This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult? 

Not too fun it turns out. 

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.” 

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said.  “You decide.” 

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

 I chose poorly. 

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing. 

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes. 

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.