Every time my kids complain about summer camp, I wish I could take them back to the summer of 1983, when I was 11.
They could hang out in Yreka, where the only things going on for me were trips to Ringe Pool, the occasional day jaunt to Jones Beach (not THAT Jones Beach – a sandpile off the Scott River), playing on the hill behind my house, the responsibility of my then 8-year-old brother, and entertaining my mom. I’m grateful for my friend Devanie, who kept me sort of sane.
(That’s me in 1983 rocking the argyle socks with short shorts while Devanie gets to swim…)
They could experience the pain of no home electronics, no internet (NO YOUTUBE! THE HORROR!), 13 channels, and the boring drive to Medford in order to visit a mall. They could pluck cheat grass from my dog Macc’s paws. They could – gasp! – ride their bikes a few miles to TJ’s Pizza in order to play video games (at a quarter a turn – not cheap!).
Instead, I get to hear how they wish they could stay home so Pooka could watch YouTube and Boy could play on the Xbox and how life isn’t fair and why don’t we let them have sugar cereal anymore and how they would be really good and not fight and blah, blah, blah.
JUST. GET. DRESSED.