I used to speak of my summers at Camp Winnebagoe in Ontario, Canada with glowing nostalgia. I spent 12 summers there, or about two full years, from age 12 to 23, as camper and then a counselor. Until a year ago, they were the most formative years of my life. Against an idyllic outdoor backdrop of sun-dappled paths lining a sparkling lake, I ran, played, sang, cheered, swam, skied, strived and made out with boys.
Then, last summer, I got to relive my early-90s glory, returning to my childhood camp as a guest theater director. The camp directors had long been prevailing upon me to return and, feeling weighed down by my blinkering media world of emails, tweets, texts, clicks and insta-asks, it finally seemed not only a possibility but a necessity. So I signed on for two shows, packed a pillow and a duffel bag, and walked on back through that familiar gate. Like fans excited for the debut of Wet Hot American Summer: First Day of Camp on Netflix Friday, I yearned for those lost, golden days. And, as it turns out, going to summer camp at 41 is much like going as a kid: I ran, played and sang. And made out with boys. Well, a boy.
Don’t worry, he wasn’t a camper – he was also a returning former staffer, a few years older than I. There’s an esteemed tradition at Winnebagoe of former staffers who actually worked in theater coming back to direct – and we bonded over the crazy time warp we’d plunged ourselves into. As I directed the younger kids in Little Shop of Horrors, he guided the tweens through Frozen. We had a lot in common: we both loved musicals, we were both in our 40s... OK, we had two things in common. But hey, that’s all we needed. In between blocking, rehearsing, rewriting and kids puking on stage (there was a stomach bug going around – isn’t there always?), we somehow managed to have an adorable, whirlwind romance.
Camp made me feel old and young simultaneously – everything was exactly the same, including how I felt there. I was like Matthew McConaghey with better intentions (“I get older, they stay the same age”), until I forgot about anyone’s age altogether. Time froze, and anything else outside that tiny, all-important community stopped mattering in the least.
Which is good, because I was busy. It doesn’t matter if you’re on Broadway or off-off-off-off-off-Broadway by way of Huntsville, Ontario – if you’re putting on a play, then lines must be learned, songs must be taught and dance numbers must be choreographed (or at the very least, clumps of kids must be placed in various places on the stage to music). The typical camp show had about a week of rehearsal time in between all the skiing, swimming, sailing, tennis, arts & crafts, canoeing, canoe tripping, riding, dancing, landsports and whatever special campwide programming they sprung on me that day. And I was something of a perfectionist. (If you have seen Wet Hot American Summer, think Amy Poehler’s character.)
About half the kids I was directing in Little Shop of Horrors were the offspring of people I knew, including the children of my three best childhood friends. The play was a smash. But working with those brilliant, lively, talented kids held a bittersweet twist: if my life had been different, I could have been there putting on plays with my own child. I loved my life, but it had led me down a different path. Spending day after challenging, joyful day in the theater with those kids was a constant reminder of the road not taken.
My opening nights came and went, and suddenly it was time for me to return to New York, and the adult world. The sweet camp romance that had been so magical inside those camp gates fizzled almost immediately beyond them. Our short-lived “showmance” was a delightful (and, come on, hilarious) sidebar to the summer – until I found out I was pregnant. Turned out that bittersweet twist had become the unexpected twist to my own summer story, and the best camp souvenir of all.
It’s a year later, and I’ve written most of this story while breastfeeding. My beautiful daughter is four months old, and I am no longer nostalgic for the past.
