This One Time, at Band Camp ...

Dear Diary:

I feel so #blessed. Through connections, I found out about this exclusive music gathering out on the edge of the mountains. Invitation only. Fancy bus ride out there, three days all expenses paid, hours of music every day. And I talked my way into it - silver tongued devil that I am. Brought the kid, too. It's going to be so great.

Dear Diary:

The crowd for this gathering is younger than I might have guessed. I believe in the power of all ages shows, though, so I'm open to it. Plus, I have the whole young at heart thing going for me - people who look at me often think I'm only in my mid-to-late 40s. Still feel pretty #blessed.

Dear Diary:

I have made a terrible, horrible mistake. It's a fucking junior high band camp!?!? 150 junior high kids - 149 of whom are in no way my fault. We're miles from civilization, no one is close enough to hear me scream. This is going to end so badly. I'm going to talk to the manager.

Dear Diary:

What does the word chaperone mean, and why are people calling me one? I saw it in an email before I left, but thought it was something about French hats.

Dear Diary:

This place might call itself a Christian camp, but these are some kinda twisted Christians. There are two different buildings for housing, and they are designed as some cruel psychological experiment. The Grade 7s and 8s, and their chaperones, are in the main building. Eight kids to a room. Four chaperones to a room. Prison grade mattresses. Shared bathrooms and showers. Rooms overlook the dining hall, so any noise amplifies exponentially. Rustic is generous. The Grade 9s, meanwhile, are in the other building. Four to a room, with private bathrooms. As a chaperone I have a very comfy double bed in a room of my own as nice as many hotel rooms I've stayed in. A better person than me would feel guilty about the disparity. I just made sure that the people at my breakfast table from the other lodge know how well I slept, and how hot my shower was - showers, really, because I had two yesterday. And I said it more than once - it's hard for them to take it in quickly because they are so tired and sticky. I've wondered how long it would take for the revolution to happen amongst groups with these splits. Longer than two nights, but not by much I'd guess. If I was in the other building I'd be hurling feces by now for sure.

Dear Diary:

I don't think I've ever seen hopelessness and despair more clearly imprinted on the faces of anyone than I saw on the kitchen staff today as they fed Eggos into their woefully inadequate single industrial toaster as fast as they possibly could in a vain attempt to appease the growing hordes of teenagers lusting for more. It was as if they were bailing water on the Titanic. They knew there was no path to success for them, and all they could do was calculate when and how fast to run away.

Dear Diary:

Today was clinic day. 17 professional musicians arrived to lead small groups of students in sessions with their particular instrument for a couple hours at a time. My job was to greet them as they arrived (you want to put the cheeriest person on the front lines to make the best impression), check them in on my list, tell them what room they are in for the day, and point out the way. Three (!) different musicians, when asked what instrument they played - that's how my list was sorted - wordlessly pointed at the case they were carrying, as if a plain rectangular box was somehow the answer I was seeking, and I was just to dumb to realize it. When I punched each of them in their smug faces, I was careful not to break any teeth so that they'd still be able to play their instruments after opening those cases. The kids shouldn't suffer just because their clinicians are dicks, after all.

Dear Diary:

Until this morning I did not know the sound of only two oboes playing for two hours in a row. And I was better for it. Their clinic space was right next to my room. Important part of a full orchestra, but not a handsome instrument solo. It's like the sound a goose would make if you plucked it bare while alive.

Dear Diary:

While waiting in line to get my lunch today, four different kids all earnestly asked me the same question - What is sour cream? It's not only not a question I've ever been asked before, but also not one I've ever considered being asked. That I gave answers that were bordering on helpful is a real sign of my growth as a person. I'll admit that helpful wasn't my first instinct.

Dear Diary:

Playing pickleball for the first time against a very athletic 13 year old is, as it turns out, a swell way to be reminded of one’s age - both at the time and the morning after.

Dear Diary:

I've seen something truly remarkable tonight. I was supervising the gym before bed. (Incidentally, I'm nearly 50 and still feel like I'm in an unsupervised room when I'm the supervisor. One day I'll feel like a grown up.) A large volleyball game was going on - at least 12 kids a team. It was a chore, for some weird reason, to get them to clean up and go to bed. It was almost as if they didn't want to. I finally told them they could play one last point then it was over. Never, perhaps in all history of humanity, has a longer volleyball point been played. And never have two teams of teenagers so effectively wordlessly worked together to make sure the other team didn't lose. Bottle that combination of focus and selfless cooperation up and sell it and the world suddenly has no more problems

Dear Diary:

Today, while the kids were cleaning up their rooms to go home, I learned that there are two types of parents that go on these trips: Those that vacuum the rooms themselves so that the precious 14 year olds don't have to worry about doing it, and those who think that the first type of parents are complete and utter dipshits. Can you guess which group I fit in?

Dear Diary:

Have finished the room inspections. I have no idea how the one group made their room smell so bad in three days. Has anything ever smelled that bad before? It's like nine layers of compounding death in a swamp. I'm almost impressed by their efforts.

Dear Diary:

I have no idea what the correct answer to the age old question - how many trios practicing at the same time in one building is too many? - but I can now definitively say that it is absolutely less than 50.

Dear Diary:

I have no idea what the correct answer to the age old question - how many trios that don't involve your own kid can you watch at one time without feeling like it's too many? - but I can now definitively say that it is absolutely less than 49.

Dear Diary:

That was fun. They could use a bar. And fewer oboes. But I'd do it again.