Monday, June 27, 2011

First Time Going to Camp

I recently started reading a new blog called Sometimes Sweet. Danielle, who used to be an high school English teacher, is going to be doing prompts for "journal entries," which you write in your blog. Like in creative writing class in school. I think it's such a fabulous idea!

I am excited about these new assignments because although I am already an avid journaler (that's not a word according to spell check I guess), I rarely actually take the time to write down stories from my life. I mostly just journal about feelings and stuff. You know. That's what journals are for.  

I always loved writing stories - I actually wanted to be an author for awhile as I was growing up. In fact, I spent a good chunk of my adolescence writing a story about a girl who had a talking rocking chair named Henry. But I never finished it. Sad day for everyone because it was EXCELLENT. 

Anywayz. Although I don't expect anything I write here to be excellent (how can you beat a talking rocking chair?) I am excited to have an excuse to write some stuff down. The prompt today was "first." I thought I might write about the first time I went off to camp. As a kid I went to a camp in Wisconsin called Camp Wapo. The first time I went I was in 3rd grade, for just a weekend long trip.

I was always a pretty independent kid. I am the oldest, and was usually not afraid to try new things. On my first day of kindergarten I was so excited to get on the bus that my bus driver had to call me back up to the front of the bus so that my mom could tearfully take a picture. Camp was no different. I was really excited and not apprehensive. But as my mom and I pulled out of the driveway in our huge blue Aerostar minivan, about to embark on our journey to good ol' Wisconsin, I turned around in my seat to see my dad galloping across the yard with my three year old sister in his arms, a smile in his eyes and in his eyebrows, waving to me with all his might. And in that moment, I didn't want to go to camp. I wanted to stay home with my dad.

I have lots of memories of that first camp experience. Tie dying a shirt and being disappointed with how much white space I ended up with. Buying those little pastel colored lollipops for ten cents that taste like giant smarties on a stick. The homesick girl in my cabin who called her mom all the time. The whole camp shutting down to look for me because I'd forgotten to sign out of the beach area when I left and they thought that I'd drowned. Actually I don't think that last one happened during my first year but it's worth mentioning because it definitely happened one of the years and man was it embarrassing. And the whole camp knew it was me. Horrifying, actually.

Camp was mostly good though...honest!

But the thing I remember the most clearly from that weekend is the perfect image I have in my head of my dad running across the lawn to see me off. For whatever reason, a dear memory.

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