Bug Juice & Bunk Beds, June 22nd

My sister and I started sleepaway when we were 4 and 5 respectively at a modest summer camp in the Catskill Mountains named Ma-Ho-Ge. As the youngest campers, we were Freshmen and housed in Bunk 1 for our first three years. My Mom didn’t abandon us! She scored our spots by working as the division leader of the oldest group of girls, the Supers. She bartered her salary in exchange for our tuition. (My Dad would come up on weekends to visit since he worked in the City.)

Mom was always walking around camp yelling at her disobedient teenage campers who much preferred lounging around Super Hall, socializing with the boys, and smoking cigarettes to actually engaging in organized activities. My sister and I kept busy doing arts & crafts, making box stitched lanyards, playing jax in the bunk, and scoring extra items from canteen since Mom doubled as the candy lady behind the soda fountain. (Wise Sour Cream & Onion Potato Chips and Marathon Bars were my snacks of choice back then.) Those summers in the 70s were filled with jukebox songs like Eight Days A Week, Don’t Rock the Boat, and The Hustle. Life in summer camp was just grand.

Unlike most other camps where the food was awful and the drink of choice was affectionately called “bug juice,” our camp was owned by a family whose primary business was kosher catering on Long Island, so our food was spectacular. Sunny eggs and lightly browned toast were served for breakfast. Gourmet sandwiches and salads were for lunch. Bagels and platters of lox streamed out of the kitchen on weekends, and pot roast was served for dinner. Our final banquet was like a freakin Bar Mitzvah complete with a band, dancing, and a Viennese Table.

Camp was filled with songs, bonding, rainy day activities, friendly competition, occasional crying, missing socks, plastic soap dishes, bonfires, canoe trips, water sports, freezing cold showers, flashlight tag, socials, cookouts, overnights, ghost stories, wax sealed envelopes, bunk mail, bunk junk, and care packages from my Grandma filled with candy necklaces, Pixy Stix, and gum. The structure at Ma-Ho-Ge was loose at best. There was a large tree in the middle of the tennis courts. Most activities were optional. Some campers didn’t wear shoes. From what I remember, we had a blast.

As a camper, I once fell asleep head-first into a plate of meatballs and spaghetti at dinner– I was five years old. I guess I was just tired. Camp is where I had my first set of stitches. I accidentally put my hand through the plate glass panel on our bunk door at age 7 and I ended up in the infirmary for two days with a V-shaped scar just above my right elbow. I had my first kiss in camp with a boy from Florida named Ronnie R when I was 8. He pecked me on the lips, and I ran back to the bunk and told my counselor Patti. I learned to play tether ball in camp, and I was the best of the Freshman girls by the time I was in Bunk 4. I remember that after rest hour every day we had Crowley’s chocolate milk and Freihofer chocolate chip cookies, and the milk was so good it tasted like it came from a brown cow. If we woke up before breakfast was served on lazy Sundays, we were allowed to visit the Camp Mother and Lil gave us all mini boxes of cereal to tide us over. Kids from all different age groups were able to eat breakfast huddled together in her bunk and we felt like a family. Ahhhh, camp memories.

“Are you ready for the summer? Are you ready for the sunshine? Are you ready for the birds and bees, the apple trees and a whole lot of fooling around.” Lyrics from the movie, Meatballs

In our final few years at sleepaway, Mom peeled off and my sister and I upgraded to a luxury camp in the Adirondacks that specialized in tennis, aquatics, gymnastics, horseback riding, and field sports. We ditched the old Dr. Scholl’s and mismatched short sets and switched over to a uniform dress code, blue and white Dolphin shorts, titanium tennis rackets, swimming goggles, and soccer cleats. Raquette Lake was no “Meatballs” kind of camp– when the schedule said you had sailing, you got your butt to sailing.

The camp was situated on 99 miles of shoreline on picturesque Raquette Lake. The grounds were impeccable, the bunks were spacious, and each sport was taught by a professional or an expert– no college hacks here, but sadly the food totally sucked. We counted on trip days once a week for sustenance in the form of pizza, ice cream and whatever junk we could get our hands on. And we’d buy cookies, crackers, chips, or dry goods we could hide in our backpacks that wouldn’t need refrigeration back at the bunk. (Although my friend Adriane did find a way to keep soda cans and perishables cold. She sealed them in plastic bags and dangled them inside of the covered tank of the toilet. I wanted no part of that action. She was a true pioneer though. Love you, A!)

The Adirondacks in summertime could be downright frosty, so we ended up in doubled up sets of sweats some days, shivering at the flagpole for morning lineup. By lunchtime it was usually warm, and we’d be peeling off layers, but still hated jumping into the frigid lake. Camp had a strict no care packages policy because food in the bunks invited mice, ants, and bears. (Hence the hiding of our precious trip day goodies.) One summer it was so cold that I asked my Mom to send up my heavy ski jacket. Little did I know that she snuck Kraft Easy Cheese into one sleeve and stuffed three rows of Ritz Crackers into the other one. Go Mom! Best idea ever and my jacket made it past care package inspection at the main office, too. (Nothing to see here, folks.)

We sang a lot in camp. Loud was good. Loudest was best. Table cheers in the dining hall took up more time than actual eating. There was a ton of clapping too, foot stomping, and screaming. We were animated, fun and crazy most of the time. We prepped hard for special event days like Uncle Sam’s Birthday, and Halloween– making costumes, writing original songs and working together. Teamwork really did make the dream work in camp.

Socials with boys were a major deal and we did hair and makeup for hours! I “dated” some guy named Larry who lived in Clifton, New Jersey. He got so sunburned one trip day that everyone called him Larry the Lobster. That gossip even spread across the lake which is how I found out. Camp could also be brutal at times. Another summer I dated Jeff the Counselor and he was so good looking that everyone called him Hollywood. I think my stock went up that year just from the association.

