Back in the summer of 1986, my older brother and I attended a sleep-away camp. He was twelve and going with a friend. I was only nine, but after going along on a reconnaissance mission earlier that year, I had decided I wanted to attend the camp too.
It was two weeks long, in some far off part of Connecticut (as far off as you can get in a state as small as Connecticut) and for some reason we would be joining the camp in the middle of the summer session.
It was my first time, and for reasons that will quickly become obvious, my last time, at sleep-away camp.
I’m going to let these images – scans of the letters my brother and I sent home from camp – tell the story. (Along with some captions, of course.)
Not only do these letters chronicle my slow descent into madness, they show how I dragged my older brother down with me during my lonely, terrifying American summer.
Don’t worry. I survived, and even had a little fun.
(P.S. This is my first time using a slideshow. Let me know if you like it!)
Dad and Buried
Bummer Camp Slideshow
P.S. My brother got the yo-yos and Big League Chew and probably even the socks he desperately wanted.
P.P.S Back then, I couldn’t understand why my parents weren’t coming to rescue me. As a parent myself, I now realize why they left me there, and what they were doing while we were away: