Summer Camp

When I was younger, I attended a day camp in Ann Arbor called Camp Hilltop. And as you can imagine, it was at the top of a very large hill surrounded by woods. I spent many years there and absolutely loved it. I eventually went to Camp Al-Gon-Quian, a sleepaway camp on Burt Lake. There are certain things about these two camps that I remember, and it was my experiences that led me to take a summer camp job during college. I worked at two different camps and both had profound impacts on me. 

I knew that when I had kids I wanted to send them to camp. There is nothing better than being outside all day long with new found friends. All three of my kids have attended camp. For one, it was not his thing. But it was for the other two. 

Both of my girls go to an all girls camp, Camp Arbutus Hayo-Went-Ha. It is located on Arbutus Lake in Traverse City. One of my favorite things about this camp is it builds strong girls into women. It is also a trip camp. The older you get, the harder your trips are. My youngest chose to go for two weeks this year. She spent most of her time at camp but was able to experience a two night, three day trip canoeing down the Au Sable River. She had a great time, but she is a two-week girl. 

My other is not. She would spend her whole summer there if I let her. She has already been there for four weeks and will go back for another two. Over a two week period, she backpacked 113 miles on Isle Royale. On our drive home yesterday, I heard it all. The stories. The moments. The memories that were created. 

Her cabin consisted of two counselors and eight campers. She spent the first few days at camp experiencing everyday camp life and preparing for her trip. Then they were off on their journey. She has been looking forward to this trip for years, and it was everything she imagined. We received a few letters from her that documented her trip. One of my favorite lines was, "Day 7, Today we hiked 11 easy miles." I am not sure if I would call hiking 11 miles easy with a 40 pound pack on my back, but kudos to the counselors who provided an experience for my daughter and her cabin mates where 11 miles is easy. 

One of the things that happened during this trip was writing. Each evening someone different would write in the trip journal. At the end of camp there is always a big banquet. Each girl in the cabin received a copy of this journal as proof of their amazing feat and as a memory of their time together. 

I am so glad that camp found me as a kid, and I am glad that both my girls have found a home at Camp Arbutus Hayo-Went-Ha. 

Isle Royale Trip Journal

Twenty Plus Years

One of the things that I appreciated most about my mother is the fact that whatever activity my sisters and I wanted to try out when we were younger, she found a way for us to participate in it. I have tried multiple instruments, dance classes, art classes, and an array of sports. Some, I stuck with for many years. Others, it was a season or session. 

At 16, my sophomore year of high school, I picked up a lacrosse stick for the first time and instantly fell in love. I was fast and had a quick grasp of the game. I played both JV and Varsity that first year. My junior and senior year, I found myself on varsity with one of the quickest draws in the midwest. I lived and breathed this game and gave up my prom for a tournament out east. Unfortunately, my college did not have women's lacrosse at the time, so I hung up my stick and wouldn't pick it up for another 30 years. 

Well not quite 30. I picked up my stick four years ago and began coaching my daughter's U10 team. I used my stick daily in practice to explain a concept or drill, throw and catch with the girls. But it has been 30 years since I played in my last lacrosse game. Until this summer. 

I saw a post about a women's league for anyone 16 and older last summer. I eyed it all summer. Thinking. Could I keep up with girls half my age? Do I want to make the drive? The summer came and went, and I never followed through. Then I saw the post again in May. The Detroit Women's Summer League was back, all proceeds going to the Detroit Youth Lacrosse summer program. I reached out to the coordinator, curious about the age of the participants. She immediately calmed my fears and because of her and the mission of the league, I signed up. 

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect. When I showed up, I couldn't believe the amount of women who had turned out and apparently the coordinator couldn't either. We had enough women to scrimmage full field (24) with six subs. And thank goodness we had subs. There were high school girls, women who were currently playing in college, and some slightly older who had played division 1 and won national championships. All could play both hands. I was clearly the oldest by 20 plus years. I started to wonder if I had made the right decision. 

When I played in high school, we used wooden sticks and mouthguards. You only played your dominant hand. Things have changed A LOT in 30 years. Gone are the wood sticks replaced by aluminum or titanium shafts and plastic lacrosse heads. And goggles. Something that makes a lot of sense that I never had to use. 

For this league, goggles and mouthguards are optional. I thought I would try the goggles out. Um no. I lasted three minutes before I tossed them on the sidelines. I don't know how my players play with them, and I must admit that after my three minutes of wearing them, I have a lot of admiration for my players. 

I played middie, the only position I have ever played and let me tell you something, I definitely was out of shape. I forgot how much running you have to do. And did I mention how much older I am than everyone? These women are young and fast but also incredibly encouraging! Despite my slowness, I found my stride and had a blast.

