MDA Camp, 2008: A Camper's Account
I’ve gone to the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s summer camp since the age of six, since 1994. That makes fourteen years. In all, 84 days. Almost three months of my life. Every summer it was an assured week, away from home, in a place where my disability seemed to vanish, where cares vanished and where there was only a single imperative: fun. I remember the end of the first time I ever went, telling my parents that I wanted to stay another week, not comprehending that it had to end. Now, finally, after so many years, I won’t be returning. This week at camp was my last. However, what a week it was!
In past years MDA camp was located in the Santa Cruz Mountains, about forty-five minutes away from home, through miles of twisting roads and awe-inspiring views of the rugged, emerald landscape from dizzying heights. Nestled amid colossal redwoods, framed by blue sky and sunlit beams filtering through the high branches, Camp Harmon had an endearing charm.
This year, Harmon was only a memory, I was at Westminster Woods. The drive was longer at two-and-a-half-hours, yet worth the time, the scenery did not disappoint. We (my parents and I) left at half past noon, the van crammed with a portable lift and luggage-more as both my parents were to vacation twenty or so minutes from Westminster. Of course, my mom had to be fastidious, writing Sam Fogleman on each item of mine. It’s a wonder she didn’t write Sam Fogleman on my forehead.
Ah, so the drive. It was foggy that afternoon approaching San Francisco. Miles off, one could see the urban sprawl across the bay blanketed in fog. Misty condensation wetted the windshields as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, hundreds of walkers and bicycle riders on both sides, calm waters many feet below. The streets of San Fran yielded to more rural roadways, trees, quaint houses, and old looking buildings about. It’s strange how I have lived in California for so long and rarely see the varied landscape. It was… refreshing.
Well, arrived at the camp close to three o’clock in the afternoon. Almost immediately after driving - humble belongings in tow - to the final registration desk, a few folks, counselors mostly, greeted me. One such counselor was my previous, Ashwin. It was pleasant feeling to see familiar faces right off, ones I hadn’t seen in a year. I soon met my ‘counselor’ (I want to emphasize the term as I believe I counseled him at least as much as he counseled me, call it a ‘symbiotic counselor relationship’, it’s scientific sounding). His name was Darryl, a twenty-one year old Filipino, who goes to college in San Diego. Introductions were made. We then headed to the cabin, a converted club house, called the Woods Inn.
With every visit to camp, in the last five or so years, my dad and I have had to show the counselors how to do a million and one things, and then some; there’s how to take on and off my foot braces, my tray, my footrests, how to put my armrests back, get me dressed without forcing me to be a contortionist (Circus du Soleil has never offered me a job), arranging no less than five pillows for sleeping (one to prop my back up, another to prop the pillow which my arm rests on up, the pillow my arm rests on, a fourth between my legs, and a fifth for my head), and even more. I’ve told my dad we needed to make a video-An MDA Camp Counselor’s Training Tutorial: How to Not Get a Manslaughter Conviction-to streamline the process. It could have that cheesy kind of happy-go-lucky narrator and diagrams. Who doesn’t love diagrams? But, sadly, no video will every likely be made. In any case, Darryl was quite competent and didn’t manage to accidently murder (get the joke?) me.
My cabin consisted of six campers, me included, and seven counselors. Camper wise there was Ron, Rushawn, Victor, Tony, and Jerry.
For no reason whatsoever I’ll switch to the present tense: Ron is a tall, African-American high schooler, soft-spoken, kind, and the type of personality which is almost impossible to not like. Rushawn, another African-American, is eighteen, but due to what form of muscular dystrophy he has, has the body and mind of, maybe, an eight year old-he listens to rap, comments on girl’s booties, thinks everything is gross or nasty, and it seemed liked by all. Victor is a vulgar Hispanic brat-err, kid, who is not very personable, indifferent, and probably is good under it all. Tony, a MDA camp veteran same as me, is an eighteen year old of Italian heritage, with a personality similar to Ron, except, well, louder and more talkative. Jerry, twenty one, has been in my cabin for the last four years, and is one of the gentlest guys I know, hardly speaks, but seems always seems to be observing.
