__________________________________
Letters from Camp
By Stephanie Kemp
Letters from Camp
By Stephanie Kemp
When my dad died (from a cancer I didn’t know he had) and I was tasked with writing his obituary, I was frozen and furious until I found a letter I had written him 35 years earlier from summer camp, tucked away in his top desk drawer. It was dated July, 1973. I was about to turn 6.
The letter had been folded into a cootie catcher and was full of equal parts misspellings (Sue Indian) and camp news. It featured a drawing of what looked like a brown egg on 4 sticks, but I’m quite sure it was a horse as it was titled “Gringo” and was wearing a saddle. In the letter, I told my dad how much fun I was having, which is important to remember was (also) true. I cried reading the letter - heartbreak and loss replacing the frozen fury. I was finally able to write his obituary and finally sure that (at least) part of him (always) loved being my dad.
I’ve often wondered why I was sent to camp for two weeks when I was 5 (then for a month starting at 6, and growing to six weeks from 7 - 14). I think it was because my parents’ marriage was imploding. And/or because my mom loved horses.
It made me think of the letter I didn’t write to him that summer.
I didn’t want to worry him.
_________________
Dear Dad,
Please come and get me. I made a friend. Her name is Ginny, but she is not like our Ginny. I won’t ever let her get near our Ginny. I promise. Please, Dad. I promise.
This Ginny is small. She has freckles and the same colored hair as Allison S. Like the glass noodles we get from Carrie Lee’s. She is good at sports. She is fast. She can throw a spiral like the one you you taught me. She was nice to me when Tracy got moved to the older cabin and I couldn’t stop crying. This Ginny told everyone to leave me alone until I could stop crying. I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed. Of the crying. They listened to her.
They stopped laughing at me.
This Ginny is funny. She wanted to be a Sue Indian too, but she is a Shy Ann. She sleeps below me in the bunk and kicks my mattress with her feet when it is time to wake up. Or if she can’t sleep. Or if she has a secret only I can know.
I don’t want to hear any more of her secrets.
Please come and get me.
I came back to the cabin to get my sweatshirt. I wasn’t supposed to. No-one is allowed in the cabins during free time. But I would be so fast. And it was so cold. I knew no-one would notice me missing. Only This Ginny would’ve noticed. If only I had noticed that she was missing first. She was behind the door. I didn’t see her. She pushed me on the ground and started to laugh. She said I scared her. I was mad but trying not to be. My knee was bleeding. I wasn’t cold anymore. I started to leave without my sweatshirt. I tried to leave.
She was blocking the door. I thought she was being funny. She wouldn’t let me out. She said she was going to kill me.
And dump my body in the river.
I thought she was kidding. I tried to laugh.
I asked her why…
“Because I can. And no-one will know it was me.”
Dad, I did everything right. Everything you taught me to do.
I told her to stop. This made her laugh. She had something in her teeth from lunch.
She is smaller than me. I tried to leave.
I told her she’d get caught. She said she never does.
She never has.
Been caught.
“I’m going to tell.”
“No-one would believe you.”
“Yes they will.”
“No they won’t. Plus you’ll be dead.”
“But I love my family.”
“That makes it better.
Maybe I’ll suffocate you.
Give me your pillow.
I want you to be comfortable.”
“I am bigger than you.”
“You are weak.”
“You’ll get caught.”
“You’ll be in the river. No-one will ever find you because I will put rocks in your pocket.”
I started to cry, Dad. I couldn’t stop. And I was begging her to let me out. She kept jumping around the cabin blocking me. She was like Tracy’s hamster right before it died.
Crazy.
She was crazy.
I wasn’t embarrassed of my crying. And I could only think about Tracy in the other cabin and Real Ginny at home with you. Why does she get to be home with you. Please always let her always stay home with you.
I wasn’t embarrassed of my crying.
My sweatshirt was on the floor. She picked it up and handed it to me before picking up my pillow.
“Here. Be comfortable.
While you can’t breathe.”
