Like any other family road trip, this had to start with an invasive procedure because SOB needed to make sure that I was healthy enough to drive 8 hours to Cape Cod for family orientation weekend at camp. (SOS is going this summer; I am not, although in my mind, I am at Wingate, 1972-81.)
Of course, SOB had to take a picture of the ENT doctor’s putting the scope up my nose and down my throat. The doctor waited about a second after he injected a numbing agent to start the scope. Needless to say, I felt everything.
After the scope, SOB declared me fit for travel.
“I feel so much better now that we had this procedure done.”
“Who ‘we’, [SOB]? I was the one with that camera up my nose and down my throat!!”
“Details,” concluded SOB in a most satisfied manner.
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It was an epic schlep to cold and rainy Yarmouth. I forgot that camp is outdoors. Even when we were in the bunks, we were not that much removed from nature and all those creepy, crawly things. And, certainly, not the cold and wet weather.
SIDEBAR: I was (must have been) far more rugged as a child. Now, I merely whimper in the drizzle.
There was no heat in the bunk where we stayed. ACTUALLY, the camp owners FORGOT to tell us about the heat, so we just froze unnecessarily. Well, at least SOS was comfy in his super-duper-good-for-the-tundra sleeping bag. POB and I were not so fortunate. Will (you know who you are), I am deducting from camp tuition any co-pays on any cold meds POB and I need to purchase this week. And we are expensive patients. Just sayin’.
I tried to give SOS a wide berth so he could feel independent and get to know the camp and its lay-out on his own. But, there were some activities that I had to watch. It was Mom who made me watch when my little baby was in harm’s way with only one life preserver (not discernible in the photo). 
Mom wanted me to feel her anxiety, and more importantly, continue her tradition of writing psychotic letters about real and imagined horrors of sleep-away camp. To channel Mom, I need a mental (and actual) picture on which to concentrate all my anxiety while he spends SEVEN weeks away from his loving (read: over-protective) mother, doing any number of life-ending activities.
And I didn’t even show the picture of archery WITH REAL ARROWS.
SIDEBAR: Ok, Will (you know who you are), I am deducting sedatives from the camp tuition.
SECOND SIDEBAR: Pearl (you know who you are), you are so lucky that Mom didn’t do the same. Just sayin’.
Put one of those arrows in my heart and get it over. Mom, if you are listening from Heaven, WALK AWAY FROM THE PHONE. No grandchild of yours is playing with bows and arrows. Did I mention that each arrow is doused with curare? OOOOOooops, but Heaven is not listening, thank G-d.
Because of the rain, campfire was indoors. (no, Mom, they have sense enough not to start a REAL fire indoors.) The current owners invited those of us who had been campers in decades past to light the fire (figuratively). It was moving.
It was also a passing of the torch from one generation to another.
The place had echos of the camp of my youth, but it is a different camp. A camp that SOB, BOB, and POB can share with SOS, but different enough that it will be his special experience alone. And that, for all my nostalgia, is what matters.
SOS had a great time, in the rain. Which means, he will have an extraordinary time in the sunshine this summer.
The question is: will I survive his summer away?
