Sleepaway Camp

Two days after the school year ended, I was sent away to a Jewish sleepaway camp in the Catskill Mountains, also known as the Jewish Alps. The term “sent away” is also used when one is shipped off to prison. I was 10 when my parents sent me away for a full eight weeks. 

For many of us New York kids, summer camp was our yearly break from the sweltering heat and concrete jungle, and instead of an open fire hydrant, the swimming pool at camp was amazing. Baseball on real grass and actual dirt. Tetherball, tennis, swimming with tadpoles and frogs. And living with a variety of bugs and wildlife other than rats, roaches, and alley cats. And no parents. Some kids missed their parents, some could not get rid of them fast enough. I vacillated between the two.

I noticed the kid who prayed the hardest was the one who was usually hit in the head with a hardball and was sent back home with a lump on his head.

We marched to the flagpole at 7 A.M.  to salute, say the Pledge of Allegiance and then mumble our morning prayers. I noticed the kid who prayed the hardest was the one who was usually hit in the head with a hardball and was sent back home with a lump on his head. Then it was off to gruelfast, usually powdered eggs, stale cereal, and warm milk with dead mosquitos floating on top. Prepared flawlessly by some of the country’s top 16-year-old, Jewish, acne-faced chefs. 

If it rained, we’d watch a movie shown on a wrinkled white sheet, or arts and crafts which was lanyard making, and bingo to get us ready for old age. A future Jewish accountant who could not count always yelled “Bingo!” when they didn’t have it. 

No calling home until the fourth week, unless there was an emergency. Like in the old prison movies, two dial pay phones were attached to the canteen wall. We were limited to a three-minute collect call. If your parents didn’t answer your call, there was always some idiot kid who told you they were dead. 

There was one parent visiting day during the eight weeks, and if a kid’s parents didn’t show up, word spread that their parents didn’t like them. On visiting day, the camp notched the food up to a C+. 

Parents were allowed to send care packages twice during the summer. When my first one didn’t arrive like everyone else’s, now-billionaire Barry Silverman told me that my parents moved and that I’d have to live at the camp forever. I was much relieved when my package eventually did show. I offered none of my provisions to Barry, short-sheeted him, and dropped Daddy Longlegs on his face and down his throat while he was asleep. Eventually, they moved him to another bunk. 

Unless you took out someone’s eye with a rock or kept pushing kids who couldn’t swim out of their canoe, it was hard to be sent home. But let’s face it, for the most part, what happens in sleepaway camp stays in sleepaway camp.

My favorite was the bunk raids and of course Color War. None of the bunks were ever locked. A raid consisted of stealing an article of clothing and then hanging it from the flagpole. It always got returned. During Color War, we learned the valuable lesson that if someone beats you at something you can still be good friends with them. 

Most of us kids had no idea what sleepaway camp was offering us. Besides fun and bad food, it was the first opportunity for many of us to spend some real time away from our homes. It was a chance to make new friends and grow up simply by separating us from our parents and siblings for a few weeks. 

When I returned from a summer away, I was a different person. I was tan, more mature, though I still had at least 30 more years until people stopped asking when I would grow up. The food at home was like dining in a Michelin five-star restaurant compared to the powdered eggs and bug juice that I had gotten used to over the summer.

My wife and I sent our boys to sleepaway camp. We loved them, but it was a pleasure to be rid of them for a few weeks. Just like my parents felt.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and host of the ‘You Don’t Know Schiff’ podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”