With each game, I am improving. My cuts are sharper, I have had a few shots on goals, and get most of the ground balls. I am starting to get compliments on my play from these women whose skills are well beyond where mine ever were. I am so proud of myself. Proud of putting myself out there and playing a game that I love, even though I could be everyone's mother. 

Except the ref. Her name is Ann. We played against each other in high school. We are the same age. But I am still older. I have her by a month. 

 

Every Class Needs an Ian

I have taught for 25 years. Twenty-five. That is a really long time. A quarter of a century. And this past school year was the hardest year of those 25. Harder than my first year, where you either sink or swim. I have had people ask me what made it so hard. In one word: stress. Stress of distances, masks, behaviors, and the unknown. It seemed that changes were happening. Every. Single. Day. 

I love my job. After spending the majority of my career in a self-contained upper elementary classroom, I took a leap and found my place in a DK-1st grade creative arts setting. I teach STEAM and art (as an isolated subject) to littles. I have found my people. One thing I LOVE about this age group is they are happy to see you every day. It doesn't matter if the day before they were having a breakdown or sitting in the think spot. Every day is a new day through their eyes. 

I feel fortunate because I see all the students in my building. I feel like the fun aunt. I play with them once a week then send them back to their classroom. But this year was stressful. There were behaviors presented that I had never seen before (and I thought I had seen it all my first two years in Detroit). By the end of the school year, I was ready for a break. More so than I had ever been. But first, I had to teach two weeks of writing camp for the Red Cedar Writing Project at MSU. 

I was excited about my two camps but it took a lot of energy to get there. My first camp was a Storybook STEAM camp for kids going into 2nd and 3rd grade. It was four afternoons with five students. It was lovely. The following week, my co-teacher and I taught Wizarding World of Writing to ten students. On the first day, I recognized two kids right away because I had taught them STEAM just the year before. One of them recognized me right away but the other didn't. I said, "Hi Ian. Do you remember me? It is Mrs. Waugh. I was your STEAM teacher in K and 1st grade." It took a second and then the lightbulb went on. 

Our group of students was amazing! They loved all things Harry Potter, and the writing they produced was unbelievable. But one student stood out more than any other and that was Ian. Ian was easy going, talkative, excited to share, and write. Although he had just finished 2nd grade, you wouldn't have known it because he worked so well with everyone and had great writing stamina. He was patient and kind. He would be the first person to tell you good job. And he was happy. So so happy. 

Ian was a breath of fresh air when I thought I had nothing left to give. He got me excited about what my co-teacher and I had planned for the week. He helped me see things through his eight year old curious eyes instead of my tired ones. I loved just talking to him. It reminded me why I became a teacher in the first place. To ignite excitement for learning. 

Every class needs a boy like him. In times when you think you have nothing left in the tank, Ian will be your biggest cheerleader. 

Thirty Days

Thirty days. That is how long I am giving myself although I hope it ends up being longer. I've read that it takes 21 days to form a habit. Then I read that it is a myth. I am not sure what to believe but 30 is the number that popped into my head last week and so 30 days it is. 

There are a lot of things I would like to do. And so for the next 30 days, I am going to do those things. 

This idea came into view last week while I was on vacation.  I found myself thinking about a friend who lost her father. It was an unexpected loss. One minute she was talking to him and the next, she wasn't. Her loss has affected me more than I imagined it would. I never met her father, but when she writes about him, I can tell the profound impact he had on her. The stories from her childhood have me wishing that I could have been one of the lucky ones to walk through the revolving door of her home. And these stories reminded me of the importance of writing. 

I sent her a card with three field journals. It was a small gesture to encourage her to write down these stories as memories not to be forgotten. And I found myself thinking. 

I know first hand the pain she is feeling as I lost my own mother 24 years ago.  I started writing when I was 14 years old. I have journal upon journal on a bookshelf in my bedroom. These journals tell of my everyday life. But then the writing stopped. June 5, 1998. The day my mother died. I have tried, unsuccessfully, to start back up. 

The death of my friend's father has brought up emotions and memories of what I went through so so many years ago. I know how she is feeling just by looking at her; it is as if there is an unspoken bond between us now. 

And this death has me thinking about my own family. What do I want them to know when I am long gone? What memories will they share about me? And I can't think of a better way to do this than through writing.

So for the next 30 days you can follow me as I try to pick up my pen again and write. Write about things that are important to me and memories that I have and things that are just floating in my head waiting to be turned into a story. 

And maybe, just maybe, you might be inspired to write too. Little pieces of you that will become treasures to someone else. 

Memories from my life that will one day become my family's treasures.