Rona Mann

I never had a burning desire to go to camp. Many of my friends did. First, there was day camp, then perhaps a religious retreat or scout camp for a week, followed by the big gun – sleep-away camp – and most of them loved it. Sure, there were one or two who cried from homesickness and demanded their parents come and rescue them, but most thought this was just great.

I had a dilemma. Father’s Day was approaching, and I had no money to buy my Dad a gift. I knew I could rely on my mother to buy something and have me print my name on the card that accompanied it, but she always did that. I was a big girl now, nearly nine, so I really wanted to do this all on my own. “Okay,” my mother said, “but if you need money, just come to me. Daddy won’t know and wouldn’t care; the gift will still be from you.” But I was a big girl now, so I could buy my own gift.

When I was in school, I had a love-hate affair with the month of June. I loved that June meant the end of the school year and the start of a couple of glorious months of camp, ice cream, playing outside till the streetlights came on, staying out late, and all the other delicious joys that came with the freedom of a seemingly endless summer vacation. But I also hated June because I’d have to say goodbye to Mrs. Seitz for a few months. Mrs.