Bug Juice: A Tale of Summer Camp

For  you, summer may be about fun, sun and happy family vacations. For me, it is about chauffeuring my children all over central Maryland in an attempt to momentarily unplug them.

I was bemoaning this fact to my friend, poet Dennis Kirschbaum. He had one word of advice: Camp.

Dennis -- here is the problem with that idea. I hated camp. I hated being away from home. I hated enforced "fun." I even hated bug juice. (You really want the recipe?)

My father, who grew up in the Bronx, has beyond-fond memories of Boy Scout Camp in the woods of downstate New York, which he attended well into his teens. Therefore, Dad was super excited when Mr. Skip, owner and director of a Catskills summer camp for Jewish children, spent an evening in our family living room, showing off slides of said children sailing, swimming, doing crafts.

Before you could say, "gefilte fish," I was being measured for a green (shorts) and white (tees) camp uniform, the trunk was packed, and I was shipped off.

Camp portrait, 1982, doctored by Julia.
(I am 13 in this photo. Julia is 13 now. She says, "You look nothing like me.")

There were several problems with this set up:

• I was ten years old and had never been away from home. A night or two, fine. A week, sure. Camp was eight weeks.
• While my father was Jewish and my English mother had converted to Judaism before I was born, our family was interfaith. That balance of religions and cultures worked well for me at home. At camp, it made me different.
• I am an introvert. I spent a good amount of those eight weeks with my nose in a book.

The first year was basically me being homesick. I remember one of the first meals we had in the dining hall. It was my introduction to bug juice. Mom had taught me to use a knife and fork Continental style. Oh, boy. Did that catch the eye of the teenage counselors. Eyebrows up, everyone!

The second  year was a little better. I made two friends who I stayed in touch with over the school year.

The third year, my bunk-mates decided that they hated one of our counselors and made her life miserable. Ugh. My best friend that year, Jackie, said, "I am not coming back." This was a revelation. You mean, I can tell my parents I don't like camp?! Wow. I seriously had no clue.

Of course, there are some positive memories about camp. There were some great girls among all the Melissas. (No offense, nice Melissas. This just happened to be the name of several mean girls in my age group.) I chalk all the hard feelings up to a bad fit.

I did learn to look forward to bug juice, which is like watered down punch. I developed a sore throat and a taste for Cepacol. Crafts were fun. In my last year, I was goalie for our travel soccer team and that was pretty awesome.

And, I got to be in the camp musical. One year, it was Annie. Another year, it was Oliver! I never had a big part. There were girls at my camp who lived in Manhattan, took formal voice lessons, and were trying out for Broadway. Seriously.

In Oliver!, I was the strawberry seller in the "Who Will Buy" scene.

And on a rainy day, we got to watch the movie version of Oliver! (and the movie Hair, but that is another, life-changing, story).

One of the most famous scenes in Oliver! is "Food, Glorious Food."

While we're in the mood, here are the last of the Northfield third grade's food poems.

Jade T.

Marble Cake

I wake up. Is it my birthday?

It is! I rush down stairs

To see my presents.

I see my breakfast is ready!

Marble Cake that is gooey.

I sit down and start to eat the cake

With my family. It is delicious!

Chocolate and vanilla every year.

I never get tired of it

because I love it so much.

Some years I help make it.

I love eating the left over

chocolate from the bowl.

My dad makes the cake

and he loves doing it

on everyone’s birthdays.

When I finish I can’t wait

for Next year’s cake.

Chocolate Orange Marble Cake recipe at
Cup of Tea Solves Everything

Andrew F.

Waffle Sandwich

Three slices of waffles

Two slices of bacon

Under the waffles

Two sausages wrapped up in bacon

Ding, it’s ready

Chew goes the sandwich

May I have more?

I don't remember having marble cake or a waffle sandwich at camp.

Sarah B.

I’m in my car going to Grandma’s.

It’s Hanukkah. Yay!

I get to eat latkes and Hanukkah gelt.

At Grandma’s, I grab my plate and pile it

With latkes.

I take a bite. I love the crunch!

Yuck! This needs applesauce.

I go back to the table and get some

Applesauce and splash it on

I take a bite. Yum!

Then the best part comes.

My cousins arrive!

Then we play dreidel!

I spin the dreidel.

I get gimel! I win!

I get all the gelt.

I taste the creamy chocolate.

Yum!

Rats! Time to leave.

I say goodbye and hop into my car.

Thanks, Sarah. I love so many of our family's Jewish traditions and playing dreidel is one of them. This year, Julia and I had a blast teaching my mother-in-law, who is Catholic, how to play the game, a Hannukah tradition. 

As an adult, I'm not anti-camp. My son has gone to sleep away camp (never for more than a week or so). He'll be away for nine days on a school trip to Italy next month. My daughter is going to an overnight field hockey camp this year. It's her first time away, but she's going with a friend and that's exciting.

The moral of the story? Bug juice is gross, but if your kids like camp they won't mind. If you find a place that's a good fit for them, they may even develop a taste for it.

It's Poetry Friday. I'm sure Amy is cooking up some delicious, summery treats at The Poem Farm. She is hosting our blog-roll today.