Care Packages

From the bluffs overlooking Lake Erie, I witnessed the forging of many summer storms. The natural drama of clouds colliding into an angry tempest would play out on particularly hot, humid days in July. As the first rain drops fell and the distant thunder rumbled, campers would scurry from electives stationed around the grounds of Calvary Camp into their respective, but identical small white, wooden cabins.

The counselors - the muscles of camp - would quickly, but diligently unfasten latches that released an extra layer of protection from the approaching gales and showers. As the wind would pick up, the flashes of lightening would become more vibrant, the thunder would reach a more frightening decibel, and the last cabin mate (number ten of ten) would burst through the door panting, soaking wet, relieved they had finally reached a measure of safety.

Tucked inside the dark cramped cabin, rain pummeling the roof, gusts of wind threatening the wooden boards that stood between us and nature's fury, I was always thankful for the stuff that had reached me in the past week from the world outside of camp, hundreds of miles away.

A postcard from my parents written from a lazy porch in Chautauqua; a letter boasting of operas, ballets and symphonic masterpieces that followed dry happy hours. A greeting card inscribed with my Grandmother's perfect penmanship, capturing the putting green, Mississippi River Catfish, lightening bugs, Hello Dollies, and heat indexes of Quincy, Illinois. A note from my Grandpa, decorated with exclamation marks that showcased his enthusiasm for this summer's crop of tomatoes. A mix tape titled 'Quite the Gentleman Caller' - a gift from a friend back home; a melange of catchy songs that became the soundtrack to the summer. And finally, my care package.

My name, as well as my brother's and sister's had been called over the loud speaker earlier in the week. The announcement summoned a dozen other lucky campers and us to the camp office to pick up their respective miniature treasure chests of branded packaged goods. Walking back to my cabin, arms wrapped around my brown parcel, I felt a little more loved, a little less hungry, and a little closer to home.

Back in my cabin I unwrapped a tube of Pringles, Oreos, Goldfish, Life Cereal, Trident, two rolls of Certs, a Mad Libs, my In Style magazine, a couple extra pairs of Hanes, the long sleeve GAP t-shirt that I had forgotten to pack, and a note from my Mom and Dad sealing the gift with love. 

Atop my bunk, my fear of thunderstorms turning to tornadoes was assuaged with a stack of Oreos and a sheet of Mad Libs fielded by the more verbally provocative in the group. Despite their distance, my parents always knew how to make me feel better. 

***

Huddled in the plastic wrapped safety of the Peggy O on Saturday afternoon, Stacy's Pita Chips making their rounds, Revolution brews cracked, famous tales getting taller, we watched sails unravel, skyscrapers disappear, and white caps form as a massive storm system descended upon the Windy City. With one of my fellow Calvary Campers on board, I flashed back to the stormy scenes of Camp that I remember so well.

This past weekend, I felt like Calvary was back in session. My campers, two special new ones included, gathered in the Midwest for Arts and Crafts, Skits, Swimming, Boating, Banquets, Campfires, and laughs that echoed across Lake Michigan and back. 

While there were some changes ... the outfits were trendier ... 

The food more craveable, the bug juice more potent, and the ice cream at canteen sweeter. 

The electives more colorful ... 

And the news a little quicker to reach home. 

A lot was the same; campers got R-O-W-D-I-E,

More seasoned campers watched out for the newbies.

Girls passing boys' tables in the dining hall paused to flirt. 

Rest hour was mandated. 

New friends were made while old ones were nurtured.

And the hugs on the last night of Camp had to last another year.

A special thank you to my wonderful Aunt and cousins for making their way all the way to Chicago to show how much they cared. I hope you had as much fun at Camp 2015 as I did.

Lo.

Outstanding Camper

The year before I was inducted into dorkdom as the lone 17-year old camper, I thought I had aced Session 2, 1998. And I had high hopes on the last night. Following dinner, following the final skit which would reveal the team on top after two weeks of morning and evening competitions: Dragons, Tigers, Panthers or Indians; Gary perched on his signature stool in front of Camp's congregation to share a special presentation.

My heart was racing. I knew it was my year; I had done everything right. I fought for a couple green eights, carried the flag a couple inches; and helped get the watermelon out of the pool. I hugged all the little campers and gave piggy back rides. I braided some rope necklaces while singing Kumbaya. I shined in the JC skit, clapped my hands vigorously at Campfire and promptly mellowed out before chapel. I wore Birkenstocks, missed a shower or two, and shared my deepest thoughts after each excerpt of Chicken Soup for the Soul at Devotions. And unlike everyone else, I went to bed in time. I was a shoe in, come on.

