By Eleanor Kazdan, January 30, 2020 — One of my fondest childhood memories is of going to overnight summer camp. I was 10 years old when I went for the first time. It was a rustic no-frills camp. The cabins, which each held 10 campers and 2 counselors, were deep in the woods and had no electricity, bathrooms, or running water. There was a central building, a short woodsy walk away where we went for these facilities. I loved the roughness of it all, and having to use a flashlight at night was so mysterious and romantic to me. Some of the 12 girls would cry at night. They were homesick. I didn’t miss my parents at all, being quite independent even at that age.
We each had a cubby hole to put our clothes and belongings. My cubby was pretty bare. I guess, looking back, that my parents were minimalists. I must admit that I was envious of the girls whose own cubbies were overflowing with matching shorts, T-shirts, and socks. I had about 2 pairs of beige shorts. But I got over this pretty fast. Friendships were forged. The wakeup siren rang at 6:45 AM and we stumbled out of bed, fixed our sheets with hospital corners, cleaned up the cabin for the daily inspection, hoping to win the “cleanest cabin” award. Then, on to the mess hall where we fortified ourselves with oatmeal and juice. We needed strength for a day filled with weaving baskets and potholders, swimming, canoeing, and singing camp songs. By the end of 3 weeks my voice was hoarse from belting it out. I went to camp every summer and became a junior, then senior counselor. Sixty years later I am still in touch with some of those campers.