Letters From Camp

When I was about 12, my parents sent me to a Ukrainian camp in the Catskills. The camp was part of a resort called Soyuzivka, which is still operating to this day. It's really a pretty resort.

My parents were quite wise in not telling me that the camp was going to take three weeks out of my glorious summer. I had important things lined up, like following around my town's road department as they paved and repaired our streets.  Like my stint with helping collect the garbage in my town (see my blog post entitled I Was a Child Garbageman) I was obsessed with what was called the Streets and Sewers department in my hometown of Hillside. I would drive my bike to their central garage in the morning, and then depending on my mood, follow and watch one of the crews doing their thing for the whole day. Riding along with Fred , who drove the street sweeper seemed to me to be a great way to spend the whole day. 

I realized quickly that somehow I was not fitting in at camp with my fellow campers. They were all 13 or 14 years old, and here I was only 12! I was quickly shunned with a tag of being a little kid. My parents friends send their kid to the camp as well. Unlike me, he was able to convince his parents that the camp was pretty horrible, and after the first week, they picked him up and took him home.  My letters written to my parents from camp begging to be pardoned from my three week  incarceration were ignored.  Despite my verbal protests when my parents came to visit after the first week, I was informed by them that I was doomed to stay the entire three weeks.

The director of the camp was a female ,who we had to address as Mrs. Commandant. I'm translating it from the Ukrainian version we used. As her title implied, she was a cross between a female Adolph Hitler and Cruella Deville. She led us in military style marches around the resort and one day caught me badmouthing her in front of my fellow campers. Needless to say, I was not one of her favorites

Before eating any meal. we had to say in unison, "Mrs. Commandant, Smatchnoho", which very loosely translated means we trust we will find this meal to be delicious.

After the first week passed and I realized I was going to serve my three week camp sentence, things did improve slowly. I did make somewhat of a friend and really liked several of the male camp counselors who acted like nice older brothers to me. We did go on some nice scenic hikes and cooled off in the big pool.

Like Allen Sherman's classic song about his experiences at the fictional Camp Grenada, 

I had  to agree that things were getting bettah, so like Allan Sherman:  Mom and Dad, kindly disregard this lettah.