Camp Counselor Quotes

Looking at the elementary schoolers in their colorful T-shirts from various day camps, Percy felt a twinge of sadness. He should be at Camp Half-Blood right now, settling into his cabin for the summer, teaching sword-fighting lessons in the arena, playing pranks on the other counselors. These kids had no idea just how crazy a summer camp could be.

When I was 14, a camp counselor explained what "eating out" was and I vowed to never have it done to me. It seemed cannibalistic and unhygienic. I also remember that she claimed--in front of an entire cabin of girls--to have been "eaten out" by one of the maintenance men in a hot tub. Under hot water. Either something is amiss in my memory of this conversation or she found the most talented man on the planet and all hope is lost for the rest of us.

I'm sorry about these two," Mike told the waitress. "Just so you know, I'll be embarrassed with you." "It's just that we haven't seen each other since summmer camp," Becky said. "And we'd formed such a bond playing wily tricks on our camp counselors," Felix said. "Remember how you replaced Miss Pepper's shampoo with liquid Jell-O and turned her hair green?" "It was sheer genius when you stretched cling film over all the toilet seats." "Oh." The waitress turned to Mike, as if to address the only sane member of the group. "So, are ya'll ready to eat now, or are you waiting for your date to arrive?" Mike played with the menu. "Actually, she's my date." "These are my two husbands," Becky said. "We're from Utah. You know, Mormom.

If you are a parent, teacher, camp counselor, or school resource officer and you see children severely change or restrain their arm behavior around their parents or other adults, at a minimum it should arouse your interest and promote further observation. Cessation of arm movement is part of the limbic system’s freeze response. To the abused child, this adaptive behavior can mean survival.

The monsters in our lives are as particular about their final girls as people are about their Starbucks order. Black nonfat camp counselor with high threshold for pain and an extra shot. A double soy lesbian babysitter who’s not afraid to stab someone in the eye, hold the foam.

I thought you were some sort of camp counselor,” Julian finally said to Kelly. “Work with troubled kids and all that.” Kelly pursed his lips. “Yeah. It’s called Camp Asskicker. I’ll give you a ‘you tried’ badge next time I see you.

I tried to do it all myself: be mommy and camp counselor and art teacher and prereading specialist (and somehow, in my off-hours, to do my own work). I tried my absolute best. And like so many of the moms around me, I started to go a little crazy.

Why would any writer in her right mind ever consider making a movie instead? That's like going from being a monk or a nun to serving as a camp counselor for hundreds of problem children.

10 PLACES TO NEVER, EVER, EVER GO UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES Rooms lit by a single hanging light bulb. Rooms lit by nothing. Any graveyard that isn’t Arlington National Cemetery. Summer camps whose annual counselor murder rate exceeds 10 percent. Maine. “The old_____________.” Hotels/motels that aren’t part of giant international chains. Upstairs. Downstairs. Any log cabin anywhere on the face of the earth.

Jim was right,” he says. “I was a totally different man with Wendy. A better person. Because I was in it. But with Lila, I really was just standing there. I let her run the whole relationship. Like she was my camp counselor or something. And I did love her for it. How could you not? I felt such … gratitude, if that makes any sense. Such appreciation. She made things happen. She performs life very well. If it’s her birthday, she throws a party. If there’s a week off, she’ll book a grand tour of Europe. If she’s getting married, she’ll throw the goddamned most elaborate wedding possible. That kind of thing made me feel … part of the world again. Part of something bigger than myself, you know?” “I know.” “But then all the people would go home or we’d be on the airplane, and there’d be nothing to say. Or I felt like everything I said annoyed or bored her. And I guess I kept trying because it felt like my fault. Maybe I was annoying? Or really boring?

She laughed. "Welcome to Camp Meds," She said. "Where the campers are crazy and the counselors want you to take drugs.

My camp counselor won’t even let me read during lunch. She says it’s because reading is antisocial, but I think it’s because she’s actually Joseph Goebbels.” “Who’s that?” “Nazi. Burned books.

But now the Boy Gender has lost another battle in its age-old war with camp counselors, phys ed teachers, lawyers, and moms. In school district after school district, dodgeball has been banned.

The discussion was escalating into an argument when the Demeter head counselor offered one last suggestion. "What about this?" He held out a small red object. "Miniature explosive!" the Ares boy bellowed. "Duck!" "It's not an explosive or a duck," the Demeter boy said. "It's a berry native to this land. Grows all over the place here." The Aphrodite girl wrinkled her nose. "Excuse me, but ew! There are seeds all over the outside! So unattractive. And red? That colour is so overdone, fruit-wise." "Yes, but it's tasty," the Demeter counselor said. "I call it a strawberry. "Why?" the Athena girl wanted to know. "Because blueberry, raspberry, blackberry, and cranberry were taken.

* It didn’t seem fair that I’d have to do cabin inspection when I just got to camp, but that’s the way it worked. Every afternoon, one of the senior counselors came

We need a way to supply the camp," Chiron said. "Any ideas?" "Yes! We take what we need by force!" bellowed the leader of the Ares cabin. "Or we could just, you know, steal it," suggested the Hermes representative. "No, no!" The son of Apollo whipped out his lyre. "We should sing for our supper, as did the minstrels of yore!" "Of your what?" asked the Dionysus counselor." "What?" "'The minstrels of your'", the Dionysus girl said impatiently. "Of your what?" A representative of the visiting Hunters intervened. "Not your. Yore." The Dionysus girl gave up.

I immediately throw myself down on the ground and try to remember everything I learned that one summer at camp when the counselors taught us about what to do if you are caught in the middle of a bear attack. 

How does your side handle this sort of thing, anyway? Did they engender you knowing what you’d be; did they train you, run you through your paces at what I can only picture as some sort of horrific summer camp under the watchful eyes of concerned counselors who smile all the time?

THE COUNCIL WAS NOTHING LIKE Jason imagined. For one thing, it was in the Big House rec room, around a Ping-Pong table, and one of the satyrs was serving nachos and sodas. Somebody had brought Seymour the leopard head in from the living room and hung him on the wall. Every once in a while, a counselor would toss him a Snausage. Jason looked around the room and tried to remember everyone’s name. Thankfully, Leo and Piper were sitting next to him—it was their first meeting as senior counselors. Clarisse, leader of the Ares cabin, had her boots on the table, but nobody seemed to care. Clovis from Hypnos cabin was snoring in the corner while Butch from Iris cabin was seeing how many pencils he could fit in Clovis’s nostrils. Travis Stoll from Hermes was holding a lighter under a Ping-Pong ball to see if it would burn, and Will Solace from Apollo was absently wrapping and unwrapping an Ace bandage around his wrist. The counselor from Hecate cabin, Lou Ellen something-or-other, was playing “got-your-nose” with Miranda Gardiner from Demeter, except that Lou Ellen really had magically disconnected Miranda’s nose, and Miranda was trying to get it back. Jason had hoped Thalia would show. She’d promised, after all—but she was nowhere to be seen. Chiron had told him not to worry about it. Thalia often got sidetracked fighting monsters or running quests for Artemis, and she would probably arrive soon. But still, Jason worried. Rachel Dare, the oracle, sat next to Chiron at the head of the table. She was wearing her Clarion Academy school uniform dress, which seemed a bit odd, but she smiled at Jason. Annabeth didn’t look so relaxed. She wore armor over her camp clothes, with her knife at her side and her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. As soon as Jason walked in, she fixed him with an expectant look, as if she were trying to extract information out of him by sheer willpower. “Let’s come to order,” Chiron said. “Lou Ellen, please give Miranda her nose back. Travis, if you’d kindly extinguish the flaming Ping-Pong ball, and Butch, I think twenty pencils is really too many for any human nostril. Thank you. Now, as you can see, Jason, Piper, and Leo have returned successfully…more or less. Some of you have heard parts of their story, but I will let them fill you in.” Everyone looked at Jason. He cleared his throat and began the story. Piper and Leo chimed in from time to time, filling in the details he forgot. It only took a few minutes, but it seemed like longer with everyone watching him. The silence was heavy, and for so many ADHD demigods to sit still listening for that long, Jason knew the story must have sounded pretty wild. He ended with Hera’s visit right before the meeting.

