I’m at camp. Like, a legitimate camp. With three square meals a day, campfire singing, and competitive four square.
I can’t lie, being served meals at 8 a.m., noon, and 6:30 p.m. in a communal setting is a perk that my everyday life suffers from. At the table for each meal is a pitcher of sweet tea and water, along with eight plastic cups for the eight-chaired table.
At the evening meal is our foot-long loaf of freshly made bread. A salad bar, main dishes—meat like tilapia, barbecue sandwich, or hamburger ham—with sides of macaroni and cheese, asparagus, tomato bisque soup, and black-eyed peas.
The highlight of showing up at the dinner bell, self-serving buffet style except with the main dishes being served by a lunch lady, and bringing a plate to be hand-washed by not me, is heavenly.
I’ve realized this might be my jam. So much so that I’d prioritize future vacations to do similar adventures.
With 468 acres, and established for decades, this camp is set up for free-ranging kids. Evelyn’s frequently not in Dave and my presence and is instead in her swimsuit at the creek, taking herself with her new best friend up to the dining hall, or coloring with our friend’s kid in their cabin.
The cherry on top is we don’t have to tent camp.
At check-in, the lady in the camp store thought us courageous for tent camping in 90-plus-degree weather. The anticipation of the buggy, sweatiness without facilities for who knows how long didn’t seem courageous, and although I’d preferred to not, the rooms had been sold out. Besides, I was mostly drawn to the camp in order to stoke the flame of blossoming friendships. So the cost, although nothing I was whoop-de-dooing about, was part of a debt I was willing to take on.
I imagine my “It was the only thing available” destabilized the camp director’s thought that tenting it was our preference.
So her, “Well, turns out there are cabins available,” and the anticipatory hip pain of lying on the floor, of walking a football field away for a restroom in the middle of the night—all the discomfort skidded to a stop.
Cabins?! Available?! Sign me mother effing up.
Setting the air conditioning to 70? A bed?! Bathroom and shower. Actual solid doors. All within feet?
I felt like I’d bought the keys and paid off a house all of my own. Like a windfall of a trust fund hit my bank account.
Like, I don’t know freaking what, but the reality shift from a decent to a magical vacation happened immediately.
And here I am, a quiet moment with a tight-drummed belly. Seated in a rocking chair on the front porch of our cabin, listening to the babbling brook just below me.
I just told Dave this is the most nonreligious religious camp I’ve been to. Just a bunch of hippies, I told him.
He said, “Yeah, it’s pretty nice.”
Love, Jaclynn
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