Why is it that that there will always be a stubborn connection between campgrounds and graffiti? There seems to be something rooted in our cultural DNA that makes us want to commemorate our visits to nature by carving our names all over it. Or the summer camp equivalent: gouging our names into dining hall tables, or drawing on the beams of our bunks and tents with lavender ball point pens.

Camp directors and counselors learn quickly that this mindless property destruction is somehow instinctive at camp. It has a little to do with the general shabby state of camp property to begin with, which can invite disrespect. And it also has to do with a recognition in campers that the circumstances of summer camp are inherently temporary, and that memories made in this place are not designed to last without active preservation. One’s passage through this place, no matter how momentous, will be forgotten once one leaves. The wind and rain will wash away one’s footprints. All things on this earth are fated to change and fade, let her paint an inch thick to this end she will come, make her laugh at that… and so forth.

The philosophical weight of this can be heavy for a child. Also, there are times at camp when one happens to have a magic marker in hand and one is bored.

At our camp we would combat both of these realities by turning a set of campers loose each year on a few of the unpainted wooden benches of the dining hall. Our dining hall was big, and there were a lot of benches. Even after more than forty years of letting campers paint a few benches each year, most of the benches were still blank.

Also, at the horse barn, we designated one wooden wall panel of the tack shed each summer to be doodled on by anyone who felt the urge. A black sharpie hung from a string thumb-tacked to the wall, ready for a summer of uninhibited scrawling. Swears were gently discouraged. The only rule: stay on that year’s panel.

What did we say on that wall? Only the most important things, things guaranteed to represent us at our best to future generations:

Bun-Bun you so fat. Jersey rulz!!!! She aint fat she fluffy. I don’t think you can evn knw t….Binky was here. Australia!!! Beauty = my baby boy! I love Indonesia forever. Camp sux. All outward wisdom yields to that within, whereof no creed nor canon holds the key. Beauty is not your’se, jerk. I love you Muffin. Hey I’m writing on the wallllll!!!!!!

Plus many, many repetitions of the year and of the exact date the words were written. It’s interesting to note how graffitied comments, like everything else, are influenced by trends that change with time. But mainly I’m glad somebody thought of this plan early enough to keep the back wall of the tack shed aesthetically harmonious. Year after year, the only color scrawled on the pine wall is black. The sharpie line thickness never changes. The exclamation points are persistent and evenly distributed. The effect is subdued, therefore, and continuous, and fades into the general ambiance of the tack shed interior. As one sits alone on an overturned orange crate polishing a saddle, one is surrounded by the muted hum of generations of predecessors, their voices preserved, their company ever present, quiet, constant, murmuring, alive.

- Erin Sweeney

Summer Camp Riding Instructor Rule Number One reads as follows:

We do not race the horses.

Actually this is not Rule Number One, not exactly. As it turns out, the list of rules for aspiring camp riding instructors is the kind of list that cannot reasonably contain every rule, and thus there will always be a few rules that one must break in order to discover that they are on the list.

The summer that Tango, MooMoo and I discovered this particular rule, we were experiencing something called the Dunning-Kruger effect, the state of not knowing the full extend of what one doesn’t know—of being thwarted in one’s climb out of ignorance by not recognizing one’s ignorance in the first place.

The three of us were employed as the assistant (in-training) riding instructors at our summer camp that year. We were about seventeen at that time and had on average about ten years of serious horseback riding experience behind us. Since constantly carrying young campers around can have a corrosive effect on a horse’s sensitivity to a rider’s signals, it was part of our job to saddle up three of the horses each day and “school” them for an hour or so, or remind them of the standard expectations and communications that pass between rider and ridden.

We would do this around four in the afternoon. As a trio, we would saddle up our designated horses in need of schooling and then disappear for a while. With no supervision beyond ourselves, the six of us would head off into the wilderness to find fallen logs to jump, rivers to cross, fields in which to execute fancy maneuvers, and long trails on which we would remind the ridden that it wasn’t always so irritating or confusing to be a trail horse after all. We were trusted in two important areas: Our horseback riding skill and our general sense of judgment. Both were put to the test occasionally (why else be required to spend a year as a trainee?) and both were sometimes called into question.

The horrified riding director discovered our impromptu Kentucky Derbies on a fateful afternoon when a group of children had gathered at the edge of our racing meadow to watch and cheer. Up until that day, weeks had gone by with at least two races taking place every afternoon. (Winner of the first round battling the third.)

