by Tilda Shalof
When we discovered that Jake, a fifteen-year-old, had a bad case of lice and told him he’d have to go home to be treated, he was so angry he punched a door with his fist. “Please don’t make me leave. I’ll shave my head,” he pleaded. “I look forward to camp all year.” But when he heard that his little sister Jenny had lice too, and saw her crestfallen face, he changed his tune. “Sure, I’ll go home with you, Jennster,” he said, then explained to me, “Our dad works a lot and he won’t have time to take care of her hair.” He put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, Jenny-Benny, I’ll pick out the nits.”
As a parent, I’m lenient about bedtimes, negligent about homework, lackadaisical about unmade beds, junk food, and crumbs on the floor, but I’m a raging dictator when it comes to my kids being respectful, kind, and considerate. It’s practically the only “rule” in our household. Somehow, this camp had created a culture where kindness was the expectation. It was even expressed in writing. On a wall of names of sponsors of the camp, I read the inscription under a photograph of the Solomon family patriarch, a twinkly-eyed, distinguished-looking man: “Be Good to Each Other.”
And because I wasn’t needed in the Health Centre all the time, I got out and met everyone. Rudy’s daughter, Layla Schwartz, was the head tripper. She was studying environmental science at university and was exactly the kind of capable, take-charge person I’d want with me if I was out in the wilderness. She’d get me home, I thought. Layla referred to her specialty as “survival skills” and explained it to me. “It’s learning how to find your way home when you’re lost in foreign territory, tie the right knot to get the job done, build a secure shelter out of next to nothing, feed yourself with potatoes you roasted over the fire, and make do with what you’ve got.” Layla knew a lot of useful information so I asked her about something I’d been wondering about. “What should I do if I’m in the forest and I see a bear?”
“Most important: don’t make eye contact. Bears feel confronted when you look into their eyes,” she said straightaway. “Get up on your tippy-toes to make yourself look as big as possible and spread your arms out. Also, make a lot of noise. Shout at it.”
“What should I say?” I asked, giggling.
“Go away, you bad bear!” she answered, giggling along with me.
Layla had an assistant named Alon, a husky, muscular guy who had a gentle manner and was great with the kids, especially the ones who were nervous about going out on a canoe trip. For a first-year counsellor, it was considered an achievement to be a tripper, so he must have proven himself to have made the grade.
Another rising star was Matti, the head song-leader who was something of a camp celebrity. His irresistible music and charismatic personality attracted all ages.
Seth was a terrific counsellor who had his hands full that particular summer with a challenging cabin that included Daniel, the boy with diabetes, Mitchell, who was miserably homesick, and Eddie, who was causing a lot of trouble.
Even the rabbis added a lot of pizzazz to camp! Rabbi Emily came with her partner, Cynthia, and their baby daughter. The kids adored her – she was hip, into fitness, wore funky clothes, and had a sleek, chic haircut. Rabbi Danny played folk and blues guitar, knew hundreds of songs, and was an avid waterskier who helped many children get up on skis for the first time. The rabbis swam and canoed with the kids, played soccer with them, and even went out on canoe trips with them, sharing along the way lessons from the bible about respecting our environment.
As pleasant as that first summer at Camp Solomon was for me, there was a temporary blip of mild misery for a number of kids when an outbreak of upper respiratory infections started running through camp. They were getting colds and asthma flare-ups. You could see them everywhere you looked, sniffling into tissues and giving the familiar “salute,” the upward rubbing of a dripping nose with open hand. Seasonal allergic rhinitis, also called hay fever, was in full bloom, too, with lots of sneezing, itchy, runny noses, and red eyes. Many kids were started on allergy meds, puffers, and antibiotics for secondary infections. We were going through lots of boxes of tissues, cough medicine, and throat lozenges and serving up plenty of hot broth, lemon tea with honey, and sympathy. “We need more portable sink stations for handwashing,” we told Rudy. The bottles of alcohol hand-sanitizers were useful, but proper handwashing with soap and water was the best way to prevent infections. We discussed ways the kids could take better care of themselves. One thing we did was set up a do-it-yourself first-aid station outside the Health Hut and encouraged them to help themselves to BandAids, disinfectant, and ice packs so they could treat themselves.