Betty, whom I recently discovered sorting through the contents of my suitcase, turns on the overhead light in my room, wrinkles her brow, and peers in like a camp counselor on an inspection tour, as if she suspects I might be entertaining someone who has paddled in from across the lake. She must keep an eye out. I am a schemer. There are things going on behind her back, plans afoot, she fears. She has no intention of cooperating with any of them. When the phone rings, she listens to every word, not sure if she can trust me with her independence. I don’t blame her. I am an unlikely guardian. A month ago I thought the Medicare doughnut hole was a breakfast special for seniors. I am a care inflictor. She’s

us, Will had invited his camp counselor buddy, Dylan, and Dylan had brought along his roommate, this annoying kid named Sanjay. I mean, it wasn’t like there was anything wrong with Sanjay, and no, I’m not prejudiced against Indian people or anyone else. It was just awkward. The rest of us were jocks and hard partiers, and Sanjay was a skinny nerd who looked like he was about twelve years old. And that’s fine, you know? Go ahead and be a nerd if that’s what makes you happy. Go design your app or whatever. Just don’t ask me to give a shit. “Sanjay’s in the Honors College,” Dylan informed us. “Majoring in Electrical Engineering. Talk about badass.” I guess you have to give Dylan some credit. He was trying to be a good roommate, doing his best to include Sanjay in the conversation and make him feel comfortable. It was just a waste of time, that’s all. Sanjay wasn’t going to be friends with us, and we weren’t going to be friends with him.

The Lanyard The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one into the past more suddenly— a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid long thin plastic strips into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that's what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, and then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim, and I , in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, and here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth, and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, is a smaller gift—not the worn truth that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless, worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Oh,” Piper said. “This isn’t good.” “Why?” Leo asked. “It’s bad luck to be here,” Jason said. “This is the battle site.” Leo scowled. “What battle?” Piper raised her eyebrows. “How can you not know about it? The other campers talk about this place all the time.” “Been a little busy,” Leo said. He tried not to feel bitter about it, but he’d missed out on a lot of regular camp stuff—the trireme fights, the chariot races, flirting with the girls. That was the worst part. Leo finally had an “in” with the hottest girls at camp, since Piper was the senior counselor for Aphrodite cabin, and he was too busy for her to fix him up. Sad.

exploded behind them as they sprinted from the burning building. Paul’s quick decision to destroy the rifle shack and all of the artillery inside turned out to be a great idea. It evened the territory, or at least prevented it from getting worse. With only one handgun, the convicts were limited in their scope and threat. Colin was out of the picture, at least for a while, locked away in his ditch jail until someone came along to roll the tractor off Charlie’s homemade trap. That meant two of the cons would be searching for them since Dewey would probably stay in the dining hall to oversee the other counselors. Ritch knew Dewey would not

I didn't look down, but my face flooded with heat I hoped he couldn't see in the shade of the dock. I was wearing a white shirt. How rude of him to mention it like I was in a wet T-shirt contest. I cleared my throat. "Does that distract you?" My voice came out lower than it should have. "You've always distracted me," he breathed, his lips descending.

Do you remember that time I had to come get you at church camp? Because you made a counselor cry? Oh come on! She tried to tell me that dinosaurs fossils were put in the ground by Satan to test the faith of paleontologists. She had it coming.

Don Brown, a former counselor at the camp, recalls that one kid who wasn’t awestruck was Joe Coleman, a local high school pitching phenom who would go on to the major leagues. Coleman was also the son of the Philadelphia Athletics pitcher of the same name who had been Ted’s roommate in 1942 at Amherst College, Williams’s first stop during World War II. “Joe Coleman was pitching and striking everyone out,” said Brown. “Ted came over in his street clothes and Coleman was taunting him: ‘You couldn’t hit me, old man!’ Ted never said a word. He just went up to the plate and hit the next four pitches out, into the oak trees four hundred feet away, then put the bat down and walked out. Never said a word. He was about five years out of the game. In street clothes.”16

I used to be a summer camp counselor when I was younger.