As for counselors, there was Darryl (shown below), my ex-counselor Ashwin, along with Nathan, Jackson, Arty, Patrick (who we called Pat), and Craig. Great people, the lot of ‘em.
That first night there was a campfire, as per usual. Except, the path to the site was steep, with a capital S, a 50 degree slope, an uneven slope at that. And there were roots in the way. Someone really thought ahead. At least wooden planks were laid over it later to create less of a death trap. There was smores, but to get the marshmellowed-graham crackered-chocolatey scrumptious delectable deliciousness the cabin had to do a cheer. Yeah, I was a bit apathetic at first. But for smores, I melt! And, our cheer was the epitome of… cheerfuness?
Here it is:
“Whatcha doing?
Just chillin’ at the Woods Inn!
Who you with?
Ron,
Rushawn,
Victor,
Jerry,
Tony
And Saaaaaaaaaam!”
We got smores. Yet, I didn’t memorize the order of names, and BSed it, saying ‘Da-nah, da-nah, da-nah, da-nah, and Saaaaaaaam!’ or only ‘and… aam’.
The next day I don’t remember a lot of. The first night is always bad, as in I slept poorly as Darryl was still getting the hang of positioning the pillows. I was tired therefore. I’m reasonably sure there was much relaxation involved, possibly napping.
Okay, another reason might’ve contributed to the day being blurry at best. The last activity was the day was Movie Night, at eight o’clock, the film being Beowulf. Before the movie began, I had used the restroom. The restroom is thirty feet above the main path, a ramp, about thirty feet in length leading to it. Coming out the restrooms there is a turn, shortly after two slabs of concrete, which were uneven, maybe an inch and a half, meaning there is a drop. As it was dark, and as I was tired, I forgot to either go slow or circumvent the drop by going off-road for a second. Doom on me.
I went off the drop, which jolted me. The jolt sent me into a forward position. With my hand stuck on the joystick. Stuck forward. Think: foot stuck on the accelerator. A few colorful phrases shot through my skull, me barreling forth, unable to slow down. BAM! I slammed straight into a thick wood railing at the top of the ramp, full speed. My footrests leapt up a concrete base, and my right leg-above the ankle and below the knee-took the brunt of the impact. It hurt. It hurt a lot. It still hurts and my foot is still swollen.
Though, it could have been many times worse. If I hadn’t been going straight when I shot forward, and was a few feet more to the left, I’d of gone off a ledge with a ten to fifteen foot (~three to five meters) drop. Ouch.
On Wednesday, my foot and leg aching still, it was Mardi Gras! Well, that was the theme. Woohoo. Note the (lack of) exuberance. Bobby, the Camp Director, who is from Texas and dresses like a cowboy complete with cowboy hat, who is also condescending, expressly ordered us to make Mardi Gras masks at Arts & Crafts (the previous day, the graduates, those campers, including me, who have reached the age limit, had to decorate ‘Memory Jars’, which others could drop notes in-sentimental, check/well-meaning yet slightly annoying, check). Darryl helped me; it took literally two minutes, just slapped on a splotchy coat of red paint. Joy.
We did have fun being cynical about though, as a consolation.
Later that day, VIPs were to come. VIPs are by vast majority, donators and sponsors of MDA. They were late. People, campers and counselors alike, milled about, waiting. It was hot, and I ate entirely too much ice cream thanks to some sponsor who is in the dessert industry. Ever heard of Dibs? Little chocolate circle-y things filled with ice cream. There were thirty a container. I didn’t want to look at chocolate again that Wednesday! Eventually most came by one o’clock about, later I learned the sponsor assigned to me, to babysit, never found me. Thank Zeus! Or Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli, Aztec god of the dawn!