But there was no doubt about it, the Health Centre had become a social hub. At times it was a real hangout, and not just for sick kids. Someone passing by during evening pill call would swear a party was going on in there – and sometimes, there was! First, the Flames, the youngest campers, arrived for their meds, still flushed and excited from their evening activity and looking nowhere near ready to settle down for bed. Soon after they left, the Pioneers and Builders arrived, also high-spirited and wound-up. Lastly the CITS came for their pills and stayed on to amuse us with crazy antics. A bunch of the boys who’d complained about a mysterious ailment they called “crotch rot” started a nightly ritual to treat it. They passed around a bottle of medicated powder and gave themselves a light sprinkling down their pants without even missing a beat in the conversation. Others came to show off their special talents. One CIT girl turned off the lights, aimed the examining-table light toward the wall, and made a rooster, a cobra, and an alligator appear on the wall with hand shadows. Another CIT was a Rubik’s cube expert. Someone would jumble it up and after a mere glance at the cube he’d put it behind his back and solve the puzzle, without even looking.
By the time the CITS cleared out, the counsellors started dropping by. “Hey, let’s go visit the nurses,” I’d hear someone say outside the window. “Yeah, chill time with the nurses!” Seth always came in to see us. “What’s poppin’, Nurse Tilda?” He’d flash us a smile and put an arm around Alice and me. “Just checkin’ up on you two troublemakers.”
Alice and I would put out snacks like licorice sticks or popcorn. Matti and other song-leaders would bring their guitars and jam right there in the waiting room of the Health Centre, filling the place with music. They all sat around telling stories of the fun and funny things that happened that day.
“I love being a counsellor,” one girl said, “but I had no idea it would be this hard. It’s my first job and I feel so stressed. I never have any time to myself.”
The others agreed and then shared the sweet moments they’d had with their kids.
“I piggybacked this kid around all day because he had a sore foot and when I put him down, he gave me this big hug and said, ‘you’re the best counsellor ever!’ Like, wow, that rocked my world.”
“We played basketball against another camp and they played dirty, but our kids didn’t retaliate. I was proud of them and I want to find a way to reward them.”
At times they needed to debrief or talk through sticky situations they weren’t sure how to handle. They often wanted to run something by us, or get our take on a situation, such as when Bonnie, a first-year counsellor of a cabin of twelve-year-olds, said, “I don’t know what to do about my girls. They talk about sex all day!” She looked more bemused than truly exasperated.
“Well, as long as they’re just talking,” I joked.
“Yeah, I guess, but they’re sooo boy crazy. One girl had a boyfriend and told me they broke up last night. Twelve is way too young for that, but she was crying about it today like it was a major tragedy. Puuhhh-lease … I didn’t know what to say to her.”
“I know what you mean,” another said. “The other night my girls were talking about blow jobs and if you should swallow or not! One of the girls said, ‘Only if you really like the guy.’ Can you believe this? It’s unreal! I think they know more than me!”
“If they’re not talking about sex,
they’re talking about their weight,” Bonnie said. “One asked me if I thought she was fat. Well, she is a bit chubby, but I didn’t tell her that, of course. What’s the right thing to say?”
“My girls are still so innocent,” said a counsellor of the youngest campers, the Flames. “I came into the cabin and found them trying on my bras. It was so cute.”
They discussed the children as if they were their own, worried about the homesick ones, and pooled advice on how to break up a clique or deal with a bully. They shared tips on everything from how to get the kids to settle down at night to what to do if they felt a child might have an eating disorder.
