Long ago, I subscribed to the fantasy that, after working 24 hours a day for a week straight, I would have enough energy to write a lucid account of my experiences at Jew Camp. Just as foolishly, I promised that I would spend a half an hour of my precious time off sharing my stories when I wanted to be as far away from camp as possible, both physically and mentally. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
And it's sad that I didn't have the fortitude because this summer yielded tons of interesting tales. A short list:
- Suicidal campers
- My first encounter with Workman's Comp
- Severe ankle injuries
- Writing sermons
- Budding rockstars in my bunk
- Insights from a girls' camp
- Tears, tears, tears
- Harmonica jam sessions
- Battles with the Red Cross
- Israeli sob stories
It goes on.
Should I kick myself over this? Probably not. It's not like I can't write these entries at a later date when I invariably run out of ideas. Stories aren't like the milk that my brother leaves sitting out in the basement; they don't spoil. If anything, they get better. Entertaining embellishments cultivated from numerous tellings don't hurt in the least... might even yield some deep insights. Or not. Whatever.
So while I wasn't able to keep this promise, I'll venture another one: I will one day share all of my stories under the title "Tales from Jew Camp." I mean, eventually my friends are going to tire of my constant camp chatter and the Internet can't lock you in your closet to get away from your stories.