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Two weeks after the end of third grade, I left the nest of home, bound for the unknown. It was June of 1963, and my sister, Fran, and I boarded an overnight train in Chicago, bound for Camp Agawak for Girls in Minocqua, Wisconsin.
I was eight, and I spent the next 10 summers there as a camper and counselor. I am now 70, and 12 years ago, I returned to my happy place on Blue Lake to resurrect the camp magazine where I got my literary start. Writing in the woods, under an open sky, ignited a long-running career as a journalist and author of several books,
This is the place I learned to shoot a bow and arrow, swim six strokes, portage canoes in a cold rain, do flips on a trampoline and slam a serve in a tennis game. Most importantly, this is the place I learned how to get along with kids far different than me, sleeping in the close quarters of rustic cabins. This is the place I learned how to be a good friend.
The crucial character traits acquired at summer camp resonate so strongly that I wrote a whole book about it, Camp Girls: Fireside Lessons on Friendship, Courage and Loyalty. This is a book about love. This is a book about being able to retreat to a place created for growth, play and happiness.
The only solace I cling to through the weeks of sadness for the young girls with huge dreams who were washed away in the Texas floods is knowing that they were having the best times of their little lives. I see this in my own young campers, awash with wonder and joy, running free in nature, laughing with friends, trying new sports and navigating life on their own.
I wince, we all do, hearing stories from the parents of lost children, sharing their should-haves, would-haves — that their brave young camp girls were destined to turn into brave and resilient adults. May the power of their spirits and the love you shared be healing and eternal. Every camp girl in the world wraps her arms around you, cries with you.
I am one of thousands of older women who count summer camp as their happy place. I still gather with my cabin-mates, and we sing with perfect recollection every word of the songs we learned 60 years ago. We remember the names of campers who took dives into the dirt under the legs of the guards to win Capture the Flag for their teams in 1965 and 1968. We laugh about how hot dogs and marshmallows charred over campfires tasted better than the arugula and quinoa that we eat today.
We are a family, bound not of blood, but of history and loyalty.
We talk about how our cookouts, canoe trips and longstanding friendships have infused us with qualities that compose the best of who we are today. Together at camp, summer after summer, we gained the capacity to be open to the unfamiliar, plucked from doting parents and thrust into self-reliance and the development of resilience. A young camper is assigned chores in the cabin, learns sportsmanship in team competition, and fans her courage for adventure as she tackles new activities and sports.
Most of all, we credit camp for our ability to persevere after failure as our greatest and most enduring gift. Each day, as young campers, we relished the success felt after trying and trying and finally achieving, be it mastering a new dive after countless belly flops, hitting a bullseye in archery after rounds of missing the target altogether, or huffing through hilly portages with canoes.
As children, we were dwarfed by the big skies and towering pines of Minocqua, Wisconsin, yet we all emerged at summer’s end feeling like robust giants, pushing and pushing until we reached a desired goal. Camp does make you feel like you can do anything.
My camp friends have stuck with me, as a chubby child, a skinny bride, over bumps in raising four sons and staying married to one husband. They have held me up through the sudden death of my father and the long illness of my late mother, and through the recurring sting of an empty nest.
We have shared some of the most enchanted hours of our lives, some of the saddest, some of the scariest — all of it.
These are my people. I knew this as a child in 1965, when I wrote in the camp magazine: “I will be with my friends from Agawak, through happiness and heartbreak, for a very long time.”
We used to compare bra sizes; we now compare maps of wrinkles and photos of grandkids..
Returning to camp as a gray-haired grandma, I feel ageless and hopeful. I am dressed in sweat pants and a flannel shirt that smells like dirt and fire. I am rooted in these woods, along with century-old pines and decades of memories.
I am thinking of my good fortune to be in my happiest of places, then and now, and to help young girls write their hearts, as I did at their age. At 70, I still feel like that 8-year-old who wrote this letter home in July of 1963: “Dear Mommy and Daddy: The nights are cold. The counselors are old, but not as old as you. But don’t worry! Because I am taking care of myself.”
I learned to take care of myself as a young girl, and I am still learning this now as an old orphan. While summer camp is about communal living and teamwork, the overarching lesson is learning we always need to be big, strong girls on our own.
How many of you have ever gone to summer camp? Do you remember it fondly? Let us know in the comments below.