In our innocence, we would pair up at the base of a hill of flowers in a certain endless field. When the flag dropped, we would charge up the hill and around a bend, then go thundering down the edge of the forest for a few hundred yards to the finish line.

The horses were not trained for this level of exertion, unfortunately. We could easily have injured them. But in the ignorance and heedlessness of the moment, it seemed clear to us that the horses loved this. We rarely saw them so focused and excited. And most of them never ran so fast or so beautifully, even when we prodded them up to speed around the safe perimeters of the corral.

To us, this was the best moment of an already pretty great day—after all it was summer, and we were young, and none of life’s serious heartbreaks had touched us yet. We were at camp! And as for the horses, they had been plodding around in a ring for too much of the day and too much of the year and far too much of their lives. They wanted to toss their heads in the air and snort at each other and race! They seemed quite clear in their communication of this to us.

As so often happens in this world, the end of ignorance is the end of something else as well.

I had just dropped the flag and watched MooMoo go flying off on Dancer, side by side with Tango on a dun colored quarter horse. The children at the edge of the field cheered for one team or the other. As I watched, Dancer fell behind by a few steps and then seemed to rise to the occasion, lowering her head and throwing her heart into every stride. She had just caught up with the dun horse and was about to pull ahead, inspiring a miniature roar among her fans, when I heard someone speak behind me.

“Seahorse!”
“Yes?”
I turned around.
“What… the hell….?”

The riding director stood on the ground glaring up at me. At twenty-four, she was the oldest and most responsible person in a five mile radius. After a quick moment of confusion, she looked angrier than I had ever seen her.

And that was that—the end of our tournament series. It was the closest any of our horses would ever get to the triple crown.

It was for the best. There’s no doubt about this. But as we endured the blistering wrath of the director (which lasted for days), we grew under her tutelage. And we learned how to take better care of those who were under our own charge in turn. We became better stewards to our campers and the animals who depended on us to act in their best interest. In so doing, we moved from our current level of stupidity to the next level up, where the adventures we’d get into would be of a type one degree smarter than our current adventures.

These adventures would not end of course. Twenty years later they still haven’t–I’ll be learning all my life, I hope, from the stupid things I do. But I’ll always remember that field of Queen Anne’s lace, and the way the ground shook under the hooves of our friends, and the way the little birds fled from the stampeding path of our recklessness and our joy.

- Erin Sweeney

1) Do you spear your marshmallow and then hold it carefully at a perfect distance from the flames, rotating it slowly until it takes on a lovely golden hue like a perfect slice of toast from the perfect breakfast buffet they serve in heaven? That’s so nice. Your marshmallows are perfect. Every time! You will probably excel at everything you set your mind to, and you were probably the valedictorian, or at least the salutatorian, of your graduating class of college (or kindergarten, depending on how old you are). You will do well and go far. But remember: Pleasing authority figures and conforming to institutional expectations will not provide all the nourishment you need in this life. Push yourself to take more risks. This is how we grow.

2) Do you light your marshmallow on fire? And then do you blow it out and eat the delicious burned part, pulling it away from the raw, melty white goo underneath the blackened crust? If so, you are a person of substance. You are unafraid to challenge conventional ideas of “beauty” and correctness. You are a risk taker. You speak directly and you are decisive. Sometimes you make mistakes, but they only make you stronger. Just remember: The burned part is really not very good for you. Try to limit yourself to fifty or so of these at a time.

3) Do you skewer five marshmallows on the end of your stick at once and then toast them and then shove them all into your mouth simultaneously? You are a person who tries to get the most out of every minute of every day. You live fully. You have a passion for life and also for marshmallows. But remember: we only brought ten bags of marshmallows. And now the store is closed. So when these are gone, they’re gone. Slow down. Here– fill up on graham crackers for a while.

4) Will you refuse a marshmallow, no matter how well toasted, if it isn’t handed to you in s’more-form? Are you a smore-only marshmallow eater? If so, it is clear that you prefer the finer things in life and will not settle for anything less than the best. You are a person of discriminating taste. You know what you want. You know what you like. You are a connoisseur. You will be very happy when you are old enough to start in on yellowfin sashimi and Château Latour. But remember: If you want to live the high life, you will need to stay in school and study hard. I’m not kidding. If you intend to slack off, you may as well accustom yourself now to scratchy linens, cheap coffee, and plain marshmallows.