I was thinking of the letter you put in my pocket when you dropped me off. I told her I needed to find it. I was thinking of mom in her blue robe. Whiskers leaving a dead bird on my pillow for me to find when I woke up.
Christmas.
Come and get me, Dad.
Please, Someone, come and get me.
__________________________
Summer Camp Post Script.
So she didn’t kill me. After this life changing 10 minutes (10 fucking minutes), she said she was just kidding. Grabbed her own sweatshirt and said “Let’s go. We’ll still be in time for snack shack. I have enough money for us both to get an ice cream sandwich and a pickle.”
We had another week of camp left. I hugged her goodbye on the last day and we promised to write each other until next summer, when we would both graduate to Ear a Coy.
I never saw her again but have always told this story.
Sometimes it’s funny.
Sometimes it still makes we weep.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to her.
I alter it for different audiences.
For my daughters.
For my comfort.
But it remains solidly and specifically intact inside of me where only I have access to enter.
When I found her online, I got goosebumps. She’s 50 now, like me. Still has freckles and glass noodle hair. It doesn’t appear that she has murdered anyone (or at least still hasn’t been caught if she has). We have “one mutual friend.” She and her wife look nice. We voted for the same President.
Would she remember?
Does it matter?
What matters is that I changed that day.
Never to fully change back.
I was nice to my sisters for the rest of that summer.
I became a hugger. A letter writer. A cryer at happy things and thoughts.
A full time empath and a part-time fatalist.
I have taught my daughters the lessons of this story without having told the full story itself.
They have never gone to sleep-away camp, despite my greatest efforts to get them to bite.
To this day, those summers hold some of my most important memories of fun, independence, fear and strength.
I became me during 10 minutes when I thought a tiny girl with invisible hair was going to end me. We never know what or who will help to define us.
And the cootie catching letter that I did write to my dad that summer is now in my own top desk drawer, next to his obituary.
They both make me smile.
And cry.
__________________________________
The letter had been folded into a cootie catcher and was full of equal parts misspellings (Sue Indian) and camp news. It featured a drawing of what looked like a brown egg on 4 sticks, but I’m quite sure it was a horse as it was titled “Gringo” and was wearing a saddle. In the letter, I told my dad how much fun I was having, which is important to remember was (also) true. I cried reading the letter - heartbreak and loss replacing the frozen fury. I was finally able to write his obituary and finally sure that (at least) part of him (always) loved being my dad.
I’ve often wondered why I was sent to camp for two weeks when I was 5 (then for a month starting at 6, and growing to six weeks from 7 - 14). I think it was because my parents’ marriage was imploding. And/or because my mom loved horses.
It made me think of the letter I didn’t write to him that summer.
I didn’t want to worry him.
_________________
Dear Dad,
Please come and get me. I made a friend. Her name is Ginny, but she is not like our Ginny. I won’t ever let her get near our Ginny. I promise. Please, Dad. I promise.
This Ginny is small. She has freckles and the same colored hair as Allison S. Like the glass noodles we get from Carrie Lee’s. She is good at sports. She is fast. She can throw a spiral like the one you you taught me. She was nice to me when Tracy got moved to the older cabin and I couldn’t stop crying. This Ginny told everyone to leave me alone until I could stop crying. I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed. Of the crying. They listened to her.
They stopped laughing at me.
This Ginny is funny. She wanted to be a Sue Indian too, but she is a Shy Ann. She sleeps below me in the bunk and kicks my mattress with her feet when it is time to wake up. Or if she can’t sleep. Or if she has a secret only I can know.
I don’t want to hear any more of her secrets.
Please come and get me.
I came back to the cabin to get my sweatshirt. I wasn’t supposed to. No-one is allowed in the cabins during free time. But I would be so fast. And it was so cold. I knew no-one would notice me missing. Only This Ginny would’ve noticed. If only I had noticed that she was missing first. She was behind the door. I didn’t see her. She pushed me on the ground and started to laugh. She said I scared her. I was mad but trying not to be. My knee was bleeding. I wasn’t cold anymore. I started to leave without my sweatshirt. I tried to leave.
