Making, always answering classic call of parents

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 27/02/2023 (1299 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

When I was about 14 or 15, my parents sent me to camp for two weeks.

Technically, camp only went for one-week intervals, but I had such a great time and made some new friends the previous year my folks signed me up for back-to-back weeks.

The first week was awesome. We did all the things one does at summer camp, such as swimming and arts and crafts activities. There was a giant rock wall that we could rappel down, and a tuck shop that opened once a day.

I remember that we did a lot of singing — praise and worship, they call it, because this was a Bible camp that had two sessions of chapel a day: one first thing in the morning and another at night, before bed.

For the years that I went to this camp (I think it was only a handful, but back then it seemed like a constant) there were familiar faces of campers and counsellors who would return year-after-year, amongst a mass of new faces.

However, during that second week, right at the start, I got into a fight with my group of friends.

I can’t even remember what the fight was about, it was probably something silly. At the time, if felt heavy and like the end of the world. It was icy and I was shut out of the group.

Things became awkward, and it didn’t blow over. There was me, my former besties, and the bystanders in our cabin, and beyond — some who took sides, and others who did their best to ignore the teenage tension.

It wasn’t a bully situation, but it was lonely and I was miserable, and I was, all of a sudden, very out of place. After a few days, I told my counsellor that I wasn’t feeling well and I wanted to go home.

I’d already toughed out a few days and didn’t want to slog through anymore.

So they called my folks and, in a few hours, dear ol’ Dad was there to pick me up.

When my dad arrived at the camp, he was empathetic as he loaded my things into the trunk of the car. He didn’t seem annoyed or put off that picking me up ate hours of his day away. On the contrary, he seemed glad to do it.

My parents had always told us if we need them, no matter what, all we had to do was call and they would pick us up.

On the drive home, it started to pour. My dad seamlessly drove down the highway in the nightmare conditions, heading home from Lac Du Bonnet as buckets of rain were swished away from the windshield by frantic wipers.

All you could see was rain, and the sound of fat raindrops falling on the roof of the car was loud over top of the songs on the radio. These are the types of conditions I am scared to drive in now, but being a passenger with my dad at the wheel only felt safe.

The round trip was about three hours, so he packed himself a sandwich and some snacks he shared as we made our way home. We listened to the radio and chatted, but he never once pried as to why I insisted on leaving camp early, and I didn’t volunteer any information.

I think about that sometimes, especially now that I am a parent.

I tell our kids the same thing my parents told me: call me, and I will come get you. No matter what.

There have been times they’ve done it. Some of those times, their call has been barely a blip on the day and, others, it’s been inconvenient or late or it has eaten into whatever I was doing.

Every single time though, I have been so grateful they feel comfortable enough to know they can always call us — and, no matter what, we will come get them.

shelley.cook@freepress.mb.ca

Twitter: @ShelleyACook