Throughout the evenings, counsellors came and went, joining in the discussions, or sometimes just sitting around, listening in. I often looked over at Dave, Steven’s attendant, who didn’t say much but always seemed part of the conversations. I thought about the work he did with Steven, who couldn’t walk and who got around in a wheelchair. Dave helped him shower, fed him, took him to the bathroom. He was doing a job not many would choose but he did it happily, even made it seem appealing. I thought of one day when Steven was upset. The hustle and bustle in the dining hall was too much for him and he felt overwhelmed. Dave had just brought him there but Steven wanted to turn right around and return to his cabin to get away from the noise. Dave felt Steven should be a part of the group and not exclude himself. Steven begged to leave but Dave sat with him, discussing it calmly. Together they came up with a plan. I knew that Dave could have easily exerted his will over Steven or given in out of pity, but instead he negotiated with him, one on one, as equals. It reminded me of times in the hospital when I’d imposed my will on my patients, insisting, for example that they walk farther after surgery than they felt they could or shooing visitors out of my patient’s room if I felt that rest was more important than socializing. I believed I was in a position to know what was best for them, but it’s an aspect of my role that I’ve never been comfortable with. I admired Dave’s equanimity in handling a similar situation with Steven.
“Typical teenager,” Dave said. “He’s gotta rebel, but I’m not going to butt heads with him or dominate him. Anyway, he’s a great kid,” he said as if that was the reason Steven commanded his respect. “Steven’s really into sports,” he often told me, always emphasizing his strengths, not his disabilities. They did share a love of sports, even though Steven’s participation involved watching games and memorizing stats, rather than actually playing.
Those late evenings, “just chillin’” with the counsellors, gave me a window into their world. They were on the front lines, day in, day out – and throughout the nights, too. They faced many of the same challenges that parents, even nurses, face.
One way they coped with the stress of their work was to let loose on their days off. They talked openly about those wild times in the local town, even tales of drinking, drugs, and sex, feeling no need to hide it from us. Rudy must have known the score because one day, early on in the summer, he took them aside to offer a friendly cautionary message, just before a group set out for a twenty-four-hour break.
“I know you work hard,” Rudy had said in his relaxed, but authoritative way, “and I want you to enjoy your day off, but if you are somewhere, anywhere, at any time, and are drinking, call me and I’ll come and get you – no questions asked.”
They listened to him and I hoped they’d take it to heart.
And while they claimed that sex was on their campers’ minds, it was definitely on theirs, too. Some nights, they let their guard down and opened up about their own love lives. One girl explained the particular challenges of a relationship with someone at camp. “I slept with him on our day off,” she said about her boyfriend, “and then it was so weird seeing him afterward every day at camp and having to work with him.”
“Everyone knows who everyone is sleeping with,” they all told me, complaining about the lack of privacy, then eagerly telling me who was hooked up. But often, sex wasn’t the most personal or revealing topic. When they dropped down deeper and spoke of their passion for music or extreme sports like wakeboarding and mountain climbing, their attachment to their tattoos and the meaning and messages embodied in those images, or their hopes and dreams for the future, I felt they were letting me in to their true selves.
Sometimes they worried about “life after camp” and how they were going to “make it big” or what they were going to do with the “rest of their lives,” by which I soon realized they meant their twenties. Many had sincere aspirations to do “something to make the world a better place” but weren’t sure exactly what. I didn’t try to offer any answers to their questions or solutions, but simply listened, enjoyed their company, and treasured the connection I had with them.
As we headed into the third, and my final, week of camp, things were going well. Daniel, with Seth’s supervision, was keeping his blood-sugar levels stable. The respiratory bug had run its course and most children were healthy again. Mitchell continued to show up for daily visits and to complain about Eddie. “He picks on me because I’m overweight,” Mitchell said, but I wondered what would happen if Mitchell stood up for himself or gave it back to him. It was always Seth, or a cabin mate, who came to Mitchell’s rescue.
There was no doubt about it – camp worked kids hard. The days were long and filled with strenuous activities. A day at camp is like a week anywhere else, Alice and I often said to each other. So much happens at camp. I’d seen this phenomenon before: by week three, the kids – and their counsellors, too – were completely rundown and worn-out. Sometimes, when children complained of a headache, or of vaguely “not feeling well,” and when there was no real “diagnosis,” I would lead them to a bed, cover them lightly with a sheet, and by the time I walked to the door to leave, they were fast asleep. All they needed was a break from the heat and noise and a chance to regroup. Invariably, when they awoke from the “treatment,” they were refreshed and “cured.”
One day a week there was a break from all that intensity. It started on Friday afternoon with preparations for the Jewish Sabbath. The frenzy of activities began to wind down. It became quiet, and as evening fell, we all gathered at the Tent. Everyone was scrubbed clean and shining, wearing their best clothes, many of the girls in skirts or dresses, some wearing jewellery and makeup. Perhaps the change in atmosphere and clothes put them on their best behaviour. As the sun set over the lake, everyone walked together to the dining hall from which wafted the aroma of freshly baked, braided bread. Candles were lit, blessings sung, and then we sat down at tables spread with white cloths and individually set places, not the usual rack of cutlery and stack of plates. A sprig of flowers was on each table and there was an exceptionally tasty meal of soup, roast chicken, vegetables, and dessert.
Afterward, the song-leaders set up their electric guitars, keyboards, and drums at the front of the room and placed amplifiers around the periphery. In no time, the dining hall was transformed into a dance hall and the entire camp burst forth into song and dance. With their arms entwined, all ages mixed, they moved together in a giant, coiling conga line that went around and around the room. They danced so hard, the floorboards shook. They sang so loudly, the beat vibrated in my chest. With flushed faces and glistening bodies, they danced and sang into the night.
Saturday mornings were for sleeping in, except for the youngest kids who got up early and scampered around, generally left to their own devices. After breakfast there was a service that involved stories, skits, songs, and prayers that the kids wrote themselves. At lunch, siblings could sit together and Max invited Ryan – who still wore his turquoise Crocs – and Harry invited Becky, his friend from school, to join us, since they didn’t have siblings at camp. Becky was a gorgeous girl, with a mane of dark, curly hair, and always a huge smile. She and I laughed about her camp hair, which was wild and free, versus her city hair, which she straightened and kept perfectly coiffed. After lunch, kids attended their choice of relaxing interest groups, such as yoga, music appre
ciation, meditation, drumming, cloud-watching, or nature walks.
As peaceful as camp was on those days, there was one time it didn’t end like that. One Saturday night, as I lingered a few moments, enjoying the campfire, I saw Seth go over to add more kindling to the fire. At the same moment, Eddie got up, too. Some thing about his expression made me wary, but unfortunately I didn’t act soon enough to stop what happened next. Eddie held a can of insect spray in his hand and aimed the spray right into the flame where Seth was kneeling. Instantly, the flames roared up, ignited by the combustible spray, and flared straight onto Seth’s face, burning his arms and face and singeing off his eyebrows and eyelashes. I rushed them both to the Health Centre and kept Eddie under my supervision while Louise treated Seth.
“Hey, I didn’t know that would happen,” Eddie protested, putting his feet up on the desk and lacing his hands behind his head. “I had no idea.”
Rudy called Eddie’s parents. His behaviour was dangerous and we couldn’t keep him at camp, he told them, but they begged for him to stay, promising they’d send his behavioural medications the next day by courier. Rudy said no, but he later relented at Seth’s request. Despite the pain from his burns, and the anger he must have felt at Eddie’s prank, Seth persuaded Rudy to give him another chance. “I’ll make sure that kid straightens out and flies right,” Seth promised Rudy. “There’s something about him …”
“You like a challenge, don’t you, man?” Rudy looked at him in disbelief.