Welcome to Camp Bubbie

In 2014, I surprised everyone in the family — except for my grandson — when I became a de facto camp director and ad hoc head counselor.

My husband and I were chatting with our grandchildren during their school’s winter break, discussing their plans for the coming summer. Our nine-year-old granddaughter, Miriam, planned to go to sleep-away camp in the Pocono Mountains. Grandson, eight-year-old Zellik, did not want to spend the summer vacation canoeing and using a bow and arrow. He’s not antisocial; he just wasn’t crazy about group sleeping quarters and shared bathrooms. We proposed a search for a good day camp; however, Zellik already had a plan of his own.

“I want to go to Camp Bubbie!” he declared. We pressed him for more information about this nonexistent camp. The camp had to coordinate with the time his mother would be at work, so camp would take place during the work week (not Shabbat or Sunday) and would run from early morning until late afternoon. Zellik could have dinner at home and sleep in his own bed. I realized that this was a limited-time opportunity to deepen my connection with my young grandson and hopefully create great memories. With abundant trepidation (who could blame me?), I accepted the assignment.

I decided that our first order of business was to choose a camp-ish-sounding name, like Camp No Frills or Camp Nature and Nurture. But my suggestions were deemed too contrived or misleading. Zellik, who favors literal nomenclature over figurative, pushed for Camp Bubbie because, he said, “it describes exactly what it is.” Well, yes.

We decided to rough out a camp schedule. Since neither Zellik nor I had ever attended established camps, we simply focused on our interests. As the official camp director, I stated my non-negotiables: morning prayers with my husband, a decent breakfast, regular hydration, ample outdoor time, cultural expeditions, library visits, and handcrafts. Zellik’s non-negotiables were to wear tie-dyed T-shirts and his favorite baseball cap, the opposite of his school uniform, get daily Lego time, and play Minecraft. We agreed that any friends who were home from a vacation could join us for afternoon activities. With negotiations complete, Zellik was relieved and satisfied, and I began to pray for summer resilience, patience, and good weather.

On the opening morning of camp, snuggly nestled in the non-bucolic heart of Chez Shapiro (our living/dining room), the head counselor (yours truly) greeted my camper with a handmade sign, “Welcome to Camp Bubbie.” Our daughter had packed Zellik’s lunch, so the first stop was the refrigerator. In the kitchen, I magnanimously offered to make all-you-can-eat French toast. Zellik headed to my husband’s study, where they dovened the morning service together, while I busied myself making breakfast and covering our dining room table (the site of future crafts projects) with protective craft paper.

After breakfast, it was time for a long walk around the neighborhood before it got too hot. The pray-eat-and-perambulate routine became our standard morning activity. We learned to identify the different species of trees, got acquainted with all the dogs, watched workers razing two houses and renovating three. We interacted with lots of friendly neighbors and runners, and we became familiar with the songs and behaviors of local birds. Zellik spotted tilting telephone poles, cracked tree limbs, drooping telephone wires, and, sometimes, we tactfully alerted neighbors about possible dangers on their properties. In other words, we started paying close attention to our surroundings. Our walks were, of course, educational, yet always lots of fun. My camper became known as the Tie-dye Boy. More blandly clad, I was simply his trusty companion. Around noon, we headed home. My husband took a break from his office and joined us for lunch, during which Zellik recounted tidbits from our morning stroll for his rapt grandfather.
Our 2014 first year’s schedule served as a tweakable rubric for the next two summers, during which, as Zellik matured, Camp Bubbie became more adventuresome and more camplike.

Our first summer went like this: On Monday afternoons, we spent time at the local library where we thumbed through the new books on display and Zellik checked his favorite series. He liked reading, so we scoured the children’s section for great chapter books that he hadn’t already read. On Tuesday afternoons, we built complicated edifices out of Legos and sat together at my computer screen as Zellik patiently tutored me about Minecraft. If it wasn’t blistering hot, we played ball with my husband in our backyard or went to a nearby playground. Sometimes, we just sat and read our books. Wednesday was our culture day. Zellik’s favorites were Fernbank’s hands-on exhibits and films, the artifacts and mummies at the Carlos Museum, and the awesome High Museum sculptures. We didn’t buy stuff in the gift shops; after all, this was camp.

Every Thursday, I tried to get my grandson involved in art projects; he acknowledged our negotiated agreement and usually — though not enthusiastically — he complied. I still have a fabric chair he decorated, but a wonderful collage that I sent home with my camper disappeared. He confessed that his mother never saw it because he threw it away. He stoically endured papier mache and even painting rocks, but Zellik was not a crafts fan. Playing Minecraft and building with Legos rescued the crafts days. Fridays featured afternoon swimming, sometimes with a pal, in a friend’s pool. Zellik liked me to clock his swim from one end of the pool to the other and back. I sat on the side of the pool, timing him and hoping no one I knew would appear and see me in shorts.

After three summers at Camp Bubbie, Zellik was ready for specialty camps where he could do science experiments and build simple machines with other kids. He’s now a student at Georgia Tech, where he lives on campus, so we don’t get together regularly. I’m thrilled that he likes museums and visited a new exhibit at the High Museum with his cousin, Miriam, when she was in town. He’s a constant reader, and he comfortably interacts with our neighbors.

I want to believe that Camp Bubbie many years ago made a lasting impact on Zellik’s character and individuality. They certainly affected me.