I’m one of the lucky ones – I absolutely adored summer camp. I have glorious memories of my four summers at Camp Wamsutta, glossed to a high sheen over the years. In my pre- and adolescent years, camp was heaven – no parents, freedom from having to attend actual activities, hippie counselors who were too stoned to care, a continuous soundtrack (live and recorded) of great music, and boys.
I’m not the only one who feels this way about Wamsutta -- every eight years or so a former camper plans a reunion for a camp that hasn't been in existence since the mid-1970's. I look forward to seeing the names on the ever-growing list of attendees -- people who, in some cases, I never even spoke to while we were campers together. I pore through old photos as if expecting to magically discover new information, and I religiously read the reunion-related posts on our camp Facebook page, no matter how mundane (Who needs a ride? What time is the banquet dinner?).
The guarantee that I’ll show up every time is the reunion-within-a-reunion with my three former bunkmates – the DROP’s, an acronym we created at camp, based on our last names. After (gulp) forty-four years, we’re still friends. We still act silly, and tease each other, and support each other through the challenges of life. We attend reunions as a posse, and our post-event debriefs are the best part.
Sitting in a kitchen on Sunday morning after the most recent reunion in mid-July, drinking coffee and gossiping, is one of the happiest moments I’ll hold from what has been a terribly sad summer. Thanks, DROP’s, for the new memories.
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