Earlier that morning, I nearly forgot to mention, policemen and firefighters from local departments, arrived. There was a firetruck, two patrol cars, and a SWAT Armored Personnel Carrier. Essentially, a friggin’ tank. That was awesome. And, Darryl and Patrick, the other counselor I mentioned, noticed the firearms in the patrol cars. Police carry some serious firepower, wow. But I won’t digress into the U.S. Constitution’s Right to Bear Arms which warrants law enforcement to need to carry assault rifles. Bullets aside, it was good fun. The police and firefighters had a tug of war bout too, which the firefighters won. I guess they were on fire! Haha… ha… ha… okay, not funny. They ate lunch with us-it was interesting to talk to our table’s firefighter. Sadly, a police helicopter was supposed to land on the big grass field, but the pilot apparently decided it was too small to risk a landing. Booooo!
After lunch was the Mardi Gras Parade! My life’s culmination! Serenity personified! Happiness incarnate! I was a float.
Yes, a float. The things I do for the good of mankind. I had a sign on two wooden supports attached to the back of my chair. It was a clown, the sign, emblem, heraldic depiction, whatever. Boy, did it look psychotic. Scary psychotic. In the days that followed, we stored it in our cabin, and several times people were startled by it (for example, at the foot of a certain victim bed when they feel asleep, they woke up to a-shall we say-‘laugh’). Onward goes the parade, all three minutes of it.
Maybe it was more fun than I admit, especially my outfit! I had that Mardi Gras mask, which happened to be painted in red, resembling, that’s right, blood. Mwhahahaha, bloooooood! Evil and stuff. I also managed to get my scalp sunburned the day before, so I borrowed a green do-rag from Rushawn, who is straight up gansterified, or as the cool cats say, ‘gansta’. Do-rags are now popular in the hip hop and rap community, and some African-Americans. My cabin mates said I looked horrific and murderous with my do-rag, mask, and sign, in a cool way. Well, they were laughing at the time too.
Oh, that evening was Casino Night! For the magnificent occasion, I had collected bead necklaces. The whole afternoon preceding the camp’s Little Las Vegas, one could hear me asking ‘Want your beads?’, ‘Can I have your beads?, ‘Need those beads?’, ‘Beads? Beads? Beady beads? Beeeeeads?’ Boredom makes me zany. At Casino Night, I solely played Blackjack, also known as Twenty-one, as I don’t know how to play anything else. Go me. The first dealer cheated. He asked what cards the players needed, and fished them from the deck. Hmm, isn’t that counting cards? After winning an ungodly amount of plastic chips, I went to dealer who adhered to the rules, and proceeded to lose an ungodly amount of plastic chips. Following losing every last chip, I
bide good night to gambling.
I can’t seem to remember what happened on Thursday, beside two things. One was, like the entire week, sitting by the pool, reading a book. Baring the occasion volleyball bouncing from the water into my tray and flinging my book five feet into the air, it was quite calming. I did stare into the clear, blue sky and at the hundred foot tall redwoods for long periods of time, not thinking about really anything at all. The second was a late night mock argument (I believe) between Victor and Tony, none of which I can repeat here for fear of the censors doing me bodily harm, however I will say it cracked most of the cabin. Tears were rolling down my face.
As a quirky little side-note, Westminster Woods has raccoons! Yes, coons! On Thursday night, after the casino and before Tony and Victor's argument, we (Darryl, Ron, maybe Craig, another random camper named Frankie, and I) were returning to the Woods Inn, when we
hear vicious snarling, growling, and clawed feet on the attached deck to the cabin. It scares the bejeebus out of us! Ron throws a plate with cake into the air in surprise. Then, I yell, "Holy crap, there's two $#*!@#% raccoons dueling each other!" There was. Frankie zooms into the cabin and screams that there is a raccoon under my bed. There wasn't. I never knew raccoons could be so... wild.
