Camp Memories

“I can be bad. I can be punished.” Jake, age 6
“I can be happy. I can be sad.” Ellen, age 63.

I am learning to honor my feelings. Sometimes, sadness will hit me like a wave, leaving me breathless, unable to move. Other times I am happy, almost buoyant, excited by the possibilities of a new life. Mostly, I am not afraid. I know the sadness will pass. I know I can be happy again.

I was happy this weekend. I went to New York for a reunion of Camp Greylock for Girls, the summer camp I attended from ages 11 to 14 as a short, plump girl with a pixie haircut. At Greylock, I felt like I had found my true home, my best friends, my real self. I lived for those summers.

I rushed into the reunion eager to introduce myself again to Naomi Levine, the incredibly accomplished, dynamic and charismatic owner of the camp. I wanted to tell her how much camp had meant to me, how I had looked forward to each summer, how I still remembered so much from those four summers. I was so happy to see her again but, frankly, I have no idea if she remembered me at all. It seems odd to think that although camp had mattered so much to me, perhaps I had not made much of an impression on camp. That didn't bother me. My sense of how important those summers had been to me then and to who I was now was unchanged.

Only one of my bunk mates came to the reunion. We hadn't seen each other since we were 14 or 15 year old girls when she wore her hair in a long dark braid down her back and I stuffed paper into the bras I really didn't need yet. No matter. We sat together and talked and talked and talked. That afternoon I felt like I gotten a gift from the past. Camp had been special and I was too. Someone remembered.