I took sports pretty seriously in camp and joined the tennis team with my all-time best friend Sloane as my doubles partner. We had intense intercamp games with other local sleepaways– and when I say local I mean less than 3 hours away. (Raquette was waaay up in the mountains.) All hands on deck competitions were set up periodically allowing us to go head-to-head with the other camps, not unlike The Hunger Games, although we were fed bagged lunches. The competition was fierce! We had all-camp swim and gymnastic meets, sailing regattas, and championship tennis matches.

Camp is where I smoked pot for the first time. My bunk went to see James Taylor at SPAC, the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, and one of the guys had weed and we all took a few hits, laid on the lawn, and listened to You’ve Got A Friend. It was magical. (See how your thousands in tuition were spent Mom and Dad?) At least I was with trustworthy friends, and isn’t camp truly about experimentation and personal growth?

There were so many amazing things I learned in camp, like: song writing, how to eat eight crackers and then whistle for my part in the Apache Relay, how to juggle scarves for the play Hair, all of the words to Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger, water skiing, how to raid the kitchen at 4am, tie dyeing, how to tread water for 3 minutes to pass the Deep Water Test, how to perfectly apply bright blue liquid eyeliner, how to shave my legs, and how to jump off the giant rock on the Golden Beach trip and not die. (Nailed it on my first try!)

Most of things I remember when I think about camp are small sensory moments. Like the blaring of reveille early every morning (ok, clearly more than just a moment), or the rush of trampling feet up the wood plank steps into the dining hall, and the creaking stretch of the screen door once we got there. The swoosh and snap of the flag being lowered at windy evening lineups and the dinging the flag clips made when they hit the metal flagpole. I could never forget how lucky we were to appreciate the spectacle of the “dancing diamonds” on the lake each morning as the sun hit the water. (How could we when Helene reminded us every single day!) The clatter of dishes and forks as we stacked up dirty plates at mealtime. The beeping of the commercial laundry trucks as they backed into the parking lot to drop off (most of) our (somewhat) clean clothes. The pop of the Sharpie cap coming off before we defiled the cubbies with our names and some inappropriate graffiti. The first cold slurp of a chocolate shake from The Pied Piper. The itch of a fuzzy tennis ball against my leg as I stuffed an extra into the side of my shorts before serving. The chanting of, “Mommy! (bang bang) Daddy! (bang bang),” on visiting day before we were allowed to run and greet our folks. The clinking of soft rain on the front porch of the bunk, and the dripping of loud drops inside the cabin. The scraping of the six chairs up on the dais, signaling the beginning of Color War. The tings of splattering gravel as Jerry sped off in his golf cart. The rustle of fly paper strips hanging from the rafters. Hearing my name over the staticky loudspeaker asking me to report immediately to the main office to take a phone call from my parents. The woosh when I pulled off my swim cap followed by the thud of my bare feet running down the slightly buoyant dock after completing my lap of a freestyle relay race. The crackle of the opening campfire where we made s’mores and read letters we had written to ourselves at the end of the previous summer. The taste of toxic glue as I licked envelopes to send letters home. The smell of Emme’s pizza the minute my bunk walked into T.P. The thwack of toilet paper bombs we threw between the rafters that stuck to the bunk ceiling. Or the whir of the job wheel telling us what disgusting bunk task was ours for the day. And the endless sobbing on the last day as we dragged our duffels up the hill to the waiting busses.

I was so thrilled when my son was finally old enough to attend my old alma matter, Raquette Lake. He was going into fourth grade and ready for the experience. I wrote Matty letters every single day and checked the camp website for new photos of him. He was having the time of his life, said his gigantic smile and thumbs up (our secret code for “camp is good.”) He learned archery, tennis, and rock climbing, and had a best friend by day two. He said the food was amazing, and he loved the tacos and milkshake parties at canteen. (He loved the food at camp? I was confused.)

Visiting day was the best day of the whole summer for me. When Matty barreled down the hill full speed and jumped into my arms talking a mile a minute I had tears of joy in my eyes. During that first visiting day I asked Matty to tell me his favorite things about camp. He thought for a minute and said, “Well, I love campfires and all the songs and history about camp. And I’d have to say that the omelette station on Sundays is pretty good.” I loved that he mentioned campfires and the camp history since he was a second-generation camper– I was very moved by his answer. But ummm… I’m sorry– omelette station??

On lazy Sundays when I was a camper we had hours-old toasted Lender’s Bagels in huge wooden bowls left out on the front steps of the dining hall (uncovered) with a vat of cream cheese on the side and two plastic serve yourself knives. Plates were optional, so we’d stack up a few bagels each, fold them into our shirts, race back to the bunk, and eat them leisurely in bed. I guess when you’re a kid, camp is indeed grand, although my experience at Raquette sounds a bit more rustic than Matty’s.

For Sloane, Adriane, Leah, Lisa, Cami, Elaine, Lisa, Melanie, Jen, Wendy, Woody, Russell, David, Larry, Hollywood, Aurora, Kim, Pam, Stacey, Liz, Bari, Marcy, Lanie, Jenny, Jill, Jill, and Jill, Mitchell, the two Rachels, Amy, Shamim, Helene, Diane, Nate, Ben, Matty, Sydney, Noah, Zoe, Ally, me, and the thousands of other campers, counselors, owners, and staff spanning several generations, Raquette will always be our home.

“Friends, friends, friends. We will always be… Whether in fair or in dark stormy weather Camp Raquette, will keep us together. The white and blue (purple too)… We will all be true. Love will pervade us till death separates us… We’re friends, friends, friends! Da da da da da…”