The other day I wake up and the air is exactly that air of camp when you first wake up in the morning.

There’s nothing like this air.

This air is the car ride up to the mountains snuggled in the backseat while my parents sit up front. A trunk packed with labeled clothes and treats. Towels that would be thrown out bathing suits that stay on the line outside the bunk in the rain until they blow away. Bats in the rafters and flashlights after hours under the covers. The lake the rowboats the lily pads the paddles get stuck in. Hikes through cornfields.

Growing from a child to a teenager.

Every school year seemed only a tunnel that led to these times.

There are other memories in life as well.

Walking to shul with my father on Yom Kippur passing McDonald’s and Dunkin’ Donuts and knowing that we’re not of those.

Purim carnivals and the goldfish in the plastic bag that always seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

And Anna the woman in the white apron who set up kiddushim on long metal tables in the shul’s kitchen.

All these memories come every time the scene replays itself in some way or a certain smell wafts by.

This past Purim someone told me the story of their meal. They had invited over a group of boys who used to be chassidishe but left their peyos behind and ran to the world.

One boy came in with a tattoo on his arm that read: “If I am not for myself then who is for me?” Another came from a famous chassidishe family in Meah Shearim. Another from an American family.

The seudah began in the regular way. Trays of food were set out and bottles of wine.

The boys enjoyed the food and after finishing off a few bottles of wine began to sing.

At first they sang popular radio songs though in Hebrew not Yiddish. After about two of these songs one starts a niggun and the others follow. Niggun after niggun poured from their souls as they sang and sang. And this woman said she cried and cried.

Then they all got up to dance. They moved all the tables and chairs and danced chassidishe dances for half an hour straight.

The woman said “It was the most beautiful sight I ever saw.”

When the boys finally sat back down the one with the tattoo said out of breath “This is the greatest Purim I ever had.”

The woman who hosted said “What got me most about the whole thing was how no matter how they look on the outside these boys are frum because it’s tattooed on their souls.”

Like when I go outside and see a tree or breathe the pure morning air and am returned to childhood.

Just like Shavuos. We were all there at Sinai we all heard the words we all smelled the air.

Last Erev Pesach I called a friend to wish her a kosher and happy one. Just as I called she was debating whether to bake brownies or just leave it. “My Pesach brownies always come out rubbery” she says putting down her baking abilities. Then one of her sons who must have overheard the conversation says “I love those rubber brownies!”

“You love the rubber brownies?” My friend is shocked.

“Yeah” two other sons chime in.

My friend thought she was a failure at baking Pesach brownies but found out that those rubber brownies were actually already a cherished part of her children’s childhood memories of Mommy Pesach love and home.

One day those boys might buy some expensive brownies somewhere in fancy packages but those won’t hit the spot.

Just like nothing else can take the place of Torah for us because we were all there at Sinai we all heard the words we all smelled the air. Nothing in the world can replace it.

Just like those Rubber Brownies.