There are certain people who are just genetically made to get up at four in the morning and wake everyone else up. They usually become scoutmasters or camp counselors.

he’d tired of discreetly asking strangers and just stood up on a bar stool and called out loudly “Does anyone have any COCAINE?” like an irate camp counselor trying to locate an errant child.

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Ken used obfuscation. He kept random people’s DNA samples—hair, spare tissue, saliva, whatever—in Tupperware containers. Sometimes he found the samples in public restrooms, disgusting as that might sound. One very good spot was at summer camp. Many of the counselors used the disposable razors, which he could easily swipe. Urinals provided pubic hair. Showers gave you more. With

Orion was the one Emily knew well. He had been Emily's childhood friend when, for several summers, they attended CTY, the Center for Talented Youth at Johns Hopkins. At eleven, twelve, and thirteen, they took courses in physics and advanced geometry along with other children selected nationwide. Emily had studied Greek, and Orion took astronomy. Renaissance children, they lived in dorms with other earnest middle-schoolers blowing through problem sets, practicing violin, gathering several times a week for camp games designated by their counselors as "mandatory fun.

Parsons stood on the edge of the dock at Camp KooKoRomo. She’d left her fishing gear—borrowed as an excuse to check out the lake—near the tall grass. If she jumped into the water and pretended to drown, would the counselors send her home? Camp will be good for you, Kat. You’re too young to be stuck on the farm with a couple of old fogies. So instead of being with her grandparents, whom she loved, or visiting

ELECTIVE MUTISM Social anxiety appears in many forms, some of which are only now coming to light. Socially anxious children, for example, are usually thought of as quiet and reserved and of course “shy.” But some children, though they function fairly well in their home environment, have great difficulty talking in social situations. Donny was one such child. At fourteen, he managed quite well at home, but never talked to his peers. His parents encouraged him to join in group activities, and even sent him off to an overnight camp. But he remained silent, even when he became lost in the woods. The child was alone for several hours; dusk was approaching, and he began to get cold, but he still could not bring himself to call out. The counselors were near enough for him to attract their attention and yet he remained mute. Alarm bells went off for Melanie when she noticed that her daughter at age three had trouble talking with people outside their home. When the little girl went to see Santa Claus, and he asked her what she wanted for Christmas, she became hysterical and couldn’t respond verbally. And the problem continued: She would speak only with the immediate family, and never to peers or potential playmates. Elective mutism is a very specific symptom of social anxiety. Fear turns into panic which inhibits speech; the elective mute is capable—physically—of speaking to outsiders, but anxiety prevents him or her from speaking. Only recently has there been any media attention paid to this syndrome, and research in this area has just begun. After an article appeared in a New York-area newspaper, however, someone who had expressed interest in starting a self-help group for elective mutes was besieged with phone calls from desperate relatives, eager to get help for their silent family members. I have worked with people of all ages who suffer from varying degrees of elective mutism. From my perspective, elective mutism is treatable relatively easily in childhood or early adolescence. But treating the adult is very difficult because of the pervasive progression of the problem.

You’re Clay. Known hereafter as Worm. I’m Buzz, your counselor. Known hereafter as… Buzz, your counselor. I’m also the camp beekeeper, llama

What I know now and I hope you understand way before I did is that you are in control of who you are and what you want to be. You don’t need to yell or fight to have that kind of power. It’s already yours, and you need to hold on to it. Don’t let anyone make you believe you’re less than you know yourself to be. Find people, like your friends and counselors at this camp, who like you for who you are. Who take care of you and protect you, not tear you down or force you to be someone you’re not. You deserve people in your life who believe in you and your dreams.” He

