It’s my thirteenth summer at camp. I started as a camper way back in 2003, as a rising fourth-grader who had yet to get her first haircut. Since then, my whole life has boiled down to one microcosmic week each year. Every June, I enter my fishbowl. Every June, our family gets a little closer and a little stranger.
I’ve made most of my best friends here. We’ve swum upstream through the counselor-in-training program and become fully fledged authorities, lording over the tiny brats like we swore we’d never do. Such is the way of the world.
I managed to extricate myself for a few minutes yesterday to take photos down by the pond. If the facilities are mediocre (I’m convinced my bed will give me herpes), the landscape more than compensates.