Some kids went to a swim camp. Others went to a tennis camp.
For those that didn’t go to sleep-away there was CYO day camp. My sleep-away camp was run by Lutheran
Sisters and they were from Germany. The
one in charge of the girl’s side was a compact powerhouse called Sister
Gertrud. She was short and robust,
grey-haired, had large brown eyes and wore black-framed glasses. She was a no-nonsense, firm but kind woman
with a sly sense of humor. Our Bible
teacher, Sister Margret, was tall, had
Strawberry-blonde hair, a Rosey complexion and watery blue eyes. She was soft-spoken, mild-mannered and affectionate
when we needed comforting.
They wore light cotton dress in colors of white and pale
blue with a flower-printed pinafore and cap.
Our counselors were twenty-somethings that took us on hikes and
hayrides, taught us to sing and swim. I
was around seven or eight years old the two times I spent part of the summer
there. Never very athletic as a child, I
gravitated towards making crafts, playing jacks and running around
barefoot. It was the first time in my
short life I thought about salvation.
It’s hard to believe how fervently I prayed to the point of tears that
my father wouldn’t go to hell and that my brother wouldn’t die in the Vietnam
War.
It was the first time I thought of my life’s purpose. Suddenly inspired to want to do something meaningful
with my life, I wondered what I could do.
To a kid like me joining The Peace Corps sounded like it would be a
worthwhile goal or ambition. What did I
know?
The second year at Camp Sunshine, located in Liberty
Corners, New Jersey, I suffered terribly with Hay fever (actually had a high
temperature) and a bout of homesickness.
My parents came to bring me home and I didn’t return, yet those days and
weeks left such an indelible mark on me.
Decades later I would still come across some of the crafts I made there: clothes hangers decorated with colored braids
I made for my mom or a wallet I embellished similarly for my dad.
I can never eat sweet corn on the cob without a fond memory
of Sister Gertrud pulling my leg a little.
She knew I was not very happy with the food and once when I asked her
what we’d be having for dinner she replied blithely, “horsemeat.” I didn’t take it too seriously but there was a
a little more trepidation on my part afterwards at mealtimes.
As luck would have it, I had made a friend from East Orange,
New Jersey and our bond could be mostly attributed to our proximity at the
dinner table where my rations would very often end up on her plate. This was not due to any largesse on my
part. I simply didn’t like a lot of the
grub, horsemeat or not. It never would
have occurred to me that the food here could be better or more plentiful than
what a kid ate the rest of the time. I
had never been to East Orange.
This was also where I had my first experience of being
bullied. One of the more athletically
inclined campers, who happened to be a bruiser, was fiercely loyal to our
counselor. Knowing how I tried to eschew
anything competitive, I suspect I may have been disgruntled and said something
uncomplimentary about the counselor that I would instantly regret. “If looks could kill, I’d be dead.”
This may very well have contributed to my homesickness since
I became even less of a happy camper once I became her target. Up to then most days were sunny and
bright I enjoyed playing different
games, singing new songs and running without shoes. Who knows how many years later it dawned on me
but I never forgot Sister Gertrud or Sister Margret who showed me no favoritism
because my mother spoke to them in their native tongue or was brought up with
Sisters like them in their home land?
These women were disciples, teachers, evangelists and living examples of
the joy and peace that comes through dedicated and loving service. I’d say my parents got their money’s
worth. Would you?
Yvonne A.
Aug. 2021
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