FLEAS AND OTHER BLESSINGS Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor? Romans 11:34 One of the first movies I saw was The Hiding Place. It changed my life. The movie, a true story, is about Corrie ten Boom and her sister, who were put into the Ravensbruck Nazi concentration camp after they were caught hiding Jews. Somehow, they managed to sneak in a Bible, which they read repeatedly for comfort and guidance. “Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus,” Betsy read aloud. Then she looked around the grimy place and suggested they thank God that she and Corrie were in the same barracks, that the barracks were crowded—so that they could tell more people about Christ—that they had a Bible, and even for the fleas that infested their barracks. That last part was too much. Corrie emphatically told her sister that even God couldn’t make her thankful for disgusting fleas! The sisters began holding open Bible studies there in the middle of a Nazi concentration camp, leading numerous people to Christ. Mysteriously, the guards never entered their barracks, which meant their Bible studies could go on uninterrupted. And the young women were inexplicably untouched when others around them were assaulted. Only later did they learn why they were left alone: the guards kept a safe distance from them because they didn’t want to get fleas. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, make a gratitude list . . . and don’t leave anything off.

Then summer was here and I was off to Sam’s childhood summer camp to work as a junior counselor. I spent eight weeks away from home, calling and texting Jake to check in with him but really just getting on with my summer. I got back from camp a week before school started and my dad took me to get my driver’s license (I turned sixteen over the summer). I drove over to Jakes to see him and was delighted to

Zombie, you’re going to be away from home for an entire three weeks. That’s the longest you’ve ever been away from us,” my Mom said. “Uh huh.” “We think it’s good for you because it will help you become more self-reliant, and you will learn how to work together with other kids and adults.” The only adults I’m going to work with are the camp counselors Steve and I will be interrogating. “You’ll also have to learn how to “rough it” son,” Dad said. “Kind of like when you and I go on our camping trips. That means no video games, no television, and no computer for three whole weeks.” What? “But

Still, my reporting found that P2P meth in massive quantities is damaging minds, perhaps irreparably, across the United States. The growing homeless encampments in many cities and rural towns are meth’s deadening creation, I’m convinced. Though other drugs and alcohol are part of the mix, many encampments are simply meth colonies. They provide a community for users, creating the kinds of environmental cues that USC psychologist Wendy Wood found crucial in forming habits. Encampments are places where addicts flee from treatment, where they can find the warm embrace of approval for their meth use. “It took me twelve years of using before I was homeless,” said Talie Wenick, a counselor in Bend, Oregon. “Now, within a year they’re homeless. So many homeless camps have popped up around Central Oregon—huge camps on Bureau of Land Management land, with tents and campers and roads they’ve cleared themselves. And everyone’s using. You’re trying to help someone get clean, and they live in a camp where everyone is using.

I tried to give him a smile, because he looked truly upset that he might’ve hurt me, but I worried it came out more like Wednesday Addams’ attempt to mollify the counselors at Camp Chippewa.

The camp had a rule that no one was allowed to call home. Cutting off contact got rid of homesickness faster. Best to just get on with it, the counselors told her. Forget about home, they said, it will make it easier.

Sometimes, I felt like a camp counselor for tweakers who could weld. And work with antimatter, but that was neither here nor there—

intricately patterned. There is nothing rustic here. Only when she looks at the paintings does Elizabeth remember the dark approach through the forest. These are outdoor paintings, trees and wild cliffs, huge sunsets. Elizabeth sits with Nina on a divan before a cluster of Bierstadts. Deep trees and cerebral winter skies. The museum is nearly empty this weekday morning. The elaborate gallery still. Elizabeth looks intently at the winter landscapes. And as she looks, she whispers to Nina, “It’s marvelous, just sitting here while the girls are at camp.” Nina looks at the floor. Renée is working as a junior counselor at the camp. It was Nina’s idea. She thought the job with the Lamkins would be good for her daughter, that it would teach her responsibility and how to care for children. But Renée made a fuss. Nina had to threaten and cajole and, in the end, force Renée to go. There were tears and threats up to the day she started. Even now, Renée is sulking about working there with the little children. “Renée doesn’t like the camp,” Nina says. “I think she’d rather waste her time wandering around, doing nothing, playing with that Arab girl. Andras doesn’t care. I hear the father owns a trucking business—he just drives trucks from New York to Montreal—” She breaks off, frustrated. “She’s a good child, really,” Elizabeth says. “But Andras spoils her,” says Nina. Then Elizabeth sees that Nina is really upset. There are tears in Nina’s eyes. It’s hard for her to speak. Elizabeth sees it, and doesn’t know what to do. They are close neighbors, but they are not intimate friends. Beautiful Nina in her crisp dress, downcast among all these paintings. “He’s very … indulgent of the children, both of them,” Nina says. “He used to take them to the warehouse and let them pick out any toys they liked.” “At least he’s not in the candy business,” Elizabeth says. “Toys won’t rot their teeth.” “He’s going to let Renée quit piano,” Nina says bitterly, utterly serious, “and she’ll regret it all her life.” Elizabeth tries to look sympathetic. She’s heard Renée play. “And now that Renée is working at the Lamkins’ camp, she wants to quit that too.” “He wouldn’t let her do that,” Elizabeth ventures. “I

