The following article appeared in the Five Towns Jewish Times, and YWN thanks Larry Gordon for permission to reprint this:

By popular request, I am reminding grandparents everywhere—at least those grandparents who read this column – what a camp visiting day can be like. While I can’t speak for all camps any more than I speak for all grandparents, I’m once again sharing my own personal experience in an effort to spare others from the type of day I once endured. And it was only once, as I have never since ventured forth to any camp visiting day.

On a hot, sticky Sunday in July of 2002, I climbed aboard my children’s SUV and sat in a second-row seat. We were off to visit my three oldest grandchildren at camp. My immediate seatmates were the younger members of the family: a seven-year-old who was prone to carsickness, and a set of rambunctious four-year-old twins. Up front, which I ultimately came to think of as “first class,” my daughter and son-in-law turned the radio volume to high—presumably so they wouldn’t have to hear the gevaltis (noise) in “coach,” meaning my section.

I immediately noticed that we were headed in the wrong direction, and I asked why. “We’re stopping to get food for the trip,” answered the jolly duo up front. “Now why didn’t they pick up their rations before they came for me?” I asked myself. While the front-seat wisenheimers, who were to be our pilot and navigator for the day, were getting food and coffee, I was expected to remain in my seat and keep an eye on the little ones. This translated to 20 extra minutes of sitting in one spot. Perfect for my arthritic joints!

When the cockpit crew returned, they tossed the rations into my lap and handed me a cup of coffee, and off we went. That’s when I discovered that they had purchased sandwich fixings, not ready-made sandwiches. Obviously I would be on KP (kitchen patrol).

The aroma of freshly baked bagels set off appetite alarms, and within minutes the kids were clamoring for food. I planted a grandmotherly smile on my kisser, handed my untouched coffee back to the smart-alecks up front, and was suddenly as busy as a short-order cook in the dining car of a speeding Amtrak. The difference being that he has leg room, and stainless-steel serving pieces. I was given small plastic utensils, and was expected to make sandwiches while sitting cramped in a moving vehicle. If anyone has ever wondered how much egg salad can ooze through the hole of a bagel, feel free to call me. I can tell you!

The real fun started when the kids got thirsty. I located the juice boxes and began plunging small pointy-tipped plastic straws into a foil dot located on the box tops. If I ever get my hands on the sadist who invented this packaging I will personally strangle him. As careful as I was, every time I pushed a straw in, it made a splash, and by the time I was finished with beverage detail, my skirt sported a colorful array of orange juice, apple juice, and chocolate milk stains. Between that and the tuna, I smelled like a counterman at Zabar’s.

When I reached for the package of moist wipes that I had spotted earlier, I discovered that it had rolled far back under the third row of seats. The only way to get to it was to request that we pull over, stop the SUV, and open the rear hatch. Not wanting to prolong the journey one extra minute, I opted to live with sticky hands.

When we finally made a pit stop, I had three things in mind: wash my paws, clean my skirt, and get a cup of coffee to make up for the one I never got to drink because I was busy playing Hilda Hostess.

Four hours after our departure (possibly the longest four hours of my life), we arrived at the campgrounds. Everyone hopped out, stood up, and then watched in disbelief as I rolled none too gracefully out the door and struggled to an upright position—all this while my sunglasses kept fogging up in the unbearable humidity. As soon as I was perpendicular, I took one look around, spotted hills that resembled a cross between Pike’s Peak and the Canadian Rockies, and knew I was in trouble.

The first order of business was to visit the bunks—all of which were uphill, of course! Not wanting my family to think of me as old or infirm, I refrained from kvetching about being tired from the ride, and from mentioning that I wasn’t too sure-footed. Instead, I braved it. I marched off with the rest of them, and stumbled along, finding it a challenge just to remain upright.

Within minutes I was huffing and puffing. So, when anyone directed a question to me, I just smiled. Smiling was all I could do, since I was breathing like a racehorse, which made it hard to speak. I began to trail behind the others, and whenever one of them looked back to see why I wasn’t keeping up, I pretended to be admiring the scenery. Hah—some scenery! Hills, hills, and more hills! I fully expected to hear strains from The Sound of Music.

When I finally caught up with my chevrah (group) in the first bunk, I had to force myself to look at them, because all I could concentrate on were the beds. I ached to plop down on one of those mildewed cots and remain there for the rest of my life. But I didn’t share that thought. I knew that the visiting day game plan always includes a mandatory visit to each child’s bunk. Why, I don’t know, because they’re all identical.

Next on our agenda was to see the pool, stop at the arts-and-crafts shed, and then go to the lake. I was ecstatic to note that we would be heading downhill—until it occurred to me that we would eventually have to climb back up. That did it! I’d had my fill of mountain climbing, so I called it quits. No longer caring what anyone thought, I simply stated that I needed a rest. I would skip the lake, go sit in a chair on one of the lawns, and meet my family at the dining hall at noon. Nobody seemed terribly upset at my departure.

The shady area adjacent to the dining hall was located atop another incline. But this one was so steep I was sure I’d have a nosebleed by the time I reached the summit. It was only the thought of getting out of the sun and into a chair that propelled me forward. Eventually I reached my destination, but by the time I did, I fully expected to keel over from heat exhaustion. I wasn’t that lucky.

Instead, I fell into the nearest chair and nearly wept with relief to be sitting. An hour later, the loudspeaker came to life, with the announcement that it was lunch time; I opened my eyes to see hordes of people advancing on the dining room, looking as if they hadn’t eaten in days. It reminded me of the exodus from shul after Yom Kippur. I spotted my gang; we grabbed a table, unpacked our lunch, and dug in.

After lunch, we spread blankets on the lawn, and when everyone stretched out for a short rest, I reclaimed my chair. Getting up from the ground wasn’t my strong suit!

Thirty minutes later, the family was rejuvenated and ready to see the remaining campgrounds. All shame was gone by now, so when the others left, I stayed put. It occurred to me that I might grow roots in the chair, but I was willing to take the risk. Anything was preferable to more mountain-climbing and negotiating a terrain dotted with holes that were hidden in the grass.

The loudspeaker crackled to life to announce that visiting day was officially over. I was so overjoyed that I briefly considered doing a horah. But I lacked the energy. The only thing that could have given me greater pleasure would have been wearing Dorothy’s red shoes, clicking them together, and waking up in my own bed! Although there were no sandwiches to be made or juice boxes to be opened, still, I didn’t look forward to the ride home.

Along the way, we stopped for ice cream—to be eaten in the car, of course. What did my children care if the kids’ ice cream melted all over the place? They were sitting in front, remember? But this time around I was smarter; I held onto the moist wipes for dear life.

I was told that we encountered traffic, but I was unaware of it because by that time I had fallen asleep. My last conscious thought before dozing off was, “I am never doing this again.” And, true to my word, I am a loving and devoted savta who, for the past six years, has given a resounding “No!” when asked if I’d be going up to see my grandchildren on visiting day.

I love them all dearly, but as the old song goes, “I’ll See You in September.” Stay tuned and, again by popular request, next week I’ll tell you how to handle any guilt associated with skipping the camp visiting-day scene.
Hannah Berman lives in Woodmere and is a licensed real-estate broker associated with Marjorie Hausman Realty. She can be reached at [email protected] or 516-902-3733.