Summer Cramp

The Gay Uncle noticed that the venerable New York Times ran an article this weekend about how summer camps are having to change up their routines to cater to the current generation of parents. He didn’t bother to read the piece–the photo of a bunch of anxious women keening to get their children’s attention from behind the roped-off camp entrance before the start of visitor’s day was enough to let him know that it was going to be another screed about our contemporary breed of uptight, manipulative, egocentric, overprotective, micromanaging, neurotic, backstabbing moms and dads. Gunc says, kudos to the old gray lady for shooting this barreled fish, not only because he loves reading spirited denunciations (read: headlines) concerning his target demographic, but because it reminded him that he’d planned to write about camp the other week, but was distracted by getting drunk with his friends on the Cape. Whoops!

When their nine nieces were still infants and toddlers, The G.U. and his boyfriend Tal started hatching a long-term plan to eventually host a week-long retreat for all of these girls, to be held at their house upstate. They even hoped to build a cabin on a piece of property they own across the road to accommodate the campers. They cleared a path up to the site. They asked a friend to create a modular design. And in true gay fashion, they even designed a logo for Girls’ Camp (involving log letters) and an activities schedule (spitting, smoking, swearing, sawing, sewing). But as the nieces aged up, the Guncles avoided bringing the plan to fruition. Tal’s sister Lizzie finally confronted them by the tree during a family Christmas a few years back. “You two were so gung ho about Girl’s Camp. Why didn’t you ever start it up?” The G.U. glanced over at his nieces, who were engaged in a shouting match about who received the most Christmas gifts. “Well. We met the girls.”

Fast forward to this year, when four of the Guncles’ nieces coincidentally ended up attending the same sleep-away camp. Being the dutiful G.U.’s that they are, he and Tal sent letters to the girls at their bunk, describing their own summer activities (write, bike, drink, sleep, repeat), inquiring after theirs, and asking if there was anything they needed. Recalling the glories of sharing in the contraband received by other kids when they were boys at camp (their parents not having been the kind to send a single fucking thing), the Gay Uncles plotted purchases: whistle pops for sending secret signals between cabins, gummy eyeballs for grossing out the prissy campers, licorice ropes that could be tied into edible lanyards–or nooses! Eventually, they received a response. Only the most dutiful of the nieces–Amber–had managed to write back, but she failed to include a booty shopping list. This felt suspicious. So once she was home from Unicorn Village, the G.U. gave her a ring and asked for an explanation. “We’re not allowed to receive candy or any off-limits items,” she said, somewhat robotically. “That’s the whole idea,” Gunc said. “We sneak it in to you. That’s what makes it fun.” The girl paused and lowered her voice as if concerned that someone might be listening in. “They open our packages,” she whispered. “They open all our mail.” The G.U. thought to write a letter to the camp director, the local Unicorn Village newspaper, or even the Postal Police, with a tirade about protecting the time honored tradition of sending junky treats to campers, not to mention the sanctity of the U.S. mail. But, given the nature of our hideous times, he figured that the girls’ parents had probably had to sign away their privacy rights in the name of protecting campers from bio-terror or online predators. “Next year, if you go back to that came” he told his niece, “I’m sending you a metal file.”