Letters from Camp

When I was a teen away at camp, I was truly away. For the most part, I was in charge of how much, or what kind of information, got back to my parents. I wore what I wanted, ate what I wanted, hung around with whoever I wanted. There weren’t cell phones, or even land line calls allowed in non-emergencies. And depending on how long your stay was, it might not even be worth the effort to scribe a few cheery lines in an old-fashioned letter home to Muddah and Fadduh.

Flash forward 30 years. My 16-year-old son is away at camp for three weeks. His iPhone appendage was relinquished to his counselor, only to be brought out for 30 minutes a day. I get a quick phone call, an e-mail or a text, like this one, presented here in its unedited entirety: “Hey mamasita. Love ya. Check yo email. Lovin everything.”

Wait a minute – Is this academic camp or gangsta camp? Isn’t mamacita spelled with a 'c'? Aren’t you going into Spanish IV? But I digress.

The 30-minute “awkward phone time,” as my son calls it, is not all there is. Not by a longshot.

This camp has a daily blog complete with photos, candid and posed, of hundreds of campers. For three nights after he leaves, I peruse the previous day’s offerings. I flip through the line of tiny photos, looking for his familiar frame, that profile, those big brown eyes. I spot him, playing some kind of ice breaker game on Day 1, hamming it up at a meal with three other boys and at some kind of assembly another day. Sure, they’re only snapshots (literally). And it’s not like I’m watching live streaming video. But somehow, I’m an intruder, a voyeur, peeping into a world where I’m not a legitimate participant.

A little part of me is sad about that. As odd as it sounds to some, my son and I are tight. Since my divorce from his dad six years ago, we’ve built a relationship filled with laughter, love and mutual respect. He’s got his own life – and so do I – and on the outside, we’re very different people. But we’re close. And I miss him.

Of course I’m happy to see that he’s happy. I want to know more: I wonder what kind of pasta is in that bowl? Who is that kid sitting next to him? What game are they playing?

Then my mind starts to wander into judgmental territory: He would look better if he stood up straighter. He should be having water instead of soda.

It’s so absurd it gives me a jolt. What am I doing? How’s that for a question? You’ve got your own life (you just said it), so go live it. And let your 16-year-old live his.

So I decide to write a letter of my own:

Dear Camp I Shall Not Name (Except to say that it’s in Bowling Green, KY, and has a name that sounds like a blood-sucking reanimated corpse):

Thanks so much for creating a blog for us parents to follow while our beloved campers are in your care. It’s well done and I’m amazed at how many of the 200-plus campers you’re able to capture on film. When my son gets home, we’ll have fun viewing the photos. We might even order a couple.
But until then, sign me,

One mamacita who’ll be getting her news the old-fashioned way



P.S. to My Intro Post: I was remiss for not thanking my friends for their encouragement and putting up with my frequent declarations of “I really should write about this.” So thank you for your subtle and not-so-subtle (do it already!) prodding. Thanks to my friend Ron for the title and to my sis for her design expertise. Just so we're clear: none of this buys you any mercy in future posts.

P.P.S. Given the questions, I should have included that I don’t plan to post every day, maybe not even every week. I imagine the timing will be something more along the lines of twice a month. I know, but you’ll just have to wait….