Page 1 of Until Next Summer

one

Jessie

August

When I was a kid, I had a button on my backpack that readi live ten months for two. When people noticed it, I’d get one of two reactions: total confusion (Ten months of what? Does this poor girl have a terminal illness?), or a knowing smile.

The ones who smiled would inevitably ask one question. A question that let me know, without a doubt, that they were my kind of people:

“So where’d you go to camp?”

No matter the age gap or difference in our backgrounds, we’d start swapping stories, sharing memories. The gruff custodian at my elementary school bragged about winning Color Wars when he was fourteen. A bus driver sang his favorite camp song (The Princess Pat…lived in a tree), complete with hand motions. My pediatrician told me she once caught her marshmallow on fire and then, panicking, waved her roasting stick in the air, causing the marshmallow to fall onto her bare foot. She even showed me the burn scar, taking her shoe off in the middle of her clinic room while I waited for my twelve-year-old vaccinations.

Here’s what I took from those conversations: there’s something magical about summer camp. Those days stick in your mind like pine sap in your hair, like the scent of campfire smoke on your clothes. Even decades later, the memories remain vivid.

Which is why I decided that I didn’t want to spend ten months slogging through what everyone else called Real Life only to spend two months living what felt likemyreal life.

I wanted it all the time.

It’s sometimes still hard to believe I achieved that childhood dream. That this is my full-time, year-round, always and forever job. I am the head camp director at Camp Chickawah, and we’ve just completed another successful summer session.

The big lawn in the middle of the property is abuzz, hundreds of campers milling around, duffels and sleeping bags heaped in messy piles. Counselors try their best to wrangle the kids as they exchange tearful hugs with their cabinmates and friends, promising to see each other next summer. Then we herd them onto buses, double-checking that their gear is safely stowed below, and wave as they take off down the road.

I gather my summer staff—the counselors, lifeguards, kitchen crew, sailing and archery and tennis instructors—and thank them for working so hard. I remind them that camp people never say goodbye; we say “see ya next summer.” So that’s what they do, exchanging phone numbers and hugs before taking off.

And then everything goes silent.

The only signs of the three hundred people who calledthis place home for the past eight weeks are the trampled ground, scraps of trash, and whispers of memory floating through the air: campfires and songs, pranks and crafts, friendships to last a lifetime. I take a deep breath, thinking how grateful I am to be part of it.

At the same time, I’m exhausted. Each day at camp feels like a week, and each week feels like a month. I haven’t had a full night of sleep since May—I’m always listening for the knock on my cabin door. This summer, I drove two people with broken bones to the emergency room in the middle of the night (one camper, one counselor), calmed a pack of terrified ten-year-olds when a tree fell on their cabin’s porch during a rainstorm, and stayed up all night cleaning vomit after a stomach bug ran through camp.

And most importantly: I kept a calm, reassuring smile on my face the entire time. After all, I set the tone for the summer. The former owners, Nathaniel and Lola Valentine, taught me this.

“Welp, made it through another year,” a gruff voice says, and I turn to see my assistant camp director, Dot.

Like me, she’s dressed in Camp Chickawah gear—khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. Dot is five feet tall and stocky, built like a human bowling pin with short gray hair. I’m nearly a foot taller, with strawberry blonde hair in two braids and skin that freckles or burns within minutes of sun exposure.

I smile. “It was a good summer, right?”

“It was Chicka-wonderful. Nathaniel and Lola would be proud.”

Dot’s been a staple of Camp Chickawah since my daysas a camper, and now she’s looking at me for direction—something I still haven’t gotten used to, even after four years of being her boss.

“Let’s do a sweep of the grounds for lost items,” I say. “Then we call it a day. Sound okay?”

“Sounds great!” Dot says, and off we go.

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The next morning, after sleeping for ten glorious hours, I head toward the lake. The air is cool, faintly scented with pine, and full of birdsong. I pull my favorite canoe from the shed—it’s hand-carved birchwood and nearly a century old—and slide it halfway into the water, sending ripples across the shimmering surface. After discarding my hiking boots and wool socks on the dock, I pop my earbuds in.

It’s time for some Broadway magic.

I press play on the original cast recording ofHadestown. The iconic trombone begins wailing, joined by the inimitable André De Shields, and as I wade into the cool water and transfer myself into the canoe, I can’t help dancing. Luckily, no one’s around to see.

After stowing my phone in a dry bag near my feet, I shove myself out with my paddle. Our camp hugs the west side of the lake; the rest is ringed with pine trees. The rising sun paints a golden streak across the water, and I follow it, paddling until my shoulders burn.

Canoes can be tricky to navigate solo, especially an old wooden one, but I love the nostalgia, the knowledge that countless campers and counselors have sat where I am now. Soon I relax into the rhythm and pull of paddle on water, and my exhaustion melts away.

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