Camp Songs

Me with some of my favorite campers.

Chapter 18

My parents never sent me to camp. But then again, very few kids where I grew up went to a bona fide camp.

The closest I came to attending camp was the summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school. It was Camp Christian Day Camp, located a couple of miles outside my hometown. I was the one male out of a grand total of three camp counselors.

That I had no firsthand knowledge with camps, campers, or the camping experience was irrelevant. It sounded fun to me and I figured—like with most things in my life—I could wing it.

The two female counselors embraced me into their circle instantly. Kelly was a year younger than me. She was cute, fun, and energetic. Chris was four years older than me. She had worked at the camp the prior year so she was put in charge as the senior counselor. Chris and Kelly had a friendship in place before I came into the picture. They were more of a “big sister–little sister” kind of duo and their warm, playful relationship set the tone for the entire summer.

Our camp ran every day, Monday through Saturday morning, with a sleepover on Friday nights. We had a different group of kids each week.

The normal routine was to meet at our local YMCA at nine o’clock every morning. From there we would take a dirty yellow school bus out to the camp where we would spend the day—until mid-afternoon—keeping the kids busy with games, crafts, singing, swimming, and sports.

The camp was not fancy. In fact, it was kind of run down. Covering about fifteen acres, it had a small swimming lake and an abundance of mature trees that provided much-needed shade from the relentless Nebraska summer sun.

We had a main building with white wooden siding, green shingles, and a squeaky screened door. It had a primitive kitchen, a bathroom, and a bunch of picnic tables we would use for crafts and any other activity that needed to be done indoors.

Aside from a few eight-person cabins, with wooden floors and a lot of cobwebs, there wasn’t much more to the camp.

Of course, there was a flagpole. It stood near the middle of a big open field. It was metal. Painted. In fact, you could tell it had been painted several times because you could see different colors of paint peeking out from behind all of the chips and nicks. It was at that flagpole we began the program each day.

Our campers ranged in age from six to twelve years old. Some weeks we had fewer than ten kids. Other weeks we had twenty to thirty kids. As was the norm in my hometown, we had a broad mix of backgrounds. Some of the boys and girls were from low-income families while others came from families with second homes in Colorado.

Every weekend, Chris, Kelly, and I would plan out the schedule for the following week. There were many activities we’d repeat week after week. Swimming, fishing, archery, or nature hikes. But we also did a pretty good job integrating different crafts each week. New songs. New games. We even gave each week a “theme.” Olympics. Cowboys. The campers liked that.

There were weeks we didn’t want to end. Those were the weeks with cute, cooperative, spirited kids. With those kinds of campers, all the activities were fun. Nothing flopped.

There were other weeks, however, we wanted to end by mid-morning on Tuesday. Not only can one tough kid ruin the experience for all the other campers, he can also drain the energy out of the leaders.

I kept a journal that summer. While I wrote daily about the fun and featherbrained antics, I also chronicled what those experiences taught me about people through the wide, diverse spectrum of campers. I learned that all of the kids—regardless of their socioeconomic background, age, or gender—really wanted, and needed, the same things.

They needed reinforcement that they were capable of doing anything. They needed us to believe in them because, in return, it helped them believe in themselves. Some of the kids undoubtedly struggled in school. Some of them clearly had tough home lives. Camp was where they could be someone different. Camp was where they could experience success, if only for a few hours. Chris, Kelly, and I became their cheerleaders. And the kids fed on that.

I learned that all kids need to express themselves creatively. Be it through crafts, music, skits, or games, they need a safe environment in which to explore who they are. I was constantly amazed at situations where the toughest ten-year-old boy was also the one kid who didn’t want to leave the craft table, or could pick up a guitar and lead the entire group in a song.

Finally, each and every child needed hugs. Sometimes, there simply weren’t the right words to deal with a situation. But a good hug from one of the three of us usually did the trick. It gave the child whatever message was needed at the time. Someone cared. They weren’t alone. Everything would be all right.

I loved being a camp counselor. I loved every experience of every day. But being at a camp made me wish I, too, could have had a real “go-to-summer-camp” experience.

And I often wondered what I missed by not having one.

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Being sick, having an illness, or recovering from surgery stinks. But, as odd as it sounds, it also makes you more approachable to the people who love you. To be perfectly blunt, it forces people to consider a world without you. And in many ways, that’s not such a bad thing for all of us to consider in our relationships with the people we love.

I have three remarkable children. They are all loving. They are all funny. And they all have compassion in their hearts.

But let’s be honest—they are still kids. And they act like kids sometimes.

They can say hurtful things. They slam doors. They think I’m the worst father on the face of the earth sometimes.

But my illness brought out a quality in each of my children that I had never seen before.

Perhaps it was just a quality within each of them I hadn’t taken the time to notice. And enjoy.

My illness turned my three children—Kevin, Wallis, and Drew—into my camp counselors. For the entire summer.

The story starts with Drew, the youngest. Life before him was relatively calm.

At the time Drew was born, Kevin was an angelic-looking kindergartener and Wallis was an adorable preschooler. Perfectly dressed, always with a big bow in her hair.

From all perspectives, we were the picture-perfect family.

The idea of a third child was to mix things up—in a variety-is-the-spice-of-life way.

And, lo and behold, out popped Drew.

Truthfully, Drew surpassed everyone’s wildest dreams. He had spirit. He had fire. He had electricity. He was the child who said from day one there was a lot of living to experience. A little wild? Sure. A challenge for teachers? Yup.

