Marissa Stern
Like any good Jewish kid, I spent a lot of my summers growing up
at camp.

From day camp and eventually maturing to overnight camp, a
lot of my summer memories are filled with free swim, mosquito
bites and unfortunate arts and crafts projects. Hey, I tried, OK?
But as a teen, my summer experiences shifted a bit. I still went
to a camp, but it was different. I spent four or five years at the
Young Performers Theater Camp run by the Department of Parks
and Recreation, putting on musicals from Pirates of Penzance to
Into the Woods in six weeks — and they came out really well, I’ll
have you know — and spending every day with my best friends.

But of course, staging a musical didn’t bring in any income for
when I wanted to go to the movies or the beach, so I had to get a
job. One year I was a sort-of C.I.T. and made some money at the
end of the summer by passing out lunch during the day, but that
wasn’t quite enough.

So for a few summers from high school through college,
instead of singing on stage, I was folding jeans at Old Navy.

On July 4, I wore my shirt with the trademark, obnoxiously
large American flag on the front and “STAFF” emblazoned on the
back so I couldn’t avoid the mobs who came in for their $1 flip
flops, leaving havoc in their wake. (They’re $2.50 regularly,
people.) But aside from the obnoxious customers you’ll encounter
no matter which retailer you work for, I actually had a blast.

I probably spent more on clothes than I got back from my
paycheck, as I would find items I liked for myself and hide them
so I could buy them after my shift was over. And now I have the
bad habit of fixing shirt displays wherever I go.

Rachel Kurland
I’ve had many run-of-the-mill summer camp jobs, ranging in
versatility from camp counselor to camp director.

When I was 18, I led the 4- to 6-year-old group at an outdoor
aquatics-oriented Florida summer camp, filled with twigs (the code
word used over walkie-talkies if you see a snake), logs (alligators) and
slushies (a drink composed of far more sugar than a 40-pound
toddler can handle).

But if there’s one lesson I learned that summer, it took form in
lead class clown and anti-napper, 5-year-old Jack.

Jack, who had no concept of an indoor voice — though we
were outdoors all day; sometimes
you just need a break, right? —
and was notorious for whipping
fishing poles so hard hooks would
get stuck in his swim trunks, loved
to spend his nickels on candy at
the concessions booth, specifically
bubble gum.

As we were playing in the grass
one day, a bright blue blob fell out
of his mouth and into the dirt.

Before I could finish saying,
“Jack, don’t —” the gum was pressed firmly between both palms
and spread apart like a neon accordion.

I asked, “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” he pondered.

Jack and I spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing bubble
gum globs off his sticky hands.

So what was the lesson I learned? Removing bubble gum is
easier with peanut butter. Oh, and don’t work at summer camp. l
Name: National Museum of Amer. Jewish
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JUNE 8, 2017
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