Little Bobby Randall was a most unfortunate child. According to his mother, who should have known, he was just “Born wrong.” Well, maybe. Cindy On the first day, his mother asked him what he learned in camp. Bobby’s answers were simple and direct, as though he was quoting his counselor at the camp: “Bobby, please take your seat.” “Bobby, please stop talking.” “Don’t throw kitty in the pool” “Well, I don’t need to tell YOU that the last thing an 11-year-old girl wants to do is help a boy with his zipper, even if he is only 6.“ “Why Mesun cry?” he asked. “Icky is gone,” she said. Sometimes when Bobby’s mother gave him a bath, and he was especially dirty, like the time he decided to see what dog poop would feel like if he rubbed it all over himself, she said that she was going to wash off all the icky. So, you can understand why, when Mi-Sun said “Icky is gone,” Bobby became confused. He was smiling a big beagle smile, and if you have never seen a beagle smile, you have missed one of the great delights of this world. Beagles have large, lustrous brown eyes, and they are particularly good at making those eyes look sad, especially when they want something to eat. But when they smile it makes you feel as though your heart could leap out of your chest. Nothing on this earth brings more joy than a merry little beagle, smiling a big beagle smile and licking you. Nothing.

a bit like camp counselors; you’re thrown into a job looking after what essentially amounts to a bunch of rich kids. You’re isolated from the world, and the only people you can relate to are the other counselors. Add in a romantic Hawaiian backdrop, and it’s like getting thrown into an emotional blender.

When I was 20 years old, I learned how much art can mean to people. I worked as a camp counselor for developmentally disabled youth and adults in the redwood forest near Santa Cruz, California. It was mostly for children with heavy autism-spectrum disorders and related conditions. There was a kid there, about 11 years old. He was fidgety, nervous, but generally happy and liked to play and explore. His nickname was "Crossing Lights" because every few seconds, he would become terribly uneasy and start saying "crossing lights...crossing lights PLEASE... CROSSING LIGHTS...PLEASE!!", screaming and crying to the point where he would be having a full mental meltdown. The only way to ease his distress was to draw a series of little symbols like this: (image shown) ...over and over again, constantly, and forever. If you stopped, he would gradually become disturbed and have a severe psychological attack. But if you kept drawing the little symbol, he was calm and peaceful, like a wave washing over him. Silence. Then, a few seconds later.. "Crossing lights... Crossing lights please..." I filled up probably thirty sheets of paper like this. Tragically, the entire camp was burnt down last year in the California wildfires. I am working on a fundraiser to help them rebuild everything.

We circled back and pulled up next to Tiffany, who was standing on the sidewalk sobbing right where we’d left her. Tiffany got back in the car. I saw her face for an instant before she climbed back into her seat. Tears covered her cheeks, her eyes were red, and the sides of her mouth were slack with fear and humiliation. She was a shadow of the girl who charged across summer camp to save me from the swim counselors.

There were many people who left a mark at Incarnation, but I’ll pick out just one, a counselor and unit director named Wes Wubbenhorst. He was a big, athletic, goofy man-child. His conversation was all overflowing enthusiasm, interspersed with whistles, pops, weird exclamations, sudden laughter, and good cheer. He was always interrupting himself mid-sentence as another thing that delighted him sprang into consciousness. He lived to be over sixty and walked through the darkest parts of the world, but I don’t think he ever learned to talk in that serious way adults do. Some piece of him always remained a Holy Child. I’ve come to recognize people who were formed by a camp, and they often had what Wes had: bubbling enthusiasm, a radiance, a wardrobe mostly of old sneakers, tattered shorts, and ripped T-shirts. Wes later became an Episcopal priest. He ministered to the poor in Honduras, comforted victims of domestic violence. His God was a God of love, and his life at camp was training for his mission of selfless love. He was, as the saying goes, a man for others: enthusiastically waking you up in the morning and singing you to bed each night, the best passer on the basketball court I’ve ever encountered. When someone did something extraordinarily stupid, he would just smile and sigh in wonder at the wackiness of life.

The logistics of getting them around were just completely insurmountable,” said Hanson-Press. “I was really stressed every single day about getting them around.” Cue HopSkipDrive, a Los Angeles start-up that has been described as ride-hailing for children. Founded by three Angelenos who are also moms, the service chauffeurs only children ages 7 to 17. In many ways, it's similar to transport network companies such as Uber, Lyft and SideCar (Uber requires customers to be over 18). Drivers are contractors who use their own vehicles to transport passengers. All drivers undergo third-party background checks and vehicle inspections. Parents can book rides for their kids through a mobile app and pay through a cashless transaction. But there are also significant differences. Unlike Uber, whose drivers simply need to have experience behind the wheel, HopSkipDrive drivers are required to have at least five years of experience caring for children (this can mean people who are themselves parents, nannies, teachers, camp counselors, etc.). And like Shuddle, a similar service that operates in the San Francisco Bay Area, all drivers are vetted in person. HopSkipDrive checks drivers' references and will even go for a ride with each driver it signs up. All rides are covered by insurance specific to transporting minors.

Avery was stretched out after breakfast on the bottom bunk, eyes glazed and dreamy, staring up at the names of the girls who had slept there before her, scrawled on the bottom of the bed above. Who knew there were so many names? Who was the first to sign it? Abby, Natasha, Tori, Latoya, and a few dozen more. Laying claim. Avery wanted to add her own name, but she wasn’t sure she existed yet like the rest of them. Or, for example, like snakes did. It was Snake Week at camp. They existed, because they knew their purpose. They slithered, they hunted their prey. Avery was twelve; what did she do? She ate, she breathed, she did her homework. But what did that accomplish? What if snakes were her purpose? She thought of those she loved, which Homo sapiens. Her mother, her father, her cousin Sadie, whom she never saw but texted with constantly, her grandmother, she supposed, her grandfather . . . The cabin door opened. It was a counselor, Gabrielle, the one who didn’t shave her bikini line.

Love lands in my chest with a thunk. I know I must look like every close-up shot of every lascivious camp counselor who ever walked into a barn or darkened farmhouse to receive a pitchfork to the heart. The hapless victim. The plunge and the stagger. They never know enough to just fall down.

DOUG ELLIN, Writer and Director: When we went to sell Entourage to HBO, the character of Ari didn’t really exist. There was an agent, but at that point it was based on some version of Jeff Jacobs, my agent at the time. I first met Jeff when he was a counselor at the camp I went to when I was twelve, and he was what I knew best of as an agent. At the pitch meeting, it was me, Jeff, Steven Levinson, and Ari, who was there because he represented Mark Wahlberg. I had never even heard of Ari before this, but as soon as the meeting started, Ari said three or four things that just blew me away. The guy was unlike anyone I had ever met, and I remember I looked at Jeff right there and said, “This character is changing to Ari.