Oddly, we saw a raccoon mother and her litter outside the closed cabin door later, licking the ground where the frosting from Ron's cake hadn't been cleaned off. What's more is Victor and two counselors saw a raccoon rummaging in a trash can outside, on the deck, it liberated three-quarters of a chocolate bar. Evil, yet adorable.
Friday saw the Graduation Ceremony for the graduates-those who have reached the age limit. We had to wear cheap graduation hats, but worse for poor Rushawn, his mother packed him a cap and gown too. He did not want to wear it, especially when the tassel went MIA; Nathan, his counselor, found a golden ribbon from one of those party streamers on a wand, yet Rushawn refused until the tassel was found. It wasn’t. The ceremony had Pomp and Circumstance playing, speeches from each graduate’s counselor, and enough cheesiness to solve world hunger with grilled cheese sandwiches.
Later, the dance came, and the last night of my last full day at camp, ever. Supposedly, it was a costume ball, so to speak. Therefore I dressed as a pirate. Of course, my outfit was only an ill-fitting eyepatch. Arrr? Said dance went fine. I guess. Went to sleep at two-thirty that morning, thus I zoned out, nearly falling asleep, even over the eardrum-bursting rap and hip hop music, watchin’ the stars when the spot and multicolored rows of pulsating lights didn’t glare them out.
There was an ‘After Party’ that I remember nothing of, was too tired. Thankfully, I finally was allowed enough peace and quiet to sleep by three in the morning. Every morn we were awakened early by an obnoxious trumpeter, Hans, who blared his horn in our (disheveled boys who pathetically protest the noise with groans) sacred domain of awesomeness, and that final morn was no different… beside the wake-up call being even earlier! I think I went through caffeine withdrawal, despite never having had coffee before.
After breakfast, Darryl and I headed to the cabin, an hour before the designated pick-up time. And, my parents, were already there packing my scattered belongings together. Phone numbers and e-mail addresses were exchanged. Farewells given. Pats on the shoulder done. A brief hug or two for good measure. Lastly, more than anything, memories had been made, ones I soon won’t forget.
Below: My cabin!
Here’s to the end of a fifteen year journey, boy was it good.
Quote of the Entry
"Yeah, I'm a criminal. I'm a criminal."
- Rushawn
In past years MDA camp was located in the Santa Cruz Mountains, about forty-five minutes away from home, through miles of twisting roads and awe-inspiring views of the rugged, emerald landscape from dizzying heights. Nestled amid colossal redwoods, framed by blue sky and sunlit beams filtering through the high branches, Camp Harmon had an endearing charm.
This year, Harmon was only a memory, I was at Westminster Woods. The drive was longer at two-and-a-half-hours, yet worth the time, the scenery did not disappoint. We (my parents and I) left at half past noon, the van crammed with a portable lift and luggage-more as both my parents were to vacation twenty or so minutes from Westminster. Of course, my mom had to be fastidious, writing Sam Fogleman on each item of mine. It’s a wonder she didn’t write Sam Fogleman on my forehead.
Ah, so the drive. It was foggy that afternoon approaching San Francisco. Miles off, one could see the urban sprawl across the bay blanketed in fog. Misty condensation wetted the windshields as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, hundreds of walkers and bicycle riders on both sides, calm waters many feet below. The streets of San Fran yielded to more rural roadways, trees, quaint houses, and old looking buildings about. It’s strange how I have lived in California for so long and rarely see the varied landscape. It was… refreshing.
Well, arrived at the camp close to three o’clock in the afternoon. Almost immediately after driving - humble belongings in tow - to the final registration desk, a few folks, counselors mostly, greeted me. One such counselor was my previous, Ashwin. It was pleasant feeling to see familiar faces right off, ones I hadn’t seen in a year. I soon met my ‘counselor’ (I want to emphasize the term as I believe I counseled him at least as much as he counseled me, call it a ‘symbiotic counselor relationship’, it’s scientific sounding). His name was Darryl, a twenty-one year old Filipino, who goes to college in San Diego. Introductions were made. We then headed to the cabin, a converted club house, called the Woods Inn.
