Hundreds of girls in colored T-shirts, yellows, greens, blues. I came out of the car and stood in the hubbub in my stiff British clothes. A straight skirt, a belt. I didn’t get the memo about the T-shirts. I had a whole suitcase full of proper, formal outfits. Gulp.

But I was going to be a counselor, and there was so much to do — meet the directors, find my bunk, introduce myself to my young charges.

I did all that in a daze. Met my co-counselor and was off with a bunch of sixth graders to supper. Only supper wasn’t so much about eating — the singing counselors came on stage, and the dining room dissolved into a cheer. Voices rose and soared over my head. I didn’t know the chants and songs, yet, somehow, I had to lead my bunk. The other counselor was sweet and soft-spoken; of the two of us, it was clear I was leader. But in that dining room swirling with song, I was out of my depth.

Had I been wrong about coming? About camp?

I went down to the shack where the pay phones were housed and called my mom. Then I called a friend. In the off-time that we counselors had, I frequented the shack. And I started to count down the days until I could go home.

3 weeks 6 days. 3 weeks 5 days.

Each night down I counted down. One night, we went on a night trip, and maybe that was the night I forgot to count. That night I realized that hey, the counselor of the adjoining bunk was my speed, and maybe a couple of other people were too. I got busy with cantata — singing and motions and music and dance. The girls wanted to hear stories from far-off England.

Then came visiting day, the halfway mark. I’d made it this far, why was I still counting down?

One day in the pay phone shack, after too many phone calls, I heard a rustle. It was a mouse right there in between the phones and the door. I fled for my life.

There went my hideout. I wasn’t doing this anymore. And maybe there were other things to do instead. Join a skit with the other counselors, learn a dance even if the steps were different here.

On the last day, the girls put on their city clothes, and for once, I finally fit in — I’d been wearing city clothes all along. As my campers packed up, as the place began to clear out, to my surprise, I found myself in tears.

I cried because it had been bittersweet, because my expectations had been made of candy floss. I cried because I’d taken to counting down the days, but somewhere, somehow, I’d made connections, the campers had touched my life and I theirs. We were all going our separate ways but maybe, just maybe, these weeks of camp had counted after all. 4

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 795)