When I was a kid, I used to spend my summers at camp. I loved day camp. We’d do arts & crafts with the sticks from the popsicles we consumed in the dozens, slurp down McDonald’s orange drink before walking over to the local community pool. I made friends easily and was still young enough not to be aware of myself. It was probably the last time in my life where I didn’t have a hint of self-consciousness.
Eventually though, I aged out of day camp and graduated to overnight. And I hated it. I can’t stand being dirty, or wet, or cold. Never having a moment to yourself. I don’t like bugs, or camping or eating communal food, doing activities I’m terrible at, the freezing cold murkiness of a lake and the fish that might swim around your ankles or the snapping turtles that might bite off your toes…it was a bad fit.
I also knew how lucky I was to be able to go, accompanied by a crushing feeling of guilt for my ingratitude as I gritted my way through each day, writing my name in marker on the cabin walls and trying to force myself to be happy.
But much worse than this was the ‘cabin’. There is nothing more fearsome, save maybe for a Canadian goose protecting her nest - than preteen girls. If you weren’t already established in the cabin (I wasn’t), cool (also, no) then they would hone in on your greatest weaknesses and insecurities (even if heretofore unknown) and exploit them to inflict maximum pain.
I’d wear the official uniform - t-shirts and boxer shorts, duckie boots and lumber jacket all purchased ahead of time at the Chocky’s Camp Store and shoved into my duffel bag - and feel like a fraud. These girls were graceful, effortless, athletic, sighted, their hair naturally curly or straight, they were leggy and lean.
Meanwhile, I had hair that looked feral two minutes after I brushed it, wore glasses, orthodontics, was clumsy and graceless, growing into my pear shape. I’d sit next to one of the long-limbed girls, acutely aware that the spread of my thighs was double hers and that this was bad.
Still though, I went to a huge camp. Most activities like sailing or water skiing you only did once over the summer. So I was able to join the drama program and was cast as the lead in the camp musicals - something I enjoyed not so much for the performance - but that it took me away from my cabin for hours at a time.
And it was at camp where I had my first kiss. We used to have ‘socials’, dances where the boys from Northland mixed with the girls from B’nai Brith. The last one of the summer is what counted. Then (if you were lucky?) a boy would ask if he could take you. This meant you were obligated to save the last dance for him (Stairway to Heaven) and let him walk you back to your cabin after (where he could clumsily paw you).
I said yes to the first boy who asked me. I had no particular interest in him, but after a summer of being picked apart in the sneaky way of girls, I was certain nobody else would. I also had an educational interest in being kissed.
When the moment itself arrived, it was: Gross. All slobbery and tongue, like a dog attacking a pup cup. I felt no flutters or tingles, but rather a desperate need to escape and wash my face. It was nothing that inspired me to ever want to do it again.
The summer I was 13, I switched to a new camp - Tamarack. My hopes that I would be starting over and could be a new version of me were quickly dashed. The cliques were far more entrenched, the girls somehow more practiced in the art of cruelty. They would divide up the cabin in lines more powerful than the Maginot. Didn’t need a bra (me) go over there, didn’t have your period yet (me again), sorry but you’re simply not mature enough to be in our group.
I once again found solace in the music program, but Tamarack was smaller. Activities like kayaking, canoeing, water skiing were daily. You couldn’t wander off for hours unnoticed. And it was when we went to ‘sailing’ that I fell in love at first sight with him.
He was Craig, the sailing instructor. He had shoulder length curly dirty blonde hair, rough hands and the kindest face. Craig was nearly 17 to my 13 turning 14, but that didn’t matter to me. I was sure we were meant to be.
I developed a new and passionate interest in sailing, pretending to be intrigued and not terrified by the boom swinging wildly at my head. I made any excuse to wander over to the beach, especially after dinner. Craig would indulge me with chats on the dock, just the two of us, before walking me back to my cabin.
He was always acutely aware the age difference was inappropriate, even if I wasn’t. Sometimes during our talks though, he would forget himself and share his own insecurities. Worries that he had no idea what he wanted to do in life. That he was coming close to graduating high school, but didn’t want to go to university. He wanted to travel the world, play his guitar and write poems. I swooned at every word that fell from his perfect mouth.