5) Do you accidentally let your marshmallow fall off your stick and into the fire where it becomes lost forever? Do you do this often? Keep trying. Eventually this whole process will come together for you. And when it does, the moment will be all the sweeter because you had to work a little harder for it. Here’s a new marshmallow, a fresh one. Just let the old one go.

6) Are you so busy helping children toast their marshmallows without poking each other or getting burned by the fire that hours have gone by and even though you have a stick, you haven’t used it to toast a single marshmallow of your own? If so, you are probably a counselor, and I like you. Later after the children are all in their sleeping bags, we can hang out by the smoldering coals of the burned down fire and eat all the leftover chocolate. No, it isn’t gone—not all of it. I brought a secret stash. What did you say? Oh…they found my secret stash? Well. That’s okay. I guess. I like you, anyway. That’s all that matters.

- Erin Sweeney

The post-camp wind down can be an important time in a child’s life, and it also presents a valuable opportunity to help your child with his or her emotional and intellectual development. In the hours and days just after camp, memories are fresh, feelings are fresh, and the details of home stand out with a sharper clarity than they have before or will again.

The process starts during the first hour or so after the homecoming. Ask your child to tell you everything that happened—from the moment he or she first got off the bus. You may enjoy the tale told at this level of detail, but having your child perform this exercise serves additional purpose. It helps to remind her of thoughts and feelings she had when she first left, which will be otherwise forgotten and overshadowed by the ensuing adventures. Also, it helps her separate the events of each day, which may become more difficult as time goes by. It won’t be long before each game, thunderstorm, and swimming lesson blur into the events of a single long day.

As the next few days go by, if you can stand it, allow and encourage your child to keep singing the songs she learned at camp. Songs can sometimes be as evocative to memory as scents. Even after the last t-shirt is washed and the smell of camp is gone for good, your child may still keep those touching, silly and beautiful songs with her forever. But only if she remembers the words.

If she’s interested in doing so, help your child make a scrapbook incorporating the pictures she took at camp, the names of her tent mates, friendship bracelets she may have made, shells and snippets she may have collected, etc. When finished, this may not be a brilliant work of art, but you might be surprised by how much it means to her later. A child’s memory is a strange thing—events and names that are astonishing in their power and indelibility can vanish in less than a year without leaving a trace. Decades later, she may find that she wants those memories back. Help her keep them within reach.

Many of the small members of our ecosystem– the minor players who inhabit our fields and forests– have developed outsized reputations that are not always deserved. We’ve been taught to cringe at the mere sound of their names, but this is not always necessary. Let’s take a minute to place some of these scary characters in perspective.

Poison Ivy:
Poison ivy can cause cases of contact dermatitis ranging from mild to severe in about 70 percent of the population. But for the other thirty percent, the plant is a simple and honest citizen of the underbrush, meaning no harm and occupying a necessary niche in our complex biosphere.

For those who are susceptible, poison ivy is easily identifiable by its characteristic three leaves extending from a single midpoint. Imagine three football shaped leaves about the size of a bay leaf (on the youngest and smallest plants) to person’s hand (on the largest.) Poison ivy looses its leaves in the winter, but oil can still reside in its dormant vines which are easily recognized by their fur. Avoid the three leaves and steer clear of the soft furry vine climbing that fence or tree and you should avoid a few days of uncomfortable itching.

Ticks:
Like poison ivy, ticks are simple citizens just trying to make a living. Big dog ticks are fairly easy to spot—at their smallest, they’re about the size of this capital letter “O”. When you see a dog tick making its way across the sleeve of your shirt, take a look at it. What is its stripe pattern? Lady ticks wear necklaces—a curved stripe from one side of the ticks head to the other. And gentlemen ticks wear suspenders—two straight parallel lines down the back. If the tick has made its way to bare skin and taken a bite, remove it carefully with tweezers, doing your best to remove both the head and body intact.

Tiny deer ticks are the more sinister characters that can occasionally carry Lyme’s disease. Not all ticks are infected with the disease, and not every infected tick will successfully pass the disease on to a host.* Deer ticks can be harder to find, so the best method of dealing with them is prevention. In high deer tick areas, wear long sleeves and pants, preferably in light colors.