She was blocking the door. I thought she was being funny. She wouldn’t let me out. She said she was going to kill me.
And dump my body in the river.
I thought she was kidding. I tried to laugh.
I asked her why…
“Because I can. And no-one will know it was me.”
Dad, I did everything right. Everything you taught me to do.
I told her to stop. This made her laugh. She had something in her teeth from lunch.
She is smaller than me. I tried to leave.
I told her she’d get caught. She said she never does.
She never has.
Been caught.
“I’m going to tell.”
“No-one would believe you.”
“Yes they will.”
“No they won’t. Plus you’ll be dead.”
“But I love my family.”
“That makes it better.
Maybe I’ll suffocate you.
Give me your pillow.
I want you to be comfortable.”
“I am bigger than you.”
“You are weak.”
“You’ll get caught.”
“You’ll be in the river. No-one will ever find you because I will put rocks in your pocket.”
I started to cry, Dad. I couldn’t stop. And I was begging her to let me out. She kept jumping around the cabin blocking me. She was like Tracy’s hamster right before it died.
Crazy.
She was crazy.
I wasn’t embarrassed of my crying. And I could only think about Tracy in the other cabin and Real Ginny at home with you. Why does she get to be home with you. Please always let her always stay home with you.
I wasn’t embarrassed of my crying.
My sweatshirt was on the floor. She picked it up and handed it to me before picking up my pillow.
“Here. Be comfortable.
While you can’t breathe.”
I was thinking of the letter you put in my pocket when you dropped me off. I told her I needed to find it. I was thinking of mom in her blue robe. Whiskers leaving a dead bird on my pillow for me to find when I woke up.
Christmas.
Come and get me, Dad.
Please, Someone, come and get me.
__________________________
Summer Camp Post Script.
So she didn’t kill me. After this life changing 10 minutes (10 fucking minutes), she said she was just kidding. Grabbed her own sweatshirt and said “Let’s go. We’ll still be in time for snack shack. I have enough money for us both to get an ice cream sandwich and a pickle.”
We had another week of camp left. I hugged her goodbye on the last day and we promised to write each other until next summer, when we would both graduate to Ear a Coy.
I never saw her again but have always told this story.
Sometimes it’s funny.
Sometimes it still makes we weep.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to her.
I alter it for different audiences.
For my daughters.
For my comfort.
But it remains solidly and specifically intact inside of me where only I have access to enter.
When I found her online, I got goosebumps. She’s 50 now, like me. Still has freckles and glass noodle hair. It doesn’t appear that she has murdered anyone (or at least still hasn’t been caught if she has). We have “one mutual friend.” She and her wife look nice. We voted for the same President.
Would she remember?
Does it matter?
What matters is that I changed that day.
Never to fully change back.
I was nice to my sisters for the rest of that summer.
I became a hugger. A letter writer. A cryer at happy things and thoughts.
A full time empath and a part-time fatalist.
I have taught my daughters the lessons of this story without having told the full story itself.
They have never gone to sleep-away camp, despite my greatest efforts to get them to bite.
To this day, those summers hold some of my most important memories of fun, independence, fear and strength.
I became me during 10 minutes when I thought a tiny girl with invisible hair was going to end me. We never know what or who will help to define us.
And the cootie catching letter that I did write to my dad that summer is now in my own top desk drawer, next to his obituary.
They both make me smile.
And cry.
__________________________________
Robert Dale Kemp, Jr.
