summer camp musings, and the all-butter pie crust dough, revisited

Madeline wanted to attend a sleep away camp this past summer, but I didn’t let her go. I couldn’t imagine having her gone for an entire week. She would miss home too much. We would miss her too much.

Back when I was a kid, probably Madeline’s age or a little older, I wanted to go to camp in the summer. I remember pouring over brochures for camps in other states, far away states like North Carolina and Maine, and I investigated attending the YMCA’s Camp McConnell here in North Florida. As I debated the merits of each camp, my thoughts were filled with images of singing songs around a campfire, roasting marshmallows for s’mores, boating in the lake, and horseback riding. And then I thought about being away from my parents for an entire two weeks. I chickened out. I never went to summer camp.

When the flyer from Camp McConnell came home in her backpack a month ago, Madeline begged us to let her go. Not wanting her to have the same regrets I did, I agreed. After all, it was just for two nights, not fourteen.

In the weeks that passed after I signed the registration and paid the fee, I offered to let her back out of going. Just in case she was getting the jitters, like I was. But she wasn’t. Unlike me, Madeline was resolute in her decision, and she wasn’t nervous about being away from home at all. And as we dropped her off early Friday evening, she radiated with excitement…and independence.

Sixteen years ago today, I turned 24 years old. On that same day, around 2:30 in the afternoon, I sat with my boyfriend in the east stands at Florida Field, watching the end of the first half of the football game and anticipating a much needed trip to the bathroom that I would take during halftime. On that sunny, unseasonably cool day, we sat in seats number 1 and 2 on row 69 in section 37. I know this because I saved the ticket stub, an orange and white piece of cardstock with a thin blue border, a little bigger than the size of a movie ticket.

Florida was playing Auburn that day, October 19, 1996, and the Gators, coached by Steve Spurrier at the time, were undefeated and handing out routine beatings to opposing teams. It was a good time to be a Florida Gator.

My parents were at the game, as they always were on home game Saturdays, sitting high up in the southwest corner of the stadium, catty corner from us. I was living in an apartment off campus back then, finishing up my post-baccalaureate pre-med classes and working full-time to pay for them. Because I was a student, with an address that changed almost yearly while I was in college, I still received mail at my parents’ house. A letter had come for me, my father told me before the game, and he and my mom had brought it with them to the game for me to pick up. I made plans to meet them at the end of halftime.

I recall that bathroom trip vividly, even though nothing newsworthy happened in there. That bathroom break is mostly memorable for what came after, for what I almost missed. If I had spent any extra time in the bathroom, or perhaps stopped to buy a Coke from the concession stand, I would have missed the banner that flew over Ben Hill Griffin Stadium, the banner flying behind a small white plane making its last loop around the stadium before flying off to the west.

a spirit-lifting banana bread

We missed a Gator football game last weekend, despite having had season tickets for years and years.  It was a big deal, missing that particular game, the Florida-LSU game.

I’ve been known to skip a game or two – okay, maybe even three – during the college football months. My usual reasons are: (1) work; or (2) the game will be over too late; or (3) it’s too darn hot; or (4) I just want to stay home and bake something and write and sit quietly, in a quiet house, with air conditioning, and access to clean bathrooms. My husband, though, he never skips a home game. Like, ever, in 20-plus years.

Sam injured his back a couple of months ago, during a workout, when he heard and felt a pop during one of the exercises. Over time, his symptoms worsened, an MRI showed a nasty ruptured disc, and he’s now seen an orthopedic surgeon and a neurosurgeon. There was an epidural injection last week (fingers-crossed that it was fungus-free), and there may be surgery in the future.

So we stayed home last weekend and skipped the game.