Fun Camp

INVOCATION

Here light the delusions of the coddled.

Here may we better utilize the tetherball court.

Here may campers refrain from saying “punk” when they mean “prank.”

Here may we grant merit to the long-dead’s shruggy explanations for the sun’s once-mysterious patterns.

Here sufficiently distract this summer’s parade of closet pyros.

Here prove nature’s got its moments.

Here honor scrapes as proof of joie de vivre.

Here persuade Deb not to unjustly inflate egos at the craft hut.

Here urge Grant and Kyle to make sure the unwary volunteer they pick from the audience during the Ugliest Man in the World skit isn’t actually one of the ugly kids.

Here remind Candice it’s not her responsibility to break up the pack of Hispanic girls or to impose “a language everyone can enjoy.”

Here reward skepticism toward inoculation.

Here may we, come Sunday, require a whole day and night of recovery sleep.

Here may we honor the Lutheran couple who founded this ranch, their names irrelevant to their legacy, their breath cold on our necks.

~ ~ ~

*

Dear Mom,

Though a tactical failure, the Vietnam War really was waged with admirable intentions. Eager to hear your thoughts.

Billy

ON CONSTITUTIONALITY

The handbook is sort of ambiguous about the legality of lake pirates, Darla, though it does define them. “Lake Pirates are a brigade of scrappy nautical youngsters, traditionally from Boys Cabin 3, who scourge Lake Pawachee in their mighty canoe, tipping the boats of unsuspecting girls.” And see, here’s an ink drawing — the caption reads, “Boys being boys.” So it’s tricky. Boat-tipping is sort of an institutional Prank of the Century. I can tell you that the ferocity with which they tipped you was absolutely not personal, that Lake Pirates are often kind and flirtatious and even apologetic when landlocked. That when you explain the personal value of the necklace that’s now forever lost to lake floor, their faces will be contrite, their hmms thoughtful, and their nods emphatic. They may even mean it. But make no mistake — they will tip you again. If it helps, I’ll make an announcement before free time saying the you-know-whats on a certain body of water better cut out their this-that-n-the-other, but I’m gonna be smiling while I say it. Fun Camp is pro-prank, Darla, and that’s worth more than a hundred grandma necklaces. Best thing, if you truly don’t want to get pranked, is to spend your free time under the Tree of Safety putting puzzles together with the asthmatics. But even sweeter is get some girls together and avenge that necklace.

HOW TO KNOW

Look left. Create personal meaning from that. No. Up a little. That. It informs you, doesn’t it? Child, do you think this is a coincidence? That I am pointing you towards meaning during exactly the time when you could use it? Don’t be coy — you know which thing. You’ve been waffling for ages and now it’s time to let what’s up and to the left step in and solve you. Break up with her, for instance. Quit that job. Convert to that holy mode. Keep that germinating baby you started. Bomb that. Cry for once. Decisions: Who are you to make them? You’re getting older at it, but better? Left and up knows best, and so do I, but don’t ask me to get specific. Consider this message a Do Not Reply in which any questions you have for me will be hurled into a void on the ocean floor. I will be elsewhere, escalating blissward, my own choices having been made in childhood by rays of light on this rocking chair we had.

APOLOGY + OPPORTUNITY

Tommy, Janna, I’m going to stop you right there. Now when I say the feelings you’re describing are exceptional, I mean nuke the moon. Your account of the time spent between yesterday’s kickball game and this evening when I happened upon you in each other — all I can say is wow and God bless and cherish it because for some of us, this has never happened. Have I been in love? I would hesitate and then say yes. But there is love and there is the ineffable mountain you’re scaling. To review: you two share the same favorite show, favorite movie, favorite band, favorite song, you both run track, and you both find camp a little immature. What I need to secure from you now are two swears on this copy of Camp Bylaws for the Hearty and True that you won’t let my uninformed intrusion dampen your beginnings. There’s an expression for the look you two are giving each other: Married in our Hearts. And when such looks are exchanged between two consenters age fifteen and up, the Lord winks and turns away. So too shall I. What happens next is: I’m going for a forty-minute nature walk. You will find my cabin unlocked.

THURSDAY

NO PETS

No petting. No ballpoint pens. No collared shirts in the daytime. No unearned moral clarity. No befriending townies. No slavery, including that of the puckish bet-based variety. No immediate stripping post-food fight. God, some of you, it’s like Gutter Radio is live broadcasting right into your ears, keeping you hip to the kind of life choices that mean I’m someday gonna end up buying you soup and hearing your story when I’m taking my Volvo to the collision center in the rough part of town. I was planning to put up a banner at the ranch entrance that said, “The decisions you make now will affect you later,” until a peer pointed out the lettering’s eerie resemblance to “Arbeit Macht Frei.” Speaking of frei, all camper-penned declarations of independence will be shredded unread and all participating revolutionaries are to collect trash in Friday’s first annual Shame Parade. No inter-camper secession, expulsion, exclusion, ostracization, banishment, or eviction, be it based on age, sex, cabin, clique, name, race, size, creed, shirt color, parental income, home square footage, whether or not you’ve done it, number of facial blemishes, point rating on sexiness websites, taste in music, brand of pants, sit or stand, crumple or fold, city or country, bicep circumference, calf circumference, dress size, cup size, shank length, pube count, whether your parents allow R-rated movies, humor development, past prank severity, or any other way a camper might sever the lemon of togetherness we’re attempting to incubate. More rules to come as you invent need for them.

EVERY MAN’S BATTLE

Any dudes out there hoping to do more than stand and arm-groove during tomorrow night’s After-Dinner Digestion Dance? Well Benny Hinkle’s giving a “guys only” lesson on all the witty moves that’ll have Girls Cabin 1 laughing with you all night long. You’ll learn such essentials as the lawnmower, the weed-whacker, the hedge-trimmer, the lasso, the Scorpion, the Sub-Zero, the cliff-jumper, the ladder-climber, the beginner robot, the saucy snake, the Eli Whitney, the beginner Thriller, the beginner moonwalk, the hairstylist, the wax on /wax off, the drop it like it’s good clean fun, the flying buttress, the limbo minus limbo stick, the motorist, the escalator, the prescribing doctor, the textin’ tween, the boy band throwback, the Carlton, the Pulp Fiction, the Romy and Michele, the six-shootin’ showdown, the “remember the Macarena?” the “remember that dancing baby?” the Flight of the Hummingbird, the manic-depressive, the grocery cart pusher, and the treat-jumping puppy. If there’s time, Benny will demonstrate ways one might pepper the lag between songs with Chris Tucker quotes from the Rush Hour trilogy. And I know Benny’ll go over this in his session, but pay attention to the pulse of the room. At one point during last year’s dance, I saw three guys doing the motorist mere feet from each other. Not cool, guys. Really not cool.