He seemed so adult to me. I thrilled with being his confidant. Even more thrilled to be away from the girls who confirmed that everything I hated about myself was true, and to be with someone who seemed to see good in there anyway.
Craig is probably why I’ve always been drawn to men with curly hair and rough hands. The sensitive man who can also smash a homerun or lift heavy things.
As the summer came to a close, I knew my time with him was running out. I wasn’t going to be back (and I never did return to camp after, opting instead for summer jobs) and deep down I knew also that I’d never see him again.
On my last night, I made my way to the dock like I had so many other times before to say goodbye. It was the kind of August humid where you’re constantly covered in a sheen of sweat. I was desperately trying not to cry, and seem cool. I wanted to believe our connection was real. That it wasn’t only one-sided.
Craig came prepared. He had a little speech planned, likely worried that I would fall apart. I wonder sometimes how he really saw me. Undoubtedly as a lovesick teenager following him around like a puppy, who he was too kind to ignore. But I do think some of that connection I felt was genuine.
At some point he went off script. He had been staring off at the lake, but he turned to look at me, really look at me. He told me that I had a ‘beautiful smile and even more beautiful heart’ and that one day the world would ‘open up fully to me’. I melted. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. He somehow saw that this ugly duckling might one day turn into - if not a swan - a much more assured duckling.
He got ready to stand up to leave, but instead looked at me one more time and leaned in. I was almost dying with anticipation, convinced it was going to happen. He hovered somewhere between my mouth and cheek before gently kissing me on the forehead.
I felt that forehead kiss in every cell in my body. This was the feeling I wanted when I got goobered on after that dance. It carried me during my darker teenage years when I was sure I would never find anyone again who ‘cared’ about me like he did. Craig made me feel worthy, if not (thankfully) desired.
I’ve had thousands of kisses since then. Real, passionate, loving, some more dog attacking pup cup kinds at the end of a bar night. The kisses you can’t stop giving at the beginning of a relationship, and the kind that become perfunctory or stop altogether, signaling its death knell.
But the best ones have always evoked the emotions of what I consider my first real kiss. Intimate, affectionate - making you feel special and seen. My hair being gently brushed out of my face, him smiling while looking at me like I’m the only person on earth. I’ve chased this feeling most of my adult life.
So I think it’s true that you never forget your first kiss, but it’s the first one that gives you meaning.
Thank you Craig, wherever you are now. I hope you got to travel the world and sail and play guitar. And I hope someone or many someones have made you feel as valued as you did me.
Thank you, Ruth, for reminding me of some precious memories. I never went away to camps, but hanging in the neighborhood on the south side of Chicago presented me with many opportunities for a "first kiss". Her name was Cindy and I knew her "from around". I think she was probably more interested in me, than I her. We spent a few nights in groups talking about all sorts of things and eventually kissed. It was sweet and gentle. But for me it produced no real emotion or attachment. No relationship followed.
Several months later a girl who I had known throughout grammar school that was a year younger than me from my sister's class and I met up in the church's teen club. We ended up spending some time doing projects together on the church grounds. Shortly after this Mary invited me over to her house and down in their basement / family room, I received the first passionate kiss of my life. We started dating and went to a couple high school dances and such together. The kisses remained passionate, but our relationship fizzled out as teen "romances" tend to do. We do correspond on Facebook from time to time. She lives out of state and works in the medical field.
Allow me to relate one more kiss story. It occurred when I was 23. I had been dating Therese for a couple months and one night the kisses changed dramatically. Suddenly it was the passion of Mary's with the close feeling of someone I cared for. But the part that was "interesting" was that as we kissed goodnight, she curled her leg up, the "foot pop" of all those 60s romantic comedies with Doris Day or another one of actresses of that time frame. We both laughed about it afterwards as it was spontaneous, but it never just happened again. Our relationship grew deeper, then unexplainably she broke-up with me the day after Christmas with the old "it's not you it's me" thing.
Thanks again for the "Musings" and allowing me to reminisce on some special and distance memories. Your writing is quite special, it opens up the heart and the soul to times and people of our past.
Aw! I love this one! Made me feel all the feels...sigh...