With every visit to camp, in the last five or so years, my dad and I have had to show the counselors how to do a million and one things, and then some; there’s how to take on and off my foot braces, my tray, my footrests, how to put my armrests back, get me dressed without forcing me to be a contortionist (Circus du Soleil has never offered me a job), arranging no less than five pillows for sleeping (one to prop my back up, another to prop the pillow which my arm rests on up, the pillow my arm rests on, a fourth between my legs, and a fifth for my head), and even more. I’ve told my dad we needed to make a video-An MDA Camp Counselor’s Training Tutorial: How to Not Get a Manslaughter Conviction-to streamline the process. It could have that cheesy kind of happy-go-lucky narrator and diagrams. Who doesn’t love diagrams? But, sadly, no video will every likely be made. In any case, Darryl was quite competent and didn’t manage to accidently murder (get the joke?) me.
My cabin consisted of six campers, me included, and seven counselors. Camper wise there was Ron, Rushawn, Victor, Tony, and Jerry.
For no reason whatsoever I’ll switch to the present tense: Ron is a tall, African-American high schooler, soft-spoken, kind, and the type of personality which is almost impossible to not like. Rushawn, another African-American, is eighteen, but due to what form of muscular dystrophy he has, has the body and mind of, maybe, an eight year old-he listens to rap, comments on girl’s booties, thinks everything is gross or nasty, and it seemed liked by all. Victor is a vulgar Hispanic brat-err, kid, who is not very personable, indifferent, and probably is good under it all. Tony, a MDA camp veteran same as me, is an eighteen year old of Italian heritage, with a personality similar to Ron, except, well, louder and more talkative. Jerry, twenty one, has been in my cabin for the last four years, and is one of the gentlest guys I know, hardly speaks, but seems always seems to be observing.
As for counselors, there was Darryl (shown below), my ex-counselor Ashwin, along with Nathan, Jackson, Arty, Patrick (who we called Pat), and Craig. Great people, the lot of ‘em.
That first night there was a campfire, as per usual. Except, the path to the site was steep, with a capital S, a 50 degree slope, an uneven slope at that. And there were roots in the way. Someone really thought ahead. At least wooden planks were laid over it later to create less of a death trap. There was smores, but to get the marshmellowed-graham crackered-chocolatey scrumptious delectable deliciousness the cabin had to do a cheer. Yeah, I was a bit apathetic at first. But for smores, I melt! And, our cheer was the epitome of… cheerfuness?
Here it is:
“Whatcha doing?
Just chillin’ at the Woods Inn!
Who you with?
Ron,
Rushawn,
Victor,
Jerry,
Tony
And Saaaaaaaaaam!”
We got smores. Yet, I didn’t memorize the order of names, and BSed it, saying ‘Da-nah, da-nah, da-nah, da-nah, and Saaaaaaaam!’ or only ‘and… aam’.
The next day I don’t remember a lot of. The first night is always bad, as in I slept poorly as Darryl was still getting the hang of positioning the pillows. I was tired therefore. I’m reasonably sure there was much relaxation involved, possibly napping.
Okay, another reason might’ve contributed to the day being blurry at best. The last activity was the day was Movie Night, at eight o’clock, the film being Beowulf. Before the movie began, I had used the restroom. The restroom is thirty feet above the main path, a ramp, about thirty feet in length leading to it. Coming out the restrooms there is a turn, shortly after two slabs of concrete, which were uneven, maybe an inch and a half, meaning there is a drop. As it was dark, and as I was tired, I forgot to either go slow or circumvent the drop by going off-road for a second. Doom on me.