Everyone loves bands. We could pretend we’re a rock group and lip synch all the music.” “That’s not different enough. Everyone expects us to plan something really special,” Ariel complained. “After all, most of us are old-timers. We know the ropes around camp. Even first-timers like Becky could plan that kind of party.” Even a bunch of first-timers like me, huh? What a slam! I punched my fist into the wad of clothes in my suitcase and Triple Tropical Bubble Gum popped up all over. More than anything, I wanted to show these girls that I was special, too. “Too bad you can’t have live music,” I said slyly. Carefully, I pulled my posters of Eric and Outta Site out of my bag. I took a wad of Triple Tropical out of my mouth, broke it into pieces, and stuck it on the corners of my posters. Then, I hung the posters next to my bed. Triple Tropical is great for hanging things on walls. According to my mom it never lets go. “Where would we get live music?” Suzanne asked with a sneer. “I suppose we could have the kitchen staff play on their pots and pans with spoons.” “And the counselors could blow their whistles!” Ariel giggled. “We could clap our hands and hum,” Meg suggested. Denni chuckled. “Great idea, Becky!

Genetic researchers decided to follow a group of 200 Spanish teens who were on a 10-week quest to battle the bulge. What geneticists discovered was that they could actually reverse engineer the campers’ summer experience and predict which of the teens would lose the most weight depending on the pattern of methylation—the way their genes were turned off or on—in around five sites in their genome before summer camp even began.7 Some kids were epigenetically primed to lose the bulge at summer camp while others were going to keep it on, despite diligent adherence to their counselors’ dietary protocol.

The focus of that week was “learning how to listen to the voice of God” in what was dubbed “My Quiet Time with God.” You have to admire the camp leaders’ intent, but let’s be honest. Most pre-adolescents are clueless about such deeply spiritual goals, let alone the discipline to follow through on a daily basis. Still, good little camperettes that we were, we trekked across the campground after our counselors told us to find our “special place” to meet with God each day. My special place was beneath a big tree. Like the infamous land-run settlers of Oklahoma’s colorful history, I staked out the perfect location. I busily cleared the dirt beneath my tree and lined it with little rocks, fashioned a cross out of two twigs, stuck it in the ground near the tree, and declared that it was good. I wiped my hands on my madras Bermudas, then plopped down, cross-legged on the dirt, ready to meet God. For an hour. One very long hour. Just me and God. God and me. Every single day of camp. Did I mention these quiet times were supposed to last an entire hour? I tried. Really I did. “Now I lay me down to sleep . . . ” No. Wait. That’s a prayer for babies. I can surely do better than that. Ah! I’ve got it! The Lord’s Prayer! Much more grown-up. So I closed my eyes and recited the familiar words. “Our Father, Who art in heaven . . .” Art? I like art. I hope we get to paint this week. Maybe some watercolor . . . “Hallowed by Thy name.” I’ve never liked my name. Diane. It’s just so plain. Why couldn’t Mom and Dad have named me Veronica? Or Tabitha? Or Maria—like Maria Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Oh my gosh, I love that movie! “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . ” Be done, be done, be done . . . will this Quiet Time ever BE DONE? I’m sooooo bored! B-O-R-E-D. BORED! BORED! BORED! “On earth as it is in Heaven.” I wonder if Julie Andrews and I will be friends in heaven. I loved her in Mary Poppins. I really liked that bag of hers. All that stuff just kept coming out. “Give us this day, our daily bread . . . ” I’m so hungry, I could puke. I sure hope they don’t have Sloppy Joes today. Those were gross. Maybe we’ll have hot dogs. I’ll take mine with ketchup, no mustard. I hate mustard. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” What the heck is a trespass anyway? And why should I care if someone tresses past me? “And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil . . . ” I am so tempted to short-sheet Sally’s bed. That would serve her right for stealing the top bunk. “For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.” This hour feels like forever. FOR-E-VERRRR. Amen. There. I prayed. Now what?

We’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: Boys need to see that emotions belong in the life of a man. And they need to learn how to identify, resolve, and express their emotions. If a dad doesn’t know how to do this himself (and many men don’t), he needs to learn how so he can pass that wisdom on to his son. If that’s the situation you find yourself in, let us encourage you to get plugged into a men’s group, or see a counselor, or go on a men’s retreat (like the ones offered by John Eldredge at his Ransomed Heart Boot Camps).

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