Summer Camp

Two weeks ago, I participated in the re-creation of the Invasion of Normandy. Of course, that's not what it was called and I didn't go to France to do it. More important, I hadn't planned on an invasion at all. I just thought we were taking the kids to Summer Camp.

Having never been to camp as a kid, a stigma that has haunted me my entire life and which ultimately contributed to my half-baked career as a whining and complaining columnist, I had no way to gauge what was involved. As it turned out, the process of readying and delivering three girls to camp is about as complex as organizing a major military campaign.

Admittedly, the folks who run the camp tried to be helpful, particularly to first timers like us. In other words, they provided documentation. Imagine a set of instructions that is something on the order of an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica's'. But only imagine it if you're old enough to have actually seen a set.

Fortunately, my wife assumed all responsibility for reviewing the materials and handling the packing. As it turned out, it took around a month to properly catalogue, assemble, label, wash, fold, sort, categorize, inspect and pack all the clothes. And although I was not directly involved in the onerous task, I tried to make some helpful observations.

Actually, I only made one observation. It had to do with why each kid needed to take all the clothes they had ever owned plus some clothes they borrowed from the neighbors for a seven day trip to the woods. I withdrew my observation after my wife, along with my daughters, looked at me like I was a subterranean lizard creature. After that, I found the sports page of the newspaper and crawled back under my rock.

The day we launched the invasion was when I first suspected that maybe my kids were actually circumnavigating the globe. When I asked my wife about the thick ropes tied around each trunk, she said, "Oh, those are for the crane to use to lift them into the back of the truck."

"But we don't have a crane," I pointed out a little nervously.

"Hmm," she paused, and then added, "Well, I guess they're for you then."

Once I started moving the trunks, I understood why my wife had not required my help in packing - it gave her the chance to secretly load dozens of blocks of solid lead into each trunk. While the girls were painting their nails, I was experiencing the humiliation of being physically dragged down the stairs by the trunks three separate times. After I wrestled the invasion force into the back of the truck, we set sail.

When we got there, we had to wait a couple of hours for the check-in. And that's when I learned all I needed to know about packing for girls going to camp. While we were waiting, all three girls managed to change their clothes at least twice in a never-ending attempt to find the correct "fashion zone". Realizing that it was entirely possible that they hadn't packed enough clothes made me feel a little faint.

After we said our goodbyes, my wife dropped me off at a special camp for fathers with daughters. It's called Camp Hernia. That's where they explain the anatomy of hernias and the latest surgical repair techniques. They also provide financing information on renting cranes and hiring moving companies. But the part I liked the best was the demonstration on how to temporarily repair multiple hernias until you can check into the hospital.

It's amazing what you can do with a roll of duct tape. I'll never launch another invasion without one.