I went off the drop, which jolted me. The jolt sent me into a forward position. With my hand stuck on the joystick. Stuck forward. Think: foot stuck on the accelerator. A few colorful phrases shot through my skull, me barreling forth, unable to slow down. BAM! I slammed straight into a thick wood railing at the top of the ramp, full speed. My footrests leapt up a concrete base, and my right leg-above the ankle and below the knee-took the brunt of the impact. It hurt. It hurt a lot. It still hurts and my foot is still swollen.
Though, it could have been many times worse. If I hadn’t been going straight when I shot forward, and was a few feet more to the left, I’d of gone off a ledge with a ten to fifteen foot (~three to five meters) drop. Ouch.
On Wednesday, my foot and leg aching still, it was Mardi Gras! Well, that was the theme. Woohoo. Note the (lack of) exuberance. Bobby, the Camp Director, who is from Texas and dresses like a cowboy complete with cowboy hat, who is also condescending, expressly ordered us to make Mardi Gras masks at Arts & Crafts (the previous day, the graduates, those campers, including me, who have reached the age limit, had to decorate ‘Memory Jars’, which others could drop notes in-sentimental, check/well-meaning yet slightly annoying, check). Darryl helped me; it took literally two minutes, just slapped on a splotchy coat of red paint. Joy.
We did have fun being cynical about though, as a consolation.
Later that day, VIPs were to come. VIPs are by vast majority, donators and sponsors of MDA. They were late. People, campers and counselors alike, milled about, waiting. It was hot, and I ate entirely too much ice cream thanks to some sponsor who is in the dessert industry. Ever heard of Dibs? Little chocolate circle-y things filled with ice cream. There were thirty a container. I didn’t want to look at chocolate again that Wednesday! Eventually most came by one o’clock about, later I learned the sponsor assigned to me, to babysit, never found me. Thank Zeus! Or Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli, Aztec god of the dawn!
Earlier that morning, I nearly forgot to mention, policemen and firefighters from local departments, arrived. There was a firetruck, two patrol cars, and a SWAT Armored Personnel Carrier. Essentially, a friggin’ tank. That was awesome. And, Darryl and Patrick, the other counselor I mentioned, noticed the firearms in the patrol cars. Police carry some serious firepower, wow. But I won’t digress into the U.S. Constitution’s Right to Bear Arms which warrants law enforcement to need to carry assault rifles. Bullets aside, it was good fun. The police and firefighters had a tug of war bout too, which the firefighters won. I guess they were on fire! Haha… ha… ha… okay, not funny. They ate lunch with us-it was interesting to talk to our table’s firefighter. Sadly, a police helicopter was supposed to land on the big grass field, but the pilot apparently decided it was too small to risk a landing. Booooo!
After lunch was the Mardi Gras Parade! My life’s culmination! Serenity personified! Happiness incarnate! I was a float.
Yes, a float. The things I do for the good of mankind. I had a sign on two wooden supports attached to the back of my chair. It was a clown, the sign, emblem, heraldic depiction, whatever. Boy, did it look psychotic. Scary psychotic. In the days that followed, we stored it in our cabin, and several times people were startled by it (for example, at the foot of a certain victim bed when they feel asleep, they woke up to a-shall we say-‘laugh’). Onward goes the parade, all three minutes of it.
Maybe it was more fun than I admit, especially my outfit! I had that Mardi Gras mask, which happened to be painted in red, resembling, that’s right, blood. Mwhahahaha, bloooooood! Evil and stuff. I also managed to get my scalp sunburned the day before, so I borrowed a green do-rag from Rushawn, who is straight up gansterified, or as the cool cats say, ‘gansta’. Do-rags are now popular in the hip hop and rap community, and some African-Americans. My cabin mates said I looked horrific and murderous with my do-rag, mask, and sign, in a cool way. Well, they were laughing at the time too.