Snakes:
Only four primary species of snakes in America are poisonous, and only two of those (the rattlesnake and the copperhead) live in Pennsylvania.* Like most animals, snakes are far more frightened of you than you are of them. Snake avoidance is most important in rocky areas where snakes may be sleeping or sunning themselves and may not have time to get out of the way of your feet. This also applies to hands when you are climbing a rocky surface– Take care when choosing hand and footholds. If you see a snake of any kind on the trail, observe it with respect and leave it in peace.

Respecting these and all forest dwellers can increase our appreciation of them, and by extension, our appreciation of the remaining wild areas around us. Protect yourself from the harm they cause, but don’t let them keep you hiding indoors. After all, the woods belong to all of us!

*The American Lyme Disease Foundation reports the following:

Less than 5% of adult ticks south of Maryland are infected with B. burgdorferi, while up to 50% are infected in hyperendemic areas (areas with a high tick infection rate) of the northeast. The tick infection rate in Pacific coastal states is between 2% and 4%.

* The Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission reports the following:

The three venomous species of snakes in Pennsylvania are the northern copperhead, eastern massasauga rattlesnake, and timber rattlesnake. Reports of venomous snakebites in Pennsylvania are rare.

- Erin Sweeney

I have yet to meet a parent who doesn’t struggle with getting their children to eat better. What that means, exactly, varies from family to family, but in general parents seem to be aiming for less sugar and fat, and more fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. We all know that parents and care providers play the biggest role in the way kids eat—we buy, prepare, and serve food, and in doing so, pass our own food habits on to our children. Those habits take root early in life. In fact, a recent study published in the Archives of Pediatrics and Adolescent Medicine has shown that it happens as early as age two.

A lot of us are worried about childhood obesity right now. Every time you turn on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine there’s a story somewhere about childhood obesity or someone who is trying to help kids eat better. We all want our kids to be healthy and happy. The recipe for that seems simple—good, healthy food, and lots of exercise, just like the old days, right? The trouble is, since so many of us who now have small children grew up in the age of convenience and fast food, most of us have no idea what good healthy food is or how to go about creating it for ourselves. If we don’t know, how will they?

Fortunately there’s a kids’ culinary movement afoot, and believe it or not, kids as young as age three are learning to cook. And I mean really cook. In my classes they’re not cooking from boxes or heating things up in microwaves, they’re making Chinese dumplings, blueberry muffins, roasted tofu, and even bread from scratch. They’re learning to chop, peel, grate, and mix, and they’re loving every minute of it. The youngest ones are easy because little kids and cooking just go together. They enjoy the kitchen’s abundance of sensory experiences and are thrilled when they get to eat and share their creations. Older kids are a little tougher because many have already established their food habits by the time they come to my classes, but they love the experience of cooking and creating something beautiful and tasty. And because they know who made it and what’s in it, they will often try something new. In the end, usually even the pickiest of eaters can’t resist the aromas and textures they’ve created with their own hands.

In my experience working with kids, teaching them to cook is an essential weapon in the fight for our children’s health. It’s like the old adage, “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he will eat for a lifetime.” If we feed them something healthy they learn to choose the same healthy foods we’ve chosen, which is great, but it’s limited. If we take the time to teach them to cook they’ll have the tools they need to expand their palates and their horizons. And if your kids are fortunate enough to attend a cooking class in your neighborhood, they might even teach you a thing or two.

Chef Lisa Holmes
The Childrens Culinary Academy
Tel. 774.392.1711
www.childrensculinary.com

Books by Lisa Holmes
Bitter Harvest
In Mother’s Kitchen
Lunch Lessons

Let’s face it—sometimes we prepare for the best day ever, a day of hiking and picnics and freeze tag and capture the flag—and without warning, the sky clouds up and there we are. Indoors. But there’s no point in losing a fun day of camp by staring out the windows and waiting. Some of the best group games are the simplest, and many of these can be played with no equipment and very little space.

Mind Connection

Sit quietly. Don’t speak. Feel the energy in the room. Then, when you’re ready, listen for your counselor to begin the count by saying “One.” If you feel the spirit moving you to speak, say “Two”. If not, let someone else say it. Wait for your moment. As a group, see how high you can count without multiple people speaking a number in unison. Once my unit at camp broke a record with this by making it all the way to twenty four. (No unit in any camp in the world has ever gone higher than that. Ever.)

Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?