That’s Drew.

During my summer at home, Drew went (much to my envy) to a real summer day camp. It was called Banner Day Camp. I called it magic. Every day Drew’s bus would pick him up at 9:00 am to take him away to another day of fun and adventure. And every afternoon, somewhere between 3:30 and 3:35 pm, his bus would bring him back home again.

I lived by that schedule. I waited every day for Drew’s bus to bring him back to me.

And more than anything, I waited for the one thing I knew Drew would always bring me. His hug.

For all his roughness, his wildness, his craziness, and his out-of-control ways, Drew is the best hugger on the planet. There is no one like him.

At first, shortly after my surgery, Drew was guarded with his hugs. He knew I was sore. So he would hug my arm or he’d pull me down and snuggle with my head.

But as the weeks went by, he learned he could give me his trademark bear hug. That would be the one where he runs full speed at you. Where his eyes become a homing device. Where he hits you with all his weight. Where he buries his head in your stomach. Where he wraps his arms—fully extended—around your torso as he calls out your name.

And he doesn’t let go.

I got one of those hugs every day. I got one on good days. I got one on bad days. It didn’t matter to Drew.

And each one reminded me that everything was all right.

Wallis was thirteen when I had my surgery.

That would make her a 100 percent teenage girl. And that would make me the father of a 100 percent teenage girl. I’m told that’s usually a recipe for disaster—with years of not communicating with each other.

But it didn’t work that way for us.

You see, my thirteen-year-old daughter became something fantastically inspiring to me.

She became my cheerleader.

Wallis was certainly not a quiet child, but compared to her two brothers she is the one who has fewer words to share. She’s more thoughtful in what she says. Sometimes she holds back a little. What I’ve learned through the years, however, is to really listen to her when she chooses to say something. Because her words always have meaning.

Early on, when I was first diagnosed, I wondered how Wallis would cope with my surgery. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had been embarrassed by it all.

But she never was. She simply cheered me on.

Without fail.

A week or so after I had all of my stitches removed and had been given the “OK” from my doctor to get into the pool, Wallis came out late one afternoon as I was trying so hard to swim. It was a very painful, difficult moment because it made me realize how much work I had in front of me.

I felt like an eighty-two-year-old man. I couldn’t get my arms out of the water. At all. I couldn’t kick because I thought my entire insides would split open. I couldn’t stretch out my body. I felt permanently bent.

I had been swimming—kind of—for maybe two minutes. I was trying so hard, but I just couldn’t do it. I was standing in the water.

That was when Wallis appeared.

She sat on the side of the pool with her legs dangling in the water.

“Hi Dad.”

“Hey Wallis. How was your day?” I asked her as I proceeded to slowly move across the water.

She started to tell me about her day. The small details of her last few hours.

“Does it feel good to be back in the water?”

“Sure, but I’m embarrassed to have you see me like this.”

That’s when she said three words I will never forget. Three words that—from my perspective as a forty-four-year-old dad of this beautiful young girl—gave me strength, hope, and determination.

“Dad, you’re awesome!”

Then she proceeded to tell me all of the reasons why she thought I was awesome.

By that point, I had stopped swimming and was standing in the pool next to her. I placed my arms on the side of the pool and rested my head on my forearms as I listened to my daughter give me my daily dose of cheerleading.

Awesome.

My daughter told me I was awesome.

And upon hearing her words, that’s precisely how I felt.

Kevin.

The oldest.

Everyone should have Kevin as their oldest child. He has the job down pat.

I was the youngest. I had different pressures. But I certainly had none of the pressures of being the oldest. I had four older brothers who paved the way for me. I had four older brothers who wore my parents down.

I simply got to reap the benefits.

But this isn’t a story about what a good job Kevin does at being the oldest child. This isn’t a story about how much pressure Kevin deals with as I try out new parenting techniques on him. This isn’t a story about the countless good examples Kevin sets for his younger siblings or the good decisions he has always made in his life.

This is a story about Kevin and his music.

It’s funny. I remember the summer when Kevin was thirteen. I had signed him up for a short introductory guitar class. He was furious with me for forcing him to go.

I remember almost giving in and letting him skip out of it.

I also remember the fire in his eyes after his first lesson. He was hooked. His life would never be the same.

Nor would mine. Thankfully.

Kevin became the musician in the family. He learned how to express his feelings and emotions through music. When he was happy, he turned to his music. When he was troubled, his music was his release.

His music became an extension of him.

And he became my camp counselor who would always pull out his guitar when I most needed it.

From my usual resting spot outside, I had the best seat in the house as I watched the ongoing procession of people I loved stroll outside to take their place next to me.

And Kevin was always one of my favorite acts.

Wearing nothing but his colorful bathing suit and a very large black cowboy hat, Kevin regularly made his way outside to sit with me.

“Hey Dad, what’s up?”

“Not much. You?”

“I’m learning a new song. You wanna hear it? But I’m warning you, it’s not very good.”

“Absolutely!” I’d always reply.

And I meant it.

Then my camp counselor would serenade me. Sometimes for four minutes. Sometimes for forty. We spoke very little. I just listened.

I was no longer taking medication for the pain. I didn’t need it. Kevin’s music was my medicine.

And I was addicted to it.

Thirty years. That’s about how long it had been since I was a summer camp counselor.

Thirty years. That’s how long it had been since I played that role to all of those terrific little kids who were going through their journey in life.

And here I was.

Having my first summer camp experience.

And I had the three best counselors ever.