By Carolyn M. Trombe
Children make you want to start life over.
~Muhammad Ali
Each summer, children from several surrounding inner cities flock to Camp Scully in a rural area of upstate New York. Living just up the road from the camp, our cat, Patches, probably caught the sounds of merriment which drifted her way from a multitude of voices mingled in glee. Maybe she wondered what opportunities awaited her there, or it could be she decided a communal atmosphere was more to her liking. For whatever reason, without asking our permission, Patches packed her bags and set off for camp.
Children make you want to start life over.
~Muhammad Ali
Each summer, children from several surrounding inner cities flock to Camp Scully in a rural area of upstate New York. Living just up the road from the camp, our cat, Patches, probably caught the sounds of merriment which drifted her way from a multitude of voices mingled in glee. Maybe she wondered what opportunities awaited her there, or it could be she decided a