On the brochure, there are two pen-and-ink drawings, a clam shell and a squid. The green blue background is reminiscent of summer, Cape Cod, the ocean, Woods Hole.  The programs inside, Marine Biology, Photography, are as enticing as ever. The Children’s School of Science has celebrated over 100 years, in the same location on Eel Pond, in a large, airy, antique schoolhouse. Every year, we get the brochure for their summer camp, and every year I dream that my second son, looking for identity, engagement, independence, will enroll.  Not so far. And, I have to admit as I pour over the news and offerings, it’s probably not going to happen.

 To my mind, it would be perfect. We live close by during the summer; my son, like me, loves fish, crabs, exploring the sea.  It’s in a wonderful location, with engaging activities: exploring Woods Hole, meeting new kids, networking with adults who live in or work at WHOI or the Marine Biology Lab, or other related fields.  It’s hands on, it’s fun, and there are field trips! A selection of classes, geared by age and interest.  One or two classes a day, I suggest to my son, for three weeks, and you don’t have to get up early.

 But no. The main reason is: if it has “children’s” “school” and “science” in the name, it can’t be good for my son, who loves nothing more than deep rest and relaxation. The truth is, he works hard during the school year, to keep up, to keep cool, and to balance his sports and studies.  Socially, it’s demanding, and he needs to let his hair down at the end of the day, and the end of the year.  I get that. But it doesn’t seem like so much commitment to me; aye, there’s the rub, commitment. He wants freedom. He points out, somewhat correctly, that this would be the perfect camp for me – as an adult, not a kid.

 I had a session of Girl Scout camp in northern Connecticut, at seven or eight, and I was miserable.  Didn’t like the food, didn’t like the cold morning swims, didn’t like the forced activities.  All I really wanted to do was hang in my bunk and read Nancy Drew mysteries.  Fortunately, there was a counselor there who got it; some girls are not group kids all the time. My husband had session of a church camp in upper state New York, with some kids he knew, and he was miserably homesick, until he adjusted. Still a homebody; loves his routine, privacy and cleanliness.  He’s the one who suffered most when our oldest son went to a week of Scout Camp, half an hour from home, with lots of boys from his troop. Our son managed fine, not to say he loved its primitive conditions, but he got his badges, and enjoyed parts of it, while my husband couldn’t sleep in his own bed, thinking of our boy out there under the stars.

 For many of our friends, summer camp is a key component of growing up. Especially our Jewish friends, but also Armenians, and other scouting types.  The experience expands from one or two weeks when young, to the entire summer in early teens, and youth counselor as they get older. This is a way of life, and something the kids look forward to, perhaps even more than the grownups.  They can have a new identity and a new set of friends. They learn to cope on their own, make their own decisions (with guidance), get along with others, and take on leadership roles. It’s a chance to try and fail and learn, without terrible consequences. It expands who they are, and it’s fun.

 Not so much for us, nor much of our extended family. As one of the nieces said, “My mom wants to send me away to camp, but I won’t go.” As for my own, nuclear family, there was never one word about family camping; decent hotels for us. Not that there is no love or appreciate for nature. Not that we mind roughing a little when we travel.  We even enjoy trying new experiences on a cruise or a trip. My older son made the transition to college in good shape.  

 But not camp. It’s not in us, genetically, it would appear.  I can live with that, I can accept it, still it puzzles me. Is there something we’re missing, that I just don’t get?  So, I continue to stay on the mailing list for the Woods Hole camp, and every year the brochure comes, I dream, I show it to my son, and then I tuck it away.