Jesus, Take the Tires Instead
‘Twas a dark and stormy night…
No really.
A warm rain lashed the warped windows of the two room cabin precariously perched on a sloping hillside nestled deep in the Appalachian mountains. This well worn and poorly insulated building housed twenty bunk beds, three mice, seventy-nine spiders, eighteen pre-adolescent girls and one adult for two weeks one magical time a year.
This was Summer Camp.
But not just any summer camp. THIS was christian summer camp. And it was my first year as a camp counselor. I was 19 and fresh off my second year away at college, where I had so far learned nothing. Which, coincidentally, is all I ever needed to know to prepare me for this experience. I had been an inmate at this particular camp eight years earlier, which I fondly remember as the week in which I learned how to properly cut off denim pants into shorts and that lice are absolutely something to avoid in the future. In addition to lice, I took home a medal for wearing a modest swimsuit while transporting a greased up watermelon from one side of the pool to the other side the fastest. And discovered watching two horses mate is, indeed, something you can accidentally see even when you’re trespassing on Jesus’ property.
Given that information, you may be asking yourself, why did I agree to return? Was it voluntary? Bottom line: I was naive and addicted to belonging. So when an older girl named Lauren with perfect hair and a Mitsubishi Eclipse, who spent consecutive summers as a camp counselor, asked if I’d like to join for a summer, I said yes. Yes of course. I mean, of course. OF COOOUURRSE-ah. Hahaha. *wipes sweat from upper lip*
So in June of 2005, I showed up to CCO (camp counselor orientation) with low expectations, high anxiety, a small duffel bag and a big, fake smile. By the time I was choking down a bologna sandwich and 4 ounces of holy water on day one, I had already fallen into a scalding pit of shredded tires and my new outdoor sandals had burned two blistering holes in the sides of my feet. An inauspicious start to say the least. I had already been at this whole Johnita the Baptist charade for two weeks before the introduction of kids into this wilderness, and I had already almost forgotten how sleep worked. The second full night with kids brought a torrential thunderstorm rolling across the mountains and plains obscured by trailers, and I was ready.
Oh wait sorry. No. What I mean to say was, I was NOT ready. Not at all ready for what else came rolling down legs, out of noses and down cheeks, all of which left my nerves as frayed as the dusty cover of the bible I borrowed from my parent’s attic.
9:45pm: Lights out.
10:29pm: Shushing sounds in the dark. Giggling. Someone farted.
10:36pm: The storm starts.
11:06pm: Awakened by a nose bleed from bunk 7
11:49pm: First bedwetter.
12:08am: Someone is quietly humming “Amazing Grace”
12:55am: Second bedwetter.
1:02am: Thunder. Lightning. Screaming. Repeat.
1:33am: Awakened by second nose bleed from bunk 13. And a lost tooth
1:47am: Tooth found (and a charm? Who lost an orca charm? DID ANYONE LOSE A CHA--)
2:12am: More Screaming. Mouse committed suicide.
2:17am: Mouse posthumously named “Darby” and a sock was sacrificed as a burial shroud.
2:27am: Prayers for the mouse's soul and his family (DO YOU THINK HE HAS KIDS?!).
2:28am: Tearful group hug. Emotional well-wishes and ‘goodnights’.
2:58am: Third bedwetter.
At this point, the bowling ball masquerading as the camp maintenance man has turned off his phone. Fresh out of spare plastic covered mattresses and cares. He has made enough trips up and down the hill where our cabin was situated to assure a second helping of pork chops at God’s table.
3:17am: 5 girls crying. No, 6.
3:41am: Cabin Clown in bunk 3 fakes nosebleed using partially dampened red kool aid. Causes panic. Shortens my life by at least two years. Kool aid confiscated. Garbled scolding.
4:14am: My alarm is set for 4:45
4:43am: Camp Counselor crying.
The sun eventually came up a few hours later and we all pledged allegiance to a rain-soaked flag. My cabin team lost all races, watermelon rescues, and volleyball competitions. We trust-fell into the pit of tires more than once and I somehow resisted intentionally falling in front of a set still connected to a car (save me a seat, “Darby”). Ultimately, leather bookmarks and postcards were stamped and marshmallows were still roasted (though water intake was purposefully LIM-I-TED). And at the end of those two weeks, we were all a bit closer for having weathered the weather, our mutinous bodies and the devils in each of us.
Oh and I still got lice. Thanks Gretchen.