This is a game for smaller children, and I’m pretty sure it was also conceived by small children and then perfected in a secret underground game lab run and funded entirely by small children wearing little lab coats.

The call and response words are simple, and the entire game is contained within them:

Group: Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? {Couselors name} stole the cookie from the cookie jar!
The Accused: Who, me?
Group: Yes, you!
The Accused: Couldn’t be!
Group: Then who?
The Accused: Hm….(Randomly chosen campers name)!
Group: Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? (Camper’s name) stole the cookie from the cookie jar!
Camper: Who, me?
Group: Yes you!
Camper: Couldn’t be!
Group: Then who?

Etc, etc. There you have it. Hours of fun. If you don’t believe me, try it. Kids have strange ideas about fun.

Froggy Goes a Courtin:

Sit in a circle with your legs crossed. Place your left hand, palm up, under the hand of your neighbor to the left. Place your right hand, also palm up, over the hand of your neighbor to the right. Pass the slap around the circle– When the slap comes your way, use your right hand to slap the hand of your neighbor to the left. He or she can then pass the slap on to the neighbor to her left, and so on. As you pass the slap, sing a song about a frog who goes down to a river to court his amphibian gal. Make the words up before you sit down to play. I’d write the words here for you, but every time I’ve played this game the words have been completely different. Just make sure the frog has honest intentions. When the song ends, the person holding the slap has to say something nice about the last person who got caught with the slap. Then she has to promise to clean everybody else’s bunk. Or make everyone a sandwich. You see how these kinds of games work. Be creative! Ingenuity is the bread and butter of life.

- Erin Sweeney

Summer math camp is normally designed for high school students to sharpen their skills and hone their specific talent in the field of mathematics. Students get a chance to learn more about the subject their most interested by exploring it in more depth and alongside likeminded peers. Summer math camp is not only an enriching experience, but also fun and exciting adventure!

You can expect a typical day at summer math camp to be packed full of sessions that combines both individual and group work. Fun math activities and games help to spice up the day and give students a chance to test out the skills they acquire in the classes and sessions held throughout the course of the camp. Much of the focus of summer math camp activities is the hands-on, interactive approach that is often missing from typical school curricula. Students are encouraged to get involved and be creative with what they are studying and learning. Whether students are advanced or struggling, math camp is a place where all ability levels can thrive and grow. By keeping their math skills sharp over the summer break, students will be ready to excel in the forthcoming school year.

Attending summer math camp can inspire students and ignite their passion for math. It connects students with others who share their passion for their subject and who want to devote their efforts to absorbing as much information about it as they can.

- Valarie Edmon

I took my dog with me to camp one summer. I had a special dispensation on this—dogs were not allowed at camp generally, but Phoebe was a Seeing Eye puppy and my family was raising her for the first year of her life, charged with the task of socializing her and teaching her basic manners. When her year with us ended, she would be reclaimed buy the Seeing Eye, formally trained, and eventually partnered for life with a visually impaired person.

But none of that would happen for a long time—for now she was ours, which was to say mine. I spent my summers working as a riding instructor at an overnight camp, living in tents and surrounded by children, so taking Phoebe along with me seemed like a perfect way to expose her to strange and interesting new environments.

I obtained permission from the camp administrator and off we went. From the first day of the summer onward, Phoebe was at my side almost everywhere. She quickly learned how to behave around horses and even more quickly, she learned how to behave around kitchen workers who responded by producing bacon on cue, as if by magic.

That summer I found myself the object of unprecedented popularity among the children. Though I had to concede that this was sparked by more than just my charming personality. Sometimes in the midst of a moment of glory, as I was basking in my fame, watching crowds gather to await my arrival, it would occur to me that many of these beaming children didn’t know my name—I could hand off Phoebe’s leash to another counselor and my adoring fans would not notice the change. “Look!” they would say when I appeared, “It’s….Phoebe’s owner!”

She was a Labrador, a breed known for friendliness and patience with children. But Phoebe was a winner even for a lab. Which worked out well for everyone—for her, for me, and also for a population of children who had much to gain from exposure to a dog like her. About half of the children at this camp were here as part of a program targeting girls from troubled backgrounds, and these girls each carried a host of burdens laid on them by an impoverished inner-city Philadelphia childhood. Some of them were failing out of school, some had broken homes or no homes, and some had sad life stories too complicated to tell, much less understand, within the limits of a few weeks of summer camp.

