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Camp Ladore
Summer break
Where to start?
At the beginning, I suppose.
Stepping off an eight-hour New York flight
into pitch black, sweltering humidity -
the kind that makes your already sweaty skin
stew
and stick to your baggy ‘Camp America’ T-shirt
(that looks more hand-me-down than new).
Then herded away with thirty other
complete strangers
to a bus
that takes you to a hotel -
that takes you to camp -
that takes you to a cabin in the woods.
Was this a mistake?
One weeks’ orientation zips by
and then - you’re a counsellor,
watching over an onslaught
of street-smart,
wise-cracking,
teenage,
Philly kids.
With bad attitudes,
raucous humour,
sharp wit,
hot tempers,
and blazing ambition.
They’ll teach you a thing or two, before this is done.
Meanwhile, you’ll power through sleepless nights,
rat patrols and angel watch.
Teach archery, canoeing, dodge-ball,
arts and crafts.
Roast s’mores by a dwindling fire
and laugh in good company,
yawning from exhaustion
with no desire to sleep.
It’s ‘the hardest summer you’ll ever love.’
That’s what they promised,
and boy - did they deliver!
Three months have never gone so fast,
or so long.
Three lifetimes more like -
each the blink of an eye,
with friends
middles,
lows,
and highs.
I will never forget that place,
or those people.
Whose memory clings to me
like a familiar smell
that wafts
from time to time
and suddenly...
I’m back
at Camp Ladore.
Smiling,
weary from the day that’s been,
eager for the days yet to come.
One moment.
Frozen in time.
Happy.