Oh, that evening was Casino Night! For the magnificent occasion, I had collected bead necklaces. The whole afternoon preceding the camp’s Little Las Vegas, one could hear me asking ‘Want your beads?’, ‘Can I have your beads?, ‘Need those beads?’, ‘Beads? Beads? Beady beads? Beeeeeads?’ Boredom makes me zany. At Casino Night, I solely played Blackjack, also known as Twenty-one, as I don’t know how to play anything else. Go me. The first dealer cheated. He asked what cards the players needed, and fished them from the deck. Hmm, isn’t that counting cards? After winning an ungodly amount of plastic chips, I went to dealer who adhered to the rules, and proceeded to lose an ungodly amount of plastic chips. Following losing every last chip, I
bide good night to gambling.
I can’t seem to remember what happened on Thursday, beside two things. One was, like the entire week, sitting by the pool, reading a book. Baring the occasion volleyball bouncing from the water into my tray and flinging my book five feet into the air, it was quite calming. I did stare into the clear, blue sky and at the hundred foot tall redwoods for long periods of time, not thinking about really anything at all. The second was a late night mock argument (I believe) between Victor and Tony, none of which I can repeat here for fear of the censors doing me bodily harm, however I will say it cracked most of the cabin. Tears were rolling down my face.
As a quirky little side-note, Westminster Woods has raccoons! Yes, coons! On Thursday night, after the casino and before Tony and Victor's argument, we (Darryl, Ron, maybe Craig, another random camper named Frankie, and I) were returning to the Woods Inn, when we
hear vicious snarling, growling, and clawed feet on the attached deck to the cabin. It scares the bejeebus out of us! Ron throws a plate with cake into the air in surprise. Then, I yell, "Holy crap, there's two $#*!@#% raccoons dueling each other!" There was. Frankie zooms into the cabin and screams that there is a raccoon under my bed. There wasn't. I never knew raccoons could be so... wild.
Oddly, we saw a raccoon mother and her litter outside the closed cabin door later, licking the ground where the frosting from Ron's cake hadn't been cleaned off. What's more is Victor and two counselors saw a raccoon rummaging in a trash can outside, on the deck, it liberated three-quarters of a chocolate bar. Evil, yet adorable.
Friday saw the Graduation Ceremony for the graduates-those who have reached the age limit. We had to wear cheap graduation hats, but worse for poor Rushawn, his mother packed him a cap and gown too. He did not want to wear it, especially when the tassel went MIA; Nathan, his counselor, found a golden ribbon from one of those party streamers on a wand, yet Rushawn refused until the tassel was found. It wasn’t. The ceremony had Pomp and Circumstance playing, speeches from each graduate’s counselor, and enough cheesiness to solve world hunger with grilled cheese sandwiches.
Later, the dance came, and the last night of my last full day at camp, ever. Supposedly, it was a costume ball, so to speak. Therefore I dressed as a pirate. Of course, my outfit was only an ill-fitting eyepatch. Arrr? Said dance went fine. I guess. Went to sleep at two-thirty that morning, thus I zoned out, nearly falling asleep, even over the eardrum-bursting rap and hip hop music, watchin’ the stars when the spot and multicolored rows of pulsating lights didn’t glare them out.
There was an ‘After Party’ that I remember nothing of, was too tired. Thankfully, I finally was allowed enough peace and quiet to sleep by three in the morning. Every morn we were awakened early by an obnoxious trumpeter, Hans, who blared his horn in our (disheveled boys who pathetically protest the noise with groans) sacred domain of awesomeness, and that final morn was no different… beside the wake-up call being even earlier! I think I went through caffeine withdrawal, despite never having had coffee before.
After breakfast, Darryl and I headed to the cabin, an hour before the designated pick-up time. And, my parents, were already there packing my scattered belongings together. Phone numbers and e-mail addresses were exchanged. Farewells given. Pats on the shoulder done. A brief hug or two for good measure. Lastly, more than anything, memories had been made, ones I soon won’t forget.
Below: My cabin!
Here’s to the end of a fifteen year journey, boy was it good.
Quote of the Entry
"Yeah, I'm a criminal. I'm a criminal."
- Rushawn