You want to discipline your child? Threaten him with summer camp.
The fear of having to sleep in a dank bunk with kids you didn’t know was enough to keep me quiet in the back seat for four hours.
The folks used that taunt when another didn’t work: “If you don’t behave we’re sending you to see Uncle Henry.”
Uncle Henry, you see, was in an asylum for, um, crazy people and it sounded pretty bleak. I never met him (did he even exist?) but dad would slow down enough when we came to his town and I was so still I could have posed for a Renaissance painter.
Clearly, my parents were smart enough to know how to deal with a precocious child. Sensing as much, I asked for a subscription to Parents magazine when I was 10. I said it was for the movie reviews but, actually, I was trying to see if I could gather some insight. By 12, I had read “Between Parent and Child” and its sequel “Between Parent and Teenager.” Both gave me plenty of ammunition for those heart-to-heart talks designed to give an adult the upper hand. Mom and Dad realized that, took a look at the books themselves and were quick on the draw with those infuriating, “Why do you say that?” responses.
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By my teenage years, I viewed life through the eyes of a union steward. I negotiated everything (including contact lenses, which came with a three-page “contract” that spelled out the cost/benefit ratio) and, frequently, won the battle. (Often, it was just a matter of wearing them down. “If you shut up, I’ll say yes,” Dad would offer as his closing argument.)
Camp, though, was the low blow – the preemptive strike they’d use every time they wanted to win quickly.
It started early in life when camp was actually a viable summer alternative. One visit, however, made it an impossibility. The place, you see, wasn’t as idyllic as something you’d find on Lake Okoboji. This place looked like something out of “Friday the 13th.” The counselors weren’t much better than Jason Voorhees and the lake, more charitably, could be called a swamp.
The cabins defined the term “rustic.” Water was filled with iron ore, beds had a vague urine smell and the cafeteria looked like it served the catch of last week. There were crafts, too, but none of the skills they taught could lead to a goldmine on Etsy. This was everything a television-addicted child could spurn. And, yes, electricity was considered a “perk" and ticks were part of the ambience.
Needless to say, I didn’t spend a week there, even when friends thought it might be a good idea to go as a group. (I was the smart one. They hated it, too.)
Years later, my sister went to band camp (at a different place) and loved it so much she wound up working there as a college student. But even that – with the promise of competition – didn’t seem worth missing a week of “Another World” and “Days of Our Lives.” One look at rooms without air conditioning was enough to convince me my trombone skills were just fine.
Years later – when I was too old to care – Dad poked the bear and asked if I regretted not going to summer camp.
Nope, I said. “But I really wish we could have visited Uncle Henry a little more. He seemed like my kind of guy.”
Parents Magazine couldn't have said it any better.
