AN: My English teacher told us to think of one our favorite memories one day during the end of my freshmen year, so of course I thought of Band Camp. I had gone to my first band camp that previous summer, and it was the first time in ten years my band had gone to an actual camp for band camp. My teacher, after we had all come up with memories, challenged us to write a memoir based on the event, but make it fictional- fake people, fake events, but same concept. I guess they were trying to get us to see what really makes a memory- it's not the place they happened, or the names of the people they happened with. It's the feeling, the same feeling I've gotten at band camp ever since. This fictional cast of characters may someday appear on fanfiction again… after all, the tales of band camp never really end.
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The best week of my life began at approximately 7:23 A.M. on a bus. I was with the group of people not related to me at all but still totally my family. My band and I, we were at Band Camp.
When I got off the bus, I didn't know what to think. The bus was parked on a little dirt driveway at the edge of what we affectionately dubbed "The Meadow" which was basically a grass field surrounded by trees. Bordering The Meadow on one side were two run-down looking cabins, on another was a bath house and a bathroom that looked older than I was, and another side had one cabin hiding in the border of the trees. I could also see a bridge through the trees, and behind the two cabins sunlight was visible reflecting off the lake.
Mr. Rapson, our band teacher, directed me to Cabin Two, which was one of the run down cabins by the water. I crossed The Meadow (it was only about a hundred yards) and slowly climbed the steps of the cabin on the right.
There were two lines of bunk beds with dark green mattresses, one line on each wall. Windows with spider webs so thick you could barely see through them adorned the top foot or so of the walls, and there was only one electrical outlet. One electrical outlet for a cabin of twenty high school girls with phones. In the cabin, there was no air conditioner- and it was August. Things were looking good.
I quickly threw my bags onto one of the bottom bunks and headed with a couple of my bandmates to the bathroom, about a fifty yard walk from our cabin. The bathroom was a small building with four stalls inside, all with peeling pea-green paint. No locks could be found on the stall doors, and the stall walls were so low I could stand inside and comfortably look over and have a conversation with my neighbor- which we all did, all week. The sinks were a rusty trough found outside the bathroom, all with spider webs decorating the faucets.
Now, you might have noticed all the spider webs I've mentioned. That is because spiders are the things I remember most vividly of my time at Band Camp. Daddy long-legs infested the place, crawling on you, your things, the bathroom, the marching field- basically everywhere but the kitchen and dining room. There was always at least one eight legged friend with you in the shower or on the toilet at all times, and I woke up with one on my face on the third morning.
Here's the kicker: when I got there, I was petrified of spiders. It was going to be a long week.
However, the food well exceeded my grim expectations. It tasted homemade- nothing like school food- and delicious, as well as there being milk at every meal and different juices with breakfast. The one day, the main course for dinner was mashed potatoes. How much better could things get?
By the end of the first day, it felt like we had been there forever- which was, on all accounts, a good thing. Camp felt like home. We had already marched five hours, played our instruments for three, been to the beach for two hours, taken a nap, made friends with Oliver the imaginary troll under the bridge (he was my best friend), and the girls alone had squashed forty-five spiders.
Day Two looked to be less promising: Rain.
It was better than baking in the heat, but not by much. The rain pelted us relentlessly as we marched our three hours that morning. Mr. Rapson seemed to be enjoying himself, making us lunge backwards downhill on the wet ground, but he was the only one.
Eventually, though, the rain did stop, and the rest of the week was clear skies.
Every night, we did a group bonding activity. The first night was smores, which I promise you, were delicious. The second night, we hosted a grand event called the Band Olympics. We divided our band up into teams and did a bunch of really silly games, like weaving toilet paper through our team's legs (the camp maintenance people yelled at us for wasting toilet paper), races with broomsticks between our legs, and using squirt guns to fill buckets with water. Unfortunately, my team came in last place.
Perhaps now I will take the time to explain the shower situation we were presented with each day. The shower house was one big room, divided up into separate stalls by old ripped- up curtains that were easily see-through. The water was only cold. To even get the cold water, you had to hold the faucet handle down, so you only got to use one hand, which made washing hair difficult. To solve these problems, we all brought a new meaning to the term "bathing suits" by wearing them in the shower and bathing in pairs to assist with the faucets. Fortunately, there is no awkward in band.
Our third day of band camp brought about a plot thought up by the seniors that involved water balloons and an unsuspecting Mr. Rapson. For some reason, a band member I will not name here brought five hundred water balloons to camp, and we all took turns at the trough filling when we divided up by section to practice our instruments. That afternoon, when Mr. Rapson was on his way to the beach, Unnamed Band Member blew an air horn when he was precisely half way across The Meadow. Every single band member- except the seniors who were filming- ran from the trees where we had lined the entire Meadow and pelted him from the buckets of water balloons we held.
Needless to say, he was soaked and plotting revenge.
That night we had game night in the cafeteria, and a group of us played euchre with Mr. Rapson. He lost horribly every time, and it was one of the most fun euchre nights I've had in a long time.
The next day came, and with it, excitement. It was the day of the march off. We all would march while Mr. Rapson gave commands, and once you messed up, you were out. The last band member standing won eternal fame, glory, and bragging rights.
After a solid half hour of marching, it was down to a male senior, a male junior, and little old me. As we marched, I heard the senior curse, and knew he was out, but didn't dare look. Then, by some strange miracle, the junior turned left instead of right. I had won the march off because he hadn't known his rights from his lefts.
I was ecstatic.
Later that afternoon, we were marching again, and Mr. Rapson had all the seniors come off then called us to attention. He turned us around and then made us stand there for perhaps a minute. Then when we were instructed to turn around again, we were faced by the seniors and Mr. Rapson holding water balloons, with a cooler full of them waiting. Everyone else- including me- was at attention, which meant no moving what so ever- even if you got hit in the face with a water balloon.
Needless to say, Mr. Rapson got his revenge.
At the end of the day though, the much anticipated Talent Night occurred. A group did whale noises into the microphones, two girls did a makeup tutorial on two of the guys, the saxophones told band jokes, three of the guys did a satirical skit about camp and the "evil tyrant Mr. Rapson", and Mr. Rapson sang and played the guitar. It was amazing.
However, even the best of times must end, and the morning of the sixth day, we marched our show for our parents and then left our beloved Band Camp until next summer.
Was I glad to be home? Yes. Was I glad to see my family again? Yes. Was I glad to have a warm shower again? Definitely. Was I going to miss Oliver the troll? Without a doubt. Was I happy to hear the stories of the vacation my family took while I was gone (yes, they were legit- they dumped me at band camp and headed to North Carolina)? Not really.
But yet, I would miss camp. One of my dad's favorite quotes is "Home is where the heart is." I guess then, that Band Camp will always be one of my homes. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," also is able to perfectly exemplify our time at camp- happy and stuck in the Stone Age. And yet, it seems fate has willed I shall never return to my home full of memories, for next year, we shall be going to a different camp- but who knows, as a sophomore, it could be a million times better.