Looking back, it was just five summers ago when my dad and I went
to theme camps, to pursue our separate interests. For dad, it was
pro football camp where the champs showed they had a lot of heart
and patience for the middle-aged football lovers. For me, it was the
stamp collecting camp I’d always dreamed about where guys from
all over the world came together to show and trade their stamps, mounted
in albums, in all different colors, shapes and sizes.
It was agreed. We would each follow our bliss and compare notes at
the end of the summer.
Camp Stamp Jamboree was on a lake with a raft you could swim out to,
surrounded by shady pines. The main building was air-conditioned to
protect the stamps. There was an indoor pool, and a small house where
the owner lived all year round.
When I first went into the main building to explore, six guys had
their heads bowed closely together at a long table with tweezers and
magnifying glasses at each place. Stamps were spread all over. No
one looked up.
“New kid?” one guy mumbled.
“Yeah,” I said and pulled up a chair.
Dante, a cool looking guy got up to leave. “Anybody seen Dani,
today?” We all glumly shook our heads from side to side, without
looking up. The moment her name came to his lips, she appeared at
the climate-controlled entrance-way. Her sandy blonde curls looked
like a wind blown Afro and she was wearing their favorite nubby tube
top in hot pink. When she sat down to show her collection Dante changed
his mind about leaving.
“We haven’t seen everything you’ve got.” Alex
opened cautiously.
“I know.” Dani sighed as she opened her album and darted
her tiny fingers across the pages. Each finger had a different color
on artificial nails. No one could look away. All heads were bowed.
Dante slapped his album closed and announced, “I’m going
for a swim.”
We all rose in unison and filed out.
At the edge of the lake we all gazed at the raft dreamily, dropped
our clothes and started out with a lazy breast stroke. Dani dropped
her little top, but not her little bottom. At the raft we all helped
her with sun screen and laid there watching clouds until suppertime.
I didn’t think about my dad until the evening of the last day
at Jamboree, but when my small plane touched down at the landing field
near his training camp, I knew he’d be running toward the plane
like a linebacker. Everyone followed that bouncing ball. He was tops
in sales. His big bear hug was for me this time and his grin bubbled
over into a string of tales of football camp.
He stopped for a breath and asked, “How was stamp camp?”
I gazed off at a pine tree over his right ear and said, “Cool,
Dad, cool.”
Not all rich kids are spoiled, but some experiences
in their world are not shared with anyone.