Gary said it was a unique year; one camper had risen to the top; there would be no outstanding boy and outstanding girl camper; there was one star performer. Crap.

Gary continued, "it was someone who was humble."
Crap.
"Someone who quietly leads"
I can be quiet.
"Always eager to share his warm smile."
His. Triple crap.
This year's Outstanding Camper Award goes to the unassuming guy who everyone loves. Chris.

I visualized myself taking center stage, accepting that coveted King James version of the Bible, hugging Gary, and absorbing the slow to fast claps echoing through the dining hall. I did everything right, how did I not win?
 
***

At this time of year, Calvary Camp, and the ten summers I spent there are always on my mind. And over the past couple years, I've tried to bring a little bit of Calvary to Chicagoland and share it with my family. Camp LaGrange was back in session with a record number of campers last week.

With the spike in attendance, I offered an increased number of electives. And hired a couple more counselors.

The four-day session was filled with yachting, Lake Michigan dipping, biking, and hiking; playground, pool, bubble blowing, and photography electives; camp fire songs, Chapel melodies, epic meals, canteen and of course devotions. 

 Before my campers set off to return home on Sunday afternoon, I declared an Outstanding Camper for 2014. I could tell everyone wanted the title. And trust me, everyone was deserving in their own right.

Nanny thought she was going to win after her bold triathlon performance on Saturday: 4 miles hiking, 14 miles biking, 1 mile swimming, and a trip down the twisty slide at the pool.
Erin thought her brave seamanship was award winning.
Opa thought his photography was his golden ticket.
Mary thought the prize was hers just because she was the cutest one at camp.
Cousin Meghan couldn't win, because she had won before.
And there was Aunt Dee. Unassuming Aunt Dee.

It was her attitude, perseverance, and genuine, modest leadership.
It was how she listened and made others feel like their stories were so interesting.
It was the fact that when her bum was sore, she kept on peddling.
In her presence, you might have overheard her saying something like,
"There's nothing like a cold beer."
"I just love when Mary laughs."
"These ribs are SOOOO good."
"I'll send you Grandma's recipe."
"This is Awesome."

The 2014 Outstanding Camper award goes to Aunt Dee.
Clap ... Clap ... Clap ... Clap, Clap, Clap, Clap, Clap! 

Mary, just seven more years until you experience your first sunset over Lake Erie.

Lo.

Gary

Gary, Calvary Camp Director / Manager / Pocket-sized Poobah / I don't really know what his title was, he was just Gary. The guy who always wore Sambas. Who taught us the Titanic song. Who sat on a stool on the first night of camp and told us the rules. Treat each other with respect. Participate. No smoking, drugs or alcohol. And absolutely no going outside the boundaries of camp. He would slowly, methodically recite the longitudes and latitudes that defined our white-washed world for the next two weeks and gesture in the direction of each.
That tree line.
Lake Road.
The counselor's cabins. 
Lake Erie.
The only way we were allowed to cross said limits was hand in hand with a counselor.

As a young camper, I liked and respected the defined space of camp. It was safe, protected. As a 16-year old (even ugh 17-year old) camper, promoted to the league of Junior Counselors, I questioned and pushed the boundaries. I had crossed countless busy streets in my lifetime; the fact that I couldn't cross Lake Road unattended was exasperating.

With the return of my outstanding camper, confident in her camp prowess, this past weekend, Camp LaGrange was back is session. Joining her was a very little camper, excited for her very first summer camp experience. Because my camp co-director had the weekend off, I found myself playing the role of Gary. Toms replaced Sambas. The big comfy nursing chair replaced the stool. But there I was, laying out the ground rules and boundaries.

While Mary listened attentively, Erin interjected her opposition:
'This is so different from last year.'
'We used to be allowed to do that.'
'Can't we go down to the Lake yet?'

I pulled Erin aside and told her she was right - it was a different year - but she was a JC now and the most important thing was the safety of camp's littlest camper. So instead of biking, tennis, and boating electives, camp took a more low key course. Mary chose her electives wisely: reading, strolling, drinking milk, Bumbo chairing and bathing. 

And hand in hand with her counselors, she also got to venture out to La Grange's sister camp, Camp Naperville for a night of milk, margaritas, and melt downs. 

But even with the more baby friendly approach to camp this year, Erin and I still made room for evening devotions and a special JC elective - wine tasting. Our recommendation: the St. Supery Virtu.

To my campers - it was one great session. To Aunt Erin, you were the best JC ever and Mary and Mommy miss you so much!

Lo.