Until Next Summer

one

Jessie

August

When I was a kid, I had a button on my backpack that read i live ten months for two. When people noticed it, I'd get one of two reactions: total confusion (Ten months of what? Does this poor girl have a terminal illness?), or a knowing smile.

The ones who smiled would inevitably ask one question. A question that let me know, without a doubt, that they were my kind of people:

"So where'd you go to camp?"

No matter the age gap or difference in our backgrounds, we'd start swapping stories, sharing memories. The gruff custodian at my elementary school bragged about winning Color Wars when he was fourteen. A bus driver sang his favorite camp song (The Princess Pat . . . lived in a tree), complete with hand motions. My pediatrician told me she once caught her marshmallow on fire and then, panicking, waved her roasting stick in the air, causing the marshmallow to fall onto her bare foot. She even showed me the burn scar, taking her shoe off in the middle of her clinic room while I waited for my twelve-year-old vaccinations.

Here's what I took from those conversations: there's something magical about summer camp. Those days stick in your mind like pine sap in your hair, like the scent of campfire smoke on your clothes. Even decades later, the memories remain vivid.

Which is why I decided that I didn't want to spend ten months slogging through what everyone else called Real Life only to spend two months living what felt like my real life.

I wanted it all the time.

It's sometimes still hard to believe I achieved that childhood dream. That this is my full-time, year-round, always and forever job. I am the head camp director at Camp Chickawah, and we've just completed another successful summer session.

The big lawn in the middle of the property is abuzz, hundreds of campers milling around, duffels and sleeping bags heaped in messy piles. Counselors try their best to wrangle the kids as they exchange tearful hugs with their cabinmates and friends, promising to see each other next summer. Then we herd them onto buses, double-checking that their gear is safely stowed below, and wave as they take off down the road.

I gather my summer staff-the counselors, lifeguards, kitchen crew, sailing and archery and tennis instructors-and thank them for working so hard. I remind them that camp people never say goodbye; we say "see ya next summer." So that's what they do, exchanging phone numbers and hugs before taking off.

And then everything goes silent.

The only signs of the three hundred people who called this place home for the past eight weeks are the trampled ground, scraps of trash, and whispers of memory floating through the air: campfires and songs, pranks and crafts, friendships to last a lifetime. I take a deep breath, thinking how grateful I am to be part of it.

At the same time, I'm exhausted. Each day at camp feels like a week, and each week feels like a month. I haven't had a full night of sleep since May-I'm always listening for the knock on my cabin door. This summer, I drove two people with broken bones to the emergency room in the middle of the night (one camper, one counselor), calmed a pack of terrified ten-year-olds when a tree fell on their cabin's porch during a rainstorm, and stayed up all night cleaning vomit after a stomach bug ran through camp.

And most importantly: I kept a calm, reassuring smile on my face the entire time. After all, I set the tone for the summer. The former owners, Nathaniel and Lola Valentine, taught me this.

"Welp, made it through another year," a gruff voice says, and I turn to see my assistant camp director, Dot.

Like me, she's dressed in Camp Chickawah gear-khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. Dot is five feet tall and stocky, built like a human bowling pin with short gray hair. I'm nearly a foot taller, with strawberry blonde hair in two braids and skin that freckles or burns within minutes of sun exposure.

I smile. "It was a good summer, right?"

"It was Chicka-wonderful. Nathaniel and Lola would be proud."

Dot's been a staple of Camp Chickawah since my days as a camper, and now she's looking at me for direction-something I still haven't gotten used to, even after four years of being her boss.

"Let's do a sweep of the grounds for lost items," I say. "Then we call it a day. Sound okay?"

"Sounds great!" Dot says, and off we go.


The next morning, after sleeping for ten glorious hours, I head toward the lake. The air is cool, faintly scented with pine, and full of birdsong. I pull my favorite canoe from the shed-it’s hand-carved birchwood and nearly a century old-and slide it halfway into the water, sending ripples across the shimmering surface. After discarding my hiking boots and wool socks on the dock, I pop my earbuds in.

