![]() ![]() But the moment that stuck with me, that made me feel special, was when a counselor on whom I now realize I had a nascent crush, who went by the nickname Fonzie (not knowing any of the counselors' real names was a part of the allure of my camp), told me she knew I was a girl right from the start because I was "too cute to be a boy." I also recall that the other girls wanted to know why there was a boy (me) at camp. While memories of that first year are fuzzy, I recall the candy truck that came around during our rest hour and the 10 cents I could spend on something sweet - watermelon-flavored Jolly Rancher sticks were my confection of choice - and I remember swim lessons in a murky pond that slightly terrified me. She offered parting advice on showering and washing my clothes and promised postcards every day, and then I was left to fend for myself, a 7-year-old in jeans and construction boots who was often (almost always) mistaken for a boy. ![]() My mom made up my cot with a plastic covering to ward off the dew, my sleeping bag, and my dad's woolen Navy blanket. ![]() ![]() Once the camp nurse determined I wasn't a health risk, my parents and I set off down a rocky path to the unit for the youngest girls. It was the summer of '75 when I arrived at camp for the first time, sporting a navy blue windbreaker, a bowl cut, and a slight fever. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |