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January 16, 2004
At the camp drop zone
A kid's nightmare – the overly demonstrative parent.
BRIAN BLUM SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH BULLETIN
It is a hazy summer Sunday and we are dropping off our 11-year-old
son Amir for his first overnight camping experience: a month at
Camp Ramah in Ojai, Calif. We have come all the way from Israel
for this, only amplifying the anticipation. As we pull into the
designated drop zone – the parking lot of a local synagogue
– I am suddenly overrun by memories of my own sojourns at summer
camp. Except that this time I'm on the other side.
It's been 30-something years since I attended El Ranch Navarro,
a funky non-denominational Jewish camp just outside of Boonville,
Calif., most notable at the time as being the Northern California
headquarters for the Moonies. I think we shared a tennis court.
Yet it seems like nothing has changed since then. There are the
campers – some noticeably nervous, others greeting old friends
with all that pre-teen bravado I've lost track of over the years.
And there are their parents, treading the unenviable line between
already-missing-you and halleluyah – a whole month without
the kid!
There are the sleeping bags and the oversized duffle bags, no doubt
stuffed with a month's supply of Off!, the requisite metal canteen
and 14 pairs of underwear and socks, each of which has been painstakingly
labelled with the camper's name (a process that causes no end of
embarrassment for the child the other 11 months of the year).
About the only thing that's out of synch with my memories are the
cars the campers came in. As I look out over the parking lot, I
am confronted by a sea of mini-vans and SUVs, each more ritzy than
the next. I see Beemers, Acuras, and Lexi (the plural of Lexus I
suppose), in shapes and sizes my parents' generation would have
ascribed to nothing short of a future built by George Jetson and
the Spacely Space Sprocket Corp. We, on the other hand, have arrived
in the 1988 Chrysler LeBaron station wagon with faux wood panelling
my wife Jody's parents keep for us to use during our annual visits
from Israel to the "old country."
"Park it in the back, away from the A-List cars," I whisper
to Jody as we scope out the scene.
It's not just the cars. Things really do seem different from the
parents' side. It started months before when the forms arrived bearing
"Serious and Important Instructions." Did my own parents
receive similar directions?
For example:
"Do not send clothing that advertises alcoholic beverages or
drugs or that expresses racist or sexist opinions." Well, I
guess my circa-1972 Nixon-on-the-toilet T-shirt would have been
banned.
"Please do not send lounge chairs with your children."
Since when do campers bring furniture?
"Campers may not have cellular phones at camp." My kids
don't have cellphones at home.
"Do not bring weapons, pocket knives, water guns, valuables,
walkmen, discmen, boom boxes, Game Boys, laptops or beepers."
Hey, how about my Johnny Quest secret decoder ring?
And then there was my favorite: "Please do not attempt to smuggle
food for your camper into the camp. Although comic at times, our
staff has seen a variety of creative attempts by friends and family
to sneak food into the camp including sewing candy into stuffed
animals." And no nail files hidden in the Boston cream pie
either, you hear!
I can only imagine how an Israeli summer camp would present its
version of the rules. Something more like "yalla, leave your
uzis at home and bring a bottle of water. Chevre, we're going on
tiyul!"
Still, I am impressed by the thought and effort that goes into ensuring
our children have a safe and unforgettable all-American summer.
Without getting too sappy, it really does give me more appreciation
for the efforts my own parents made in getting me prepared for camp.
Here at the drop zone, though, I am more concerned about a much
more immediate subject: the girls. Tell me now, were they really
that scantily clad when I was 11? Maybe it's not such a good idea
to let Amir run wild for a month without us.... But he has already
made a friend and is ready to board.
"So soon?" I ask, but he's already heading up the steps.
"Wait – picture time!"
"Abba..." he protests.
And then, in the blink of a shutter, he is ensconced in the bowels
of the bus.
"It's time to go," Jody says.
Yes, time to let that 11-year-old man-child get started with the
time of his life. And ... time to embarrass him one last time!
I run around the side of the bus looking for him through the window.
I catch his eye for a moment and wave garishly. It's every camper's
ultimate nightmare – the overly demonstrative parent ... in
front of the scantily clad girls.
And then I see it. The faint wave of his hand. And a wisp of a smile.
Now we can go.
Brian Blum writes the syndicated Web column "This
Normal Life." He lives with his wife and three children in
Jerusalem. Archives of "This Normal Life" can be found
at www.thisnormallife.com.
You can e-mail him at [email protected].
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