Camp is a 19 year old who gets nauseous at the sight of vomit sitting on the bathroom floor holding the hair away from the toilet bowl for her 10 year old camper who made herself so homesick she threw up.
Camp is Saturday morning, when that same 10 year old clings to that same 19 year old and refuses to go home. There are no lakes at home, or horses, or 19 year old big sister/moms.
Camp is the 15 year old who gets nervous looking over the railing at the mall who chooses to climb a 30 foot telephone pole and step out onto a cable no thicker than his thumb.
Camp is the boy from the city who’s lying on the grass for the first time looking at the stars.
Camp is the only child who daydreams about having a little sister but instead gets to have seven (almost) twin sisters for a week.
Camp is the six year old who is so proud of her tie dye that her joy leaks out in squeals and giggles and a grin wider than should fit on her tiny round face.
Camp is the 16 year old who realizes that the younger boys are wearing their hats backwards because he does.
Camp is jumping in the lake, opening your eyes underwater, and feeling like you have discovered a new world, a world where you could live forever.
Camp is the man who feels like Peter Pan as he looks at the cabin he stayed in 25 years ago and drops off his son for his first summer.
Camp is making it up as you go along merging with 100 year old tradition supplemented with the schedule you wrote on a napkin sprinkled with a dash of the outline you forgot to print off the computer.
Camp is a game called Runscream, a game that you are absolutely positively certain means nothing, could teach your campers nothing, a game that is a time waster while you wait for your Real activities.
Camp is realizing that there is no such thing as Real and Not Real. That there is only Love and Not Love.
Camp is Love.