It's time for some Broadway magic.

I press play on the original cast recording of Hadestown. The iconic trombone begins wailing, joined by the inimitable André De Shields, and as I wade into the cool water and transfer myself into the canoe, I can't help dancing. Luckily, no one's around to see.

After stowing my phone in a dry bag near my feet, I shove myself out with my paddle. Our camp hugs the west side of the lake; the rest is ringed with pine trees. The rising sun paints a golden streak across the water, and I follow it, paddling until my shoulders burn.

Canoes can be tricky to navigate solo, especially an old wooden one, but I love the nostalgia, the knowledge that countless campers and counselors have sat where I am now. Soon I relax into the rhythm and pull of paddle on water, and my exhaustion melts away.

I've spent every summer at Camp Chickawah since I was eight years old. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, splitting custody fifty-fifty because they both "loved me so much." I believe them-but the fact is, packing up and moving to a different house each week does a number on a child's sense of stability. It's not only adjusting to a different home-it's an entirely different culture. Different food in the fridge, different neighbors, different rules and expectations. Every week, just as I'd settled in at one home, I'd have to readjust all over again.

Which is why that first summer at camp felt revolutionary. Eight whole weeks sleeping in the same bed. Associating with the same people, following the same routine. Camp was the stable home I'd never had. Every summer I returned, and when I was sixteen, I applied for the counselor-in-training program, where I was able to teach and mentor the younger campers.

More than anything, I wanted to become a real counselor during my summer breaks in college. My best camp friend and I were going to do it together, but in the end, she bailed on me. It was painful-the kind of hurt that takes years to heal-but I took the job anyway. When I graduated (with a bachelor's in recreation administration-yes, it's a real degree), Nathaniel and Lola offered to keep me on as an assistant director, one of the few year-round positions at Camp Chickawah. When they retired, I became head director.

Nathaniel and Lola were more than my mentors-they were like an extra set of grandparents who instilled in me the values of hard work and integrity, who taught me the importance of giving our campers a place to learn skills, make friends, and grow. Even though they've passed away, it feels like they're still with me. And like Dot said, I think they'd be proud.

An hour later, I'm pulling the canoe onto the shore when I hear footsteps. Turning, I see Dot and two other people: Jack and Mary, Nathaniel and Lola's son and daughter. He's short and stocky, with his dad's square shoulders, and she's short and soft, like her mother. They inherited the camp, but neither of them has any interest in running it, so they've left it in my hands.

"Hi!" I say, putting my earbuds away. "So nice to see you both. What brings you to camp?"

Jack gives his sister a quick glance. "We're wrapping up Mom and Dad's estate. Can we talk?"


“You’re selling the camp?” I say, dumbfounded.

The three of us are sitting in the Lodge, a rustic two-story building overlooking the lake.

"The camp hasn't made a profit in years," Jack says, which of course I know. But making money was never Nathaniel and Lola's goal.

"But-but it's been in your family since 1914!" I protest. "Parents depend on this place for their kids each summer."

Mary gives me a sad smile and her eyes crinkle around the edges, just like Lola's. "I've tried to find a buyer who wants to keep operating it, but no one's interested-"

"I could reach out to the camp community," I say, my voice tinged with desperation. I'm part of a huge online group of summer camp directors throughout North America. There has to be someone who understands how important this place is. How irreplaceable.

Jack shakes his head. "Mary's already tried that."

"I'd buy Jack out if I could," Mary says. "But there's no way I can afford it-"

"And your health, Mary," Jack cuts in.

Mary closes her mouth and nods. "Yes. Well, that too."

I don't know what they're referring to, and it doesn't feel appropriate to ask. But Mary looks thinner than I remember, the shadows under her eyes deeper.

Panic is rising in my chest. This can't be happening.

"So . . . what does this mean?" I ask.

