Post 2: Camp--My Home

It’s my home.  Ever since I was a little girl, this is where I’ve gone.  Just about every summer, without fail.  I met my best friend here.  You can’t miss him: the kind of short one; crazy as anything.  I met him in the Beitam.  I was just sitting there on the bleachers when he walked up and said hi.  I had met him before, but never thought much of him.  He’s now the one person in my life who I have no secrets with.  We tell each other everything.

We spent that summer linked as if we were conjoined twins.  In the Hadar, we were forced to be separated.  But that was only meal times.  When it was swim time, he had to go to the pool when I had to go to the lake and he had to go to the lake when I had to go to the pool.  Ah, the lake.  Murky and cold.  The blob was everyones favorite.  The water trampoline just hovering out in the middle, all alone.  The canoes and kayaks littered across the smooth surface.  I never really went in.  I always sat on the side playing cards with my friends.

In later summers, Macom Nachshonim was our favorite spot to go.  People were almost never there.  It was our spot.  It was special.  We went there whenever we could: hill time, perech zien, and even on Shabbat.  The memories it brings back are wonderful ones.

Then there was the tree house.  The opposite of Macom Nachshonim.  You know, out by the baseball field.  On the far side of the lake.  I know you’ve been there.  How could you not have been?  People were always there.  Everyone knew the spot.  We would come here to tell stories and relax.  People never believed us when we told them that we had just been talking.  That was because we were always late for services.

I showed him my secret places.  It always seemed as if they were hidden deep in the woods, yet, in reality, they were almost in plain sight.  It was like magic.  You could see out, but they couldn’t see in.  Six Chairs.  There were so many rumors about this spot.  I doubt many of them even happened.  But they make good stories.

Havdalah.  The one experience of camp you can never forget.  The sun has set and the whole camp joins in song.  You hug you neighbors, even if you don’t know them. The Sabbath is over.  The camp breaks out in song and dance.  These moments define camp.  These, you can never forget.  This experience cannot even be described in words.  And I am ashamed of myself for attempting to do so.  Seeing the Gesher kids cry on their last Shabbat.  They will not return the next year.  This is the end for them.  It has been a great ride though.  And it was all worth it.

This is camp.  This is my home.

Post 1: Saba's Funeral

         We arrived and she welcomed us into her home.  She had been crying; we could tell.  The rest of the family arrived over the next few hours and we sat and socialized.  A man entered whom I did not recognize.  He was there to tell us what was planned for tomorrow: the day of the funeral.

         We sat in the back room all huddled together.  Some of us were crying already.  She wasn’t yet.  I watched as they went through the traditional ceremonies: my dad ripped Saba’s tie (he was wearing it) but my grandma, she ripped the black cloth that had been given to her.  They would never throw these things away.  Tradition.
         It was time.  Grammy leading, we entered the sanctuary.  In it, sat 3,000 people, there to comfort us.  They were there for closure.  They were there for her; we all were.
         The eulogies began (there were seven total) and tears started streaming down her face.  Hour after hour, we sat there listening to what they had to say about him.  It was all an understatement.  My saba was an amazing man, and no words could express that.
         It was my brother’s turn.  Of all the cousins, he had been chosen.  He was the one with the closest link to Saba.  He didn’t talk for long, maybe ten minutes at most.  But what he had to say was the most important, most meaningful thing we had heard all day.
         Towards the end, he began to weep.  My brother!  Crying?  It was unheard of!  Here he was, in front of 2,500 people. (Many people had left, but the people who needed to hear it were still there).  Here he was, the one person who had tried for so long to not show weakness or emotion.  Here he was, crying.  In front of 2,500 people.  But right now, being here, that didn't matter at all to him.
         It meant the world.  When he returned to his seat, we surrounded him, congratulated him, comforted him.

         At the cemetery, we shoveled in the dirt.  She did all three of hers with the back side of the shovel.  Tradition.  It was to show our reluctance to let go.  Symbolism.  The mud made it difficult; I could barely do one scoop backwards, but I managed.  My cousin, Josh, tossed in a note.  He needed that last goodbye.  Symbolism.  I, being the youngest cousin, grandchild, was told that I was to keep and tell all the stories of my saba.  Tradition.  There were so many, but others wold help me.  I just knew it.

         Back at home, we sat Shiva for the week.  Tradition.  I couldn't stay at home this week, but I came back every day for the service.  We covered the mirrors, all of them.  Tradition.  People would come over every night.  We, with them, would pray.  Tradition.  They wore the black cloths they had ripped; the tie.  Tradition.  They brought us food so we could focus on what really mattered: Saba.  Tradition.  People would apologize: "I'm sorry." "I'm so sorry for your loss."  Nothing.  This isn't about me.  Don't be sorry.  Don't be sorry!  Be glad that he had a long, fulfilling life.  He died doing something that he loved.  Isn't that good enough?  He had said his last goodbyes.  He had moved on.  So shouldn't we do him that one last favor and do the same?  And if not for him, then for us.


Sadness.  Closure.  Symbolism.  Tradition.  Here.  Gone.  Nothing.