

So, I lived with the little girls. We hiked, and played, and swam, and laughed, and sang. My last summer of childhood. I said, "Thank you, now I'm done," and "Goodbye." I drove away, and I didn't cry.

And I meant it. I'm a rational adult. I knew it was time to leave camp behind. And I tried.

My youngest brother talked about church camp the next year, his first time as a counselor. He remembered the year we went together. My sister was flying home from Germany in August. She could only squeeze in one session of camp. She was tired, and said she wasn't sorry, and "it's the last time." But I always said it, too. My mother went on weekend camporees and talked about progressing her Brownies to overnights outdoors. She said it was possible to fit camp in with the rest of your adult life.

But my heart was shattering. Because I'm a junky. I know the songs and remember the flames and the smell of the dirt and pine and the feel of the sun. I dreamt of camp, any camp. One week I dreamt of my home camp. Two weeks later it was Germany. I even dreamt the university History Department had expanded History Day into a two week sleep-away session. I woke up with program outlines and song suggestions prepared. I whined and moaned and complained to friends and roommates. They were very patient. I wasn't told once to suck it up, to grow up. But the knot in my stomach never left, either, just like the song in my head or the ache in my heart at the scent of wood smoke.

So, I broke. Two weeks before school let out I emailed the executive director of the nearest residence camp. I begged for a position, any position. I posted my camp experience on jobsites all over the web. Fighting memories of the previous summer, I took a deep breath and pushed for a position as Assistant Cook at the local Y Camp. I explained to all and sundry that it would be good for my resume. Only my history professor believed that story.

I nearly dropped to the ground in shock at the first sight of the kitchen, but the redwoods and river made up for it. It wasn't the only shock I suffered: Girl Scout Camp is not Y Camp. Once I got over the differences, I wrestled with jealousy--the counselors got to play with the kids all day. At least I lived in relative luxury again, with electricity. We held campfires every night. I clocked in valuable kitchen management experience. And my shirt was dark red with the camp name screened on the back.

It's summer time again. The days are longer, my favorite constellations have appeared. I was offered a Cook position, but I turned down resident camp this year. I'm finally graduating next semester, and I can't afford another jobsearch come September. But the physical pull is there in my gut, my heart. The familiar songs and stories are running through my head. And I just came across an intriguing little Cook's Aid/Rec Supervisor position in the local want ads. It's only a Day Camp. I'm committed to my night job, but my days are free...

My name is Lily, and I'm a camp junky.


(June 2005)

Confessions of a Camp Junky
Confessions of a Camp Junky