My
mother was suspicious. “Why is this camp so cheap?” She examined the brochure:
“Oh, no pool.”
The
dining room table was piled with glossies from Camp Hillel, Massad, and Camp
Seneca Lake.
“All
my friends are going!”
This wasn’t true, but somehow I managed to finagle myself to Camp Moshava, and I can
tell you that back in 1975, there was no pool, no net on the tennis court or
under the basketball hoop, no white outlines on the soccer field to indicate
where the goals weren’t, no tether on the tetherball pole, and no ball, either.
The food was lousy, and all we did was hike.
Best
summer of my life.
What
Moshava had, that no other camp had, was the “Shmutz.”
The
Yiddish word for dirt, the Shmutz was
the ultimate camp-out: five days and nights of wilding in the woods.
The
minute you got to camp it was all about the Shmutz.
When was it coming? (Third week, usually.) How long would the hike be? (Between 10 and 15 miles) Who would you
share your tent with? (Hopefully, boys!) And, in later years—What if I get my
period during the Shmutz? (Happened
to some girl, always.)
The
young, strong and good-looking madrichim,
counselors, were all preparing to make Aliyah
to Israel the minute they finished college. They wore loose white shirts, big dirty
boots and Kabbalistic expressions. Their eyes sparkled, their long hair, tinged
with summer sun, swished like fringes of tzitzit, and the girls exuded an
irresistible sweaty promise of earnest days of hard field labor, and earthy
nights of fleshy, kibbutz kink.
The
hikes were excruciating. Uphill,
downhill, uphill, downhill along the dusty roads. We would beg to stop, for a swig
from our canteens.
Laggards would be warned, first in Hebrew, then in English, then
kicked in the tuches. Eveyone had to
keep singing.
Sof
sof, finally, finally, we would arrive at the site in the forest, which, we
always found out, was never more than 2 miles from camp. Aargh!
The
madrichim immediately set to work
building zip-lines, ropes courses and tree houses, that they would never allow
children on nowadays. They even created a “toilet” for the banot, girls; a square log-cabin box that you sat on, behind a
tree.
If
there was one thing in Moshava that saved this Queens girl-- who in her late
teens shopped at Bloomingdales and still later moved to Scarsdale-- from
spoilage, it was the following: I learned how to make my own tent.
Once
you make your own tent, from the clean pink blankets your mother packed you for
your bed that you have now spread on the leaves and dirt of the forest floor,
buttoned together with stones and rope, draped over sagging twine between two
trees, and staked down with sticks—your own tent that gaped and leaked as you
slept under it on the damp, root riddled ground with a flat stone for a
pillow-- you really can do anything.
And
more important, you really can do without anything.
My
friends Zimbo and Dov and I decided to use our collective charisma to create a
“Super Tent.” We teased and flattered, and soon enough, our spirited friends were
building us a five- room tent with a common area in the middle-- for the shul-shul party.
Meantime
we three got to work, picking all the blackberries that were growing right on
the edge of the forest, and hoarding them secretly in Zimbo’s sweaty baseball
cap.
After
that, our plooghot, groups, had to make dinner. We were divided
into eight groups of six, and given a metal grill, a bag of raw chicken, and a
bag of raw potatoes. And three matches.
We
were 11.
We
built a fire pit of large stones. We foraged in the forest and found dry tinder
for the kindling. We built our tinder pile under a teepee of small dry
branches.
We
ignited the first match down the zippered fly of one of the boys (try it!) and
got the tinder going. We packed the raw potatoes into a circle around the
flame. We crouched down and blew gently until the small branches caught fire.
Then we added larger branches and watched the fire get bigger and bigger. When
it died down a bit, we set the grill on top. When the fire turned to coals, we
laid the raw chicken on the grill.
We
died from anticipation. We ate the chicken, half raw, then we poked into the
fire for the potatoes and ate them, half raw, too.
Except
for the fires, it was pitch black. You could hear screams from the girls as the
boys tried to take a whiz too close to the tents. Or when they fell into the banot toilet.
Our
midnight shul-shul party was a smash
success, as everyone crowded into the tent to eat the blackberries, and touch
each other in the darkness.
Our
counselors were too busy in their own tents, coupling up, building a nation.
The
next day was shul-shul day, as
everyone who had eaten the berries got shul-shul,
diarrhea.
Of
course Zimbo, Dov and I had not eaten the berries. Heh. Heh. Heh.
I
think of this, now, so many, many years later, as my friends kvetch about the
summer price tag of their kids’ sleepaway camps.
No wonder; not only are there nets on the tennis courts, there are professional tennis coaches
who coach and professional umpires who ump. Even for the 8-year-olds.
There
are five story rock walls with safety harnesses. (Actually that’s a good
thing.) There are ice skating rinks and bumper car arenas. There is gluten free
and peanut free and balsamic.
Even
Moshava has a pool now.
A
few days ago, my 8-year-old twins were offered to go on a camping trip with
their friend’s family, here in Maine.
The
Dad showed me his gear: French
Press coffee maker, chairs that come with a cup holder for the pressed coffee,
a campfire stove with a rotisserie, a fold out picnic table, a multi-colored
hammock with protective mosquito netting, a generator powered fridge, and –
wait for it-- a generator powered TV.
Pretty
cool glamping, I thought.
Then
he showed me the bright yellow kids’ tent from L.L. Bean with push out windows ,
a gothic style waterproof roof, and a rugged vinyl floor that would fit all
three air mattresses.
I looked
at my kids, who were jumping up and down.
And
I felt sorry for them.
