In the summer of 1983, I was the origin of the lice outbreak at Camp Willowbrook. Picture this: lounging on the grass with my cabin mates, eagerly awaiting my turn for volleyball, when a sharp-eyed counselor spotted me scratching my head incessantly. A quick trip to the infirmary confirmed it wasn’t an allergy to bug spray or a reflection of our less-than-stellar hygiene as rising third graders. Nope, I had lice, and soon I was spreading the little critters to every girl in my cabin. Before long, the entire camp was lined up to be doused in Kwell and subjected to the torment of that fine-toothed metal comb, which took with it clumps of our tangled, chlorine-scented hair.
That first night after my diagnosis, I returned to the cabin after lights out to find all my clothes and linens confiscated, destined for a thorough boiling in the industrial laundry. All I had was an oversized Camp Willowbrook sleep shirt and a new brush from the canteen. With a heavy heart, I climbed into bed, covered in scratchy lost-and-found sheets and a stifling acrylic blanket. My bunkmates, usually chatty and eager to play games like Truth or Dare, ignored me. I could hear their whispers in the dark, and I knew they were discussing me—after all, I had brought this plague upon us, the Typhoid Mary of Cabin Five. I felt like a pariah.
The only one who reached out during those grim days was my best friend, Lily. Hailing from sunny Florida, we had been camp buddies for two years by then. With her bowl haircut and shiny pink roller-skating jacket, she was the one who introduced me to Duran Duran. Lily adored Michael Jackson; she even had a keychain of his iconic sparkly glove hanging above her bed. That first night, while I whimpered in confusion, she held my hand from her bed and assured the other girls to calm down—lice could happen to anyone. She stuck by me long after I was lice-free, even through her own encounter with them, as the rest of our cabin succumbed one by one to the inevitable nuisance that comes from spending eight weeks together in such close quarters.
The memories I hold dear from my seven summers at camp are filled with moments shared with Lily, my camp best friend. Unlike a best friend from home, who requires day-to-day maintenance—notes passed in class, petty disputes, and navigating the labyrinth of social dynamics—the camp best friend is a steadfast presence. Typically, you meet her during your first summer, sitting next to each other at the welcome barbecue or handing off the baton in a relay race. The magic of your connection is inexplicable; you just click. If you’re fortunate, this bond continues year after year, trading charms from your necklaces, sharing clothes, and curling each other’s hair before sundae night. You might even perform a choreographed dance to “The Reflex” at the end-of-summer talent show, only to cry as if losing a limb when it’s time to part ways.
For those at home, this camp friendship can seem elusive. Friends who don’t attend camp view her as an outsider—cooler and more adventurous, akin to a “boyfriend in Canada.” But she’s entirely real. “Mom, can I call Lily?” I’d ask, often needing permission for long-distance calls back in those days. Connecting with Lily was a thrill; she was the only one who truly understood our camp world—the intricate social hierarchies, the bunk gossip, the songs, the inside jokes, and those dreamy memories that felt so significant for ten months out of the year.
Having a best friend whom I saw for just eight weeks each year, to whom I sent excited letters on Snoopy stationery, was invaluable. She wasn’t merely my partner in adventure at camp—she was the one whose opinion of me remained unaltered by school drama or social hierarchies. Every summer, we would pick up right where we left off, still loving Garfield, stirrup pants, and pasta with cottage cheese. No matter what happened from September to June, I had someone who cherished me and understood me completely each summer.
Lily and I eventually outgrew camp, transitioned to high school and college, and maintained our friendship through letters and rare phone calls. She remained in the South, became a doctor, got married, and had a baby. When I published a book, she discovered me on Facebook, excitedly recalling our summers together and wondering if I was indeed “Jamie Green,” her long-lost camp best friend. Yes, yes I was, and in that moment, I felt like the same girl from the summer of ’83, lying in bed and scratching my deloused scalp, with Lily still cheering me on from afar.
In summary, the bond of a camp best friend is a unique and cherished connection, one that transcends time and distance. It’s a friendship built on shared experiences and unwavering support, creating memories that last a lifetime. For those interested in exploring more about the journey to parenthood, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy at Healthline or learn about fertility boosters here.
Keyphrase: camp best friend
Tags: “home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”