Lost Journal

Humor Column
by Tim Mollen
August 17, 2006

Happy Campers Get Stomach Cramps

Journal Entry: July 14, 1977 (age 8)

If I were to list my favorite things to do, in order from most favorite to least favorite, the top of the list would include things such as reading, watching TV, doing plays at school and petting our cat, Ruby.  The bottom of the list would include things such as football, baseball, watching football or baseball, and being in the sun all day.  As an uncoordinated kid with eye problems and a dangerous lack of melanin, this hierarchy of interests was pretty much predestined.

So when our parents announced that my brother, Dan, and I would be going to camp this summer, I experienced terror on a level I had never imagined.  I wouldn’t know any of the kids.  They would all be better at sports than me.  I would be beaten up for reading Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.  “Can’t I just stay at home,” I begged my parents, “and avoid all the rewarding challenges of an active childhood spent amongst my peers?”  This question seemed to solidify their decision, and Dan and I were put on the bus to Camp Sertoma.

At first, I felt better knowing that at least Dan would be there with me.  He’s a year and a half older than me, and he’s a decent athlete.  I could tag along with my big brother, and make friends through him.  But Dan is even more terrified by camp than I am.  He misses all his friends, and is intimidated by being thrown into a group of strangers.

This is our fourth day at camp, and the only time I’ve seen Dan is on the bus rides back and forth to the campgrounds.  As soon as we get off the bus each morning, he fakes a severe stomachache so he can hang out in the nurse’s office all day.  Every day, the counselors get a little more suspicious of Dan’s illness, and Dan gets a little more dramatic in his performance.  He doubles over, writhing in mock agony.  In between long, anguished moans, he struggles to croak out a few words.  “Hurts real bad…can’t breathe…must…get…away…from…Kryptonite.”  OK, he didn’t say that last part, but he definitely goes over the top.

Today, the counselor wasn’t buying it.  This forced Dan to play the ultimate card:  the threat of imminent regurgitation.  By the time he rasped the words “think I’m gonna be sick,” the counselor had changed his mind, and Dan was headed to his indoor oasis of daytime TV and Dynamite magazine.

Left on my own, I’ve come up with my own coping strategies.  Yesterday, I “missed out” on a baseball game by spending a solid 45 minutes applying sunscreen.  Whenever possible, I sign up for non-team activities, such as swimming and horseback riding.  If I am forced into a display of physical ability, I play up my bad vision and lack of coordination until I am allowed to switch to a less “hands-on” pastime.  This strategy worked particularly well when I was sent for a lesson in archery.  I mumbled, squinted and recklessly aimed my way to a quick reprieve.

One more week and it will be over.  I just hope there’s no such thing as autumn camp.

© 2006 Tim Mollen

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