I have nothing to compare it to, really, but if -– like myself -– you are the parent of a child who has never spent a long time away from home before, when they do go off to sleepaway camp, it can be a strange experience.
Sequestered up in the verdant wilds of Vermont, my 13-year-old son, Oliver, is at camp for four weeks (you may remember I discussed it in greater length on this post). We dropped him off just a little under a week ago and ripped the band-aid off pretty quickly, so to speak. We figured that if we hung around too long, drawing out our goodbyes, none of the concerned parties would benefit. So, really, after making sure all was in order, we said our goodbyes, hopped back in the car and drove off into the rainy Vermont afternoon, leaving our boy in the company of his fellow campers. While we knew that was the smart way to do it, it still felt weird and sad.
After we’d climbed into the car and were driving off campus, we noticed that all the boys had been gathered together on the main field – despite the rain – and were already engaging in group activities and getting to know each other. That was a good sign. To the camp’s credit, later that same day, they e-mailed all the parents a huge team-photo. We, of course, scrupulously studied the pic and found Oliver, easy to pick out in his yellow North Face rainslicker. Mercifully, he was smiling.
Ever since then, the pictures have been slower in arriving, but we do thrill to each cameo our son makes. Apart from an emergency situation, we cannot call or text Oliver, nor can he call or text us – an otherwise constant means of staying in contact one might take for granted, in 2019. At this stage, beyond the pictures that periodically appear, all we can assume is that no news is good news. I’ve already fired off a couple of postcards to him, but have yet to hear back. I just hope that means he’s busy and having fun.
I’m just heartened that in the pics I do have of him, he looks like he’s okay and having a good time.
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