Mary and Jack exchange glances again. Mary's eyes fill with tears, like she's silently pleading with him, but Jack gives a shake of his head before turning to me.

"We're listing the property as residential real estate," Jack says, his voice brisk. All business.

I know what this means-I've seen it happen throughout our area. Luxury vacation developments, condos, and town houses crowding the lakefront, rustic cottages torn down to make way for huge, fancy lake houses.

"Of course, you'll get a portion of the sale, Jessie," Mary says brightly.

I startle. "Wait-what?"

Mary turns to her brother. "I thought you sent her a copy of the will, Jack?"

"I'll send it when I get home," Jack says, shooting his sister a peeved glance. Then, to me: "You get one percent. Should be a tidy sum with a sale this large."

He seems offended by this, as if losing a fraction of his own profit is a profound injustice.

For my part? I don't care about the money. I'm not sure I even want it-it would feel tainted somehow, though it was thoughtful of Nathaniel and Lola to think of me.

"But what does this mean for my staff?" I say. "Do you want us to just . . . clear out?"

"No, no, of course not," Mary rushes to say. "The whole process will take a while."

"Probably not as long as you think," Jack mutters under his breath.

Anger flares inside me. I want to grab them by their shoulders and shake them, ask how they can do this. Don't they understand how much this place means? To their parents, to all our campers. To me.

I remember Dot saying Jack hated camp as a kid, that he resented how his parents spent all their time and energy here. Mary loved camp, apparently, but she's never been strong enough to stand up to her older brother.

Now she smiles gently. "Don't worry-we haven't even listed it yet. And whenever we get an offer, we'll make sure to delay closing until next fall. We're not going to just toss you out on your keister, you know?"

She gives a little laugh, but I can't join in, even half-heartedly. My camp is closing. After twenty years, this will summer will be my last.

two

Jessie

September

It's been two weeks since the news from Jack and Mary Valentine, and I'm still reeling.

I've been going through our standard end-of-season tasks, so every day brings another reminder that this is the last time we'll do any of it. The last time Mr. Billy, our groundskeeper, will repair the shingles on the Arts and Crafts cabin; the last time Dot will inspect the watercraft; the last time I'll count how many bows and arrows survived the summer and how many I'll need to order for next year.

In a few weeks, Dot and I will move into our rented rooms in North Fork, Minnesota, the closest town, a forty-five-minute drive away. Mr. Billy goes to stay with his brother in Florida. Dot and I spend the winter months enrolling campers and hiring counselors and staff. We'll return to the property in April to start prepping for summer.

Our last summer.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I head down the path to the girls' area to check the cabins. On the way, I pass Mr. Billy, his angular frame stooped as he pushes a wheelbarrow full of trimmed branches. I wave, and he grunts. He's taken care of the camp for as long as I can remember-a huge responsibility, since we cover three hundred acres of land, with dozens of buildings and a thousand feet of lakefront-but I've never thought of him as old. In the past couple weeks, though, he's aged a decade. His typical vibe is one of mild annoyance, but now he seems almost fragile.

My boots crunch through fallen pine needles; they're dry and brittle, like my mood. When I pop my earbuds in, the revival of Sweeney Todd with Josh Groban starts playing. A musical about a man hell-bent on murderous revenge after everything he loves is taken from him . . . maybe not the wisest choice. I turn it off.

The first girls' cabin comes into view. It's over a hundred years old, with a big front porch and a peaked roof. During the summer, the porch railings of all the cabins are covered with a rainbow of drying towels and bathing suits, but today they're barren. I wonder if the future owner will save any of these buildings, or if they'll bulldoze everything, erasing a century of memories.

The thought makes me physically sick.

I climb the steps to the first cabin, open the door, and walk inside. My boots echo on the wood floor. The air smells like decay; the bare bunk beds remind me of skeletons. But I tell myself to stop being melodramatic and inspect the beds, the mattresses, the blinds, checking them off my list. Briskly, I move from cabin to cabin, trying to avoid the onslaught of memories.