Singing “Kumbaya”

I ended up on a farm in the north country in large part because I fell in love with nature when I was seven years old and my parents sent me off to summer camp in “upstate” NY. I attended two months of camp for each of the next seven or eight summers. My parents weren’t wealthy but they found a way to get my brother and me out of Manhattan during the hot and un-airconditioned days of July and August. (Later in life, my mother confessed that it was as much for dad and her as it was for Ben and me.)

So, this article in yesterday’s NY Times caught my eye. I always boarded a bus somewhere in downtown Manhattan, and spent three to five hours with other campers as we decompressed and geared up for 60 days in the country.  We came from wealthy families and “scholarship” families. The boundaries between our families’ resources faded away the further we got from the city.

My parents never drove me to camp–the bus ride itself was the start of summer vacation. A private flight to camp seems surreal, and a bit sad.

I hope there are still kids taking a big bus  to get to the great outdoors–singing Kumbaya and A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Or am I totally living in a more innocent–and less class-divided–past?

Tags: summer camp