Smells Like Camp

Another summertime camper favorite was Mock Trial.  No one knew beforehand who would be called upon to defend themselves against insidious crimes such as taking too many showers or stealing extra cookies from the afternoon snack.  It is no surprise that Mock Trial was also a Mr. Kevin favorite.  Acting as one of three judges, donning a French Napoleonic hat resplendent with feathers running across it and then worn sideways, ridiculous punishments were handed down to the delight of campers and counselors alike.  One year, my brother who had recently become the proud owner of a bright metallic blue Z28 Camaro, dubbed as Runaround Sue, was accused of being madly in love with her.  The appropriate sentence was deemed a swift and lawful marriage to said car.  My brother was given a top hat and tails and waited for his lovely bride.  The car then made an appearance in a beautiful white veil and accepted my brother’s sincere proposal to take care of her all the days of her life.  Her acceptance was made clear by a series of melodious honks.

Each summer brought its own series of heart breaks on the dance floor, victories on the tennis court, new swimming techniques learned in the chilly waters ofPeconicBayand awards earned around the campfire.  But, every night ended the same way.  All the campers and counselors would make a circle, cross arms, hold hands and sway back and forth.  Mr. Kevin would be standing in the middle of the circle and lead us all in our evening song…

Far above Peconic Waters.

Wawokiye dear.

Those who help and those who serve,

Come from far and near.

Shout the name — tis Wawokiye.

Loyalty we pay.

For the happy, carefree hours

Of our summer stay.

(Followed by taps…)

Day is done.

Gone the sun.

From the bay,

From the hills,

From the sky.

All is well.

Safely rest.

God is nigh.

Then Mr. Kevin would bellow in an authoritative and fatherly voice, “Good night campers!”

It is this time of year especially when there are many days that “smell like camp” and so many vivid memories come flooding back.  Even though I’m in my forties now and that little redheaded girl with the pigtails seems like a stranger, one good whiff of the air and I’m nine years old all over again. Now that my Dad is gone, I get a lump in my throat from “smells like camp”, but it still makes me smile from ear-to-ear.