July 24, 1940 - September 03, 2008
ROBERT DALE KEMP, JR. Bob Kemp, beloved husband for 30 years of Stephanie Lee Kemp, passed away on Wednesday, September 3, 2008, after a brief illness. He was surrounded by those he loved. Father of Tracy Hedstrom (Tim), Stephanie Kemp Bluming (Adam), Ginny Kemp Biondi (Mike), and Kord Kutchins (Carol). He was also the adored and proud grandpa of Madeleine, Jack, Bennett, Will, Alexandra, Dawson, Olivia, Elise, and Frances. Son of Ruth Lemons Kemp and the late Robert Dale Kemp, Sr. Brother of Greg Kemp (Kitty) and M. Scott Kemp (Gilda). Bob was born on July 24, 1940, in South Bend, Indiana, and grew up in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. He attended Middlesex Academy in Concord, Massachusetts, was a graduate of Yale University, and earned an M.B.A. at Harvard Business School. In 1968, Bob founded Wilson, Kemp and Associates with childhood friend, Tom Wilson. In addition to the work he loved, he was also an active member of his communities, including acting as trustee of Beaumont Hospital, the Tuberculosis Society, and former President of the Harvard Business School Club of Greater Michigan. He was a member of Yondotega, Bloomfield Hills Country Club, and Lost Tree Village in North Palm Beach, Florida. It was upon his father's passing that Bob established "The Green Ace", an annual golf tournament/fund raiser at Bloomfield Hills Country Club. Since its inception in 1998, the foundation has enabled over 74 young men and women to attend colleges and universities across the country. Nothing was more important to Bob Kemp than his family and friends (although his westies, Roscoe, C.C., and Flo were contenders). His laugh was infectious and his interest in other people and their stories was infinite. His kindness, humor, warmth, intellect and sincerity truly made him one of a kind. He was the one his friends fought over to sit with at a dinner party, and the one his kids fought over at the breakfast table. Life, to and for Bob Kemp, and everyone lucky enough to have known and loved him, was purely, simply and fantastically, "good stuff". Love you, R .. see ya. There will be a private memorial. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to Bob's caddie fund at Bloomfield Hills Country Club Caddie Scholarship Foundation, 350 W. Long Lake Road, Bloomfield Hills, MI 48304
July 24, 1940 - September 03, 2008
ROBERT DALE KEMP, JR. Bob Kemp, beloved husband for 30 years of Stephanie Lee Kemp, passed away on Wednesday, September 3, 2008, after a brief illness. He was surrounded by those he loved. Father of Tracy Hedstrom (Tim), Stephanie Kemp Bluming (Adam), Ginny Kemp Biondi (Mike), and Kord Kutchins (Carol). He was also the adored and proud grandpa of Madeleine, Jack, Bennett, Will, Alexandra, Dawson, Olivia, Elise, and Frances. Son of Ruth Lemons Kemp and the late Robert Dale Kemp, Sr. Brother of Greg Kemp (Kitty) and M. Scott Kemp (Gilda). Bob was born on July 24, 1940, in South Bend, Indiana, and grew up in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. He attended Middlesex Academy in Concord, Massachusetts, was a graduate of Yale University, and earned an M.B.A. at Harvard Business School. In 1968, Bob founded Wilson, Kemp and Associates with childhood friend, Tom Wilson. In addition to the work he loved, he was also an active member of his communities, including acting as trustee of Beaumont Hospital, the Tuberculosis Society, and former President of the Harvard Business School Club of Greater Michigan. He was a member of Yondotega, Bloomfield Hills Country Club, and Lost Tree Village in North Palm Beach, Florida. It was upon his father's passing that Bob established "The Green Ace", an annual golf tournament/fund raiser at Bloomfield Hills Country Club. Since its inception in 1998, the foundation has enabled over 74 young men and women to attend colleges and universities across the country. Nothing was more important to Bob Kemp than his family and friends (although his westies, Roscoe, C.C., and Flo were contenders). His laugh was infectious and his interest in other people and their stories was infinite. His kindness, humor, warmth, intellect and sincerity truly made him one of a kind. He was the one his friends fought over to sit with at a dinner party, and the one his kids fought over at the breakfast table. Life, to and for Bob Kemp, and everyone lucky enough to have known and loved him, was purely, simply and fantastically, "good stuff". Love you, R .. see ya. There will be a private memorial. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to Bob's caddie fund at Bloomfield Hills Country Club Caddie Scholarship Foundation, 350 W. Long Lake Road, Bloomfield Hills, MI 48304