letters to camp
Ben Falik Contributing Writer
Ben Falik
Contributing Writer

I  knew this day would come. My children moved out and they are never coming back for 2-4 weeks. I am coping with being an empty nester the only way I know how — writing a 21st-century parody of a 20th-century parody of a 19th-century ballet. With apologies to Allan Sherman, Amilcare Ponchielli and A.J. …

Hello Phoebe, Hello Judah
Hope you’re loving Camp Haruda
Here without you, things are quiet
Planet Fitness, well I’m planning fit to try it.

We had dinner without spilling
Miso salmon, oh so thrilling
Your dog, Lola, lately lingers
Sniffs for you and your discarded chicken fingers.

You might wonder, do I miss you?
And the voodoo that you two do?
Just keep camping and canoeing,
I’m content here vacuuming and home beer brewing.

Am I jealous, you are asking?
Going loco multitasking?
Camp is magic, every minute
Why does it have a restrictive age-out limit?

Don’t come home, oh Phoebe, Judah
Over time, you’ll come to see ya
Are lucky to leave the shore
And paddle off to Lake S’more.

Stay at camp, my Judah, Phoebe
This is Us, Netflix, and Shark Week
Which would seem exciting but
It has long been in a rut.

Fearless Phoebe and your Bruddah
Do not worry ’bout your Muddah
Keeping busy at Ford Motor
Just in case, she is an absenteeing voter.

Come to think it, life is boring
Sans your kvetching and your snoring
Shouting spilling, yeah that’s better
Judah, Phoebe: kindly disregard this letter.

If you or my kids are looking for me over Labor Day weekend, I’ll be in the Northwoods of Wisconsin for the 90th reunion of Camp Nebagamon for Boys.

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