As counselors, of course, our role with these girls fell somewhere between temporary older sisters and utterly untrained, unlicensed professional therapists. To these children we were cast in the light of guardians, friends, authority figures, listeners, teachers, and social workers, though we had special skills and training in exactly none of these areas. This is the nature of camp counseling—as it is now and always should be. There are some places in the world where one would like to find structure and order in perfect coherence with one’s expectations of life in a civilized world, but one does not find these things. Instead, one finds life not as it should be but as it actually is. One finds teenagers from the suburbs fielding the grief and confusion of children who need far more than these teenagers can offer, and one finds a recognition on both sides of this conversation that what we need is not always what we get.

One of my units that summer included a girl who had been in and out of trouble more than once. She had known several foster homes, and she had been involved in more knife fights in real life than I had seen in movies. She was a surly menace—this was her carefully cultivated persona and her indispensable armor. She made a point of causing problems everywhere she went among campers and counselors alike. And she also made it clear very quickly that she would do anything, anything at all—even behave and sit still and try not to stab anyone—if it meant a reward of even five minutes of time with Phoebe.

As a riding instructor my time was divided between my unit of girls and the stable. While my co-counselors spent most of the day with our unit, I was around only during the early mornings and evenings. But as a result of Alexandra’s behavior problems I was often summoned back to the unit at random hours during the day—or rather Phoebe was.

In the middle of a riding lesson, a young messenger would appear at the stable with instructions for me.

“We need Phoebe,” the child would tell me as I walked over to meet her at the fence. “It’s Alexandra.”
“I’m in the middle of a lesson,” I would say.
“She needs Phoebe. Binky promised her. Binky promised her that we could play with—I mean, that Alexandra could play with Phoebe for five minutes. If she behaved.”

I responded to these calls every single time they occurred. And as I did so, I noticed a pattern developing. Alexandra was a clever manipulator. When she wanted to, she went from surly menace to adorable dealmaker.

What becomes of children like this when they get what they want? I’m sure there are a million studies that can answer this. And I’m sure the answers are not good. And yet as far as my involvement in her life was concerned, Alexandra was destined to become an addition to these statistics. In my defense: This was not juvenile hall. This was not military school. This was camp.
If she needed tough love, she came to the wrong place.

“Phoebe is the only one who understands me,” Alexandra would explain to me, burying her face in Pheobe’s fur. “She’s the only real friend I’ve ever had….Besides you, of course.”
“Is she?”
“She helps me. She helps me have empty…emp…empathy. She helps me relate.”

It occurred to me in the midst of these touching scenes that Alexandra had seen all the same movies and after-school specials about underprivileged children that I had. There was nothing I knew about the culture, literature and lingo of the “system” that she didn’t know.

“What can I say?” She told me woefully. “I’m disadvantaged.”

So sue me. I was a willing mark. I was an easy touch. I was a bad therapist. Why? Because I wasn’t a therapist. I was a camp counselor with a dog.

I like to think that Phoebe, wherever she is now, gained experience that summer that helped her navigate a noisy unpredictable world later for a person who couldn’t see that world and depended on her for guidance.

And I like to think that my young friend, wherever she is now, looks back on that summer as one in which my dog helped her settle down just long enough to do something new and different that she may not have otherwise had a chance to do in this life– To swim in a lake, ride a horse, learn to catch a fish and tell a red oak apart from a pin oak.

It doesn’t matter if she ever turned these skills later to the purposes of a good income, a graduate degree, a big house, or even a respectable life; For one brief summer she bought my trust, which was cheap, and she used it to spend a few weeks acting like a child before her childhood ended for good.

My Seeing Eye dog and I may have steered her off track by indulging her all the time and choosing her momentary happiness over…whatever the correct course of action might have been. But I hope we didn’t.

And I also hope– though this may be unrealistic– that she remembers my name, not just Phoebe’s.

- Erin Sweeney

If you’re sending your child to camp with meal requirements, be specific. Write down your instructions– Do not trust a verbal description to be interpreted correctly. “Vegetarian” can imply different things to different people, and camp life requires energy and nutrients– You don’t want your vegetarian child to be simply handed an empty bun with the hot dog removed. Camp meals are usually nutritious, but they can be very simple. Be clear and direct. Also, encourage your child to speak for him or herself when making camp meal decisions.