One afternoon, one of my kids pulled me aside and asked if we could take a walk. His face was a little flushed, his eyes a little swollen, and by the time we arrived at the bench outside of Brody, he let out a well of tears. I thought long and hard before each sentence that I said to him. I was choosing words as carefully as a symphony conductor, delicately trying to balance comfort, support and humor.
My kid. My kids. I wasn't their older brother, I was their father.
Fast-forward eight years: On a Friday morning a couple of weeks ago, the director of Camp Dudley read aloud a letter sent to one of the Leaders, Teddy Dale. The letter basically said, "It is abundantly clear that my son had such an incredible experience with [Ted] that I felt compelled to put it in writing. But more than just a good time, he came home with a sense of personal pride and maturity that I have never seen before. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Teddy Dale was one of my campers. (No, not the crying one.)
As Ted and I were talking one night a few days after the letter was read aloud, I congratulated him on being a spectacular Leader. I told him that I was immensely proud of his work as a Leader and overjoyed that I could tell people he was one of my campers. His response was honest and immediate. He began to tell me about all of the things I did when I was his Leader. None of it was illegal or out-of-line with camp protocol. In fact, it was the same type of thing that any Leader would probably do, just my version of it all: He described the way I cooked on our overnight. And the cabin games we played. The vespers at night. Funny kids in our cabin. Waking up early to play soccer and staying up late to listen to music. When he was thirteen, I was Ted's father. And now that he is twenty-two, he is someone else's father. The scope, the emotion, the meaning is overwhelming for me. If I return to camp in ten years, and Ted is there and one of his former campers is a Leader, then I will be a grandfather. Like Maker's Mark, as each new batch is made, a teaspoon of the old batch is added. Maybe it'll be early-morning soccer. Maybe it'll be a vesper. Just a teaspoon.
Camp Dudley has been around for 125 years. But that fact really only matters to the parents. The motto is, "The Other Fellow First." But that tidbit only matters to the campers. Or perhaps, those who try to follow it. Dudley is not about campers, it is about leaders. Not the college guys who direct activities. It's about the one or two kids in a cabin who show everyone else how to act. It's about the aide, 15 years old, who is more mature than all his peers. It's about the Junior or Assistant Leader, 16 and 17 years old, who is ready for his own cabin. Most boys try to follow the motto. These leaders are the motto.
So when you wonder why I've spent twelve of the last thirteen years at Dudley, sometimes for a few weeks, sometimes for an entire summer, here is the answer: Dudley is where I go to take care of my boys. Dudley is where I go to become the motto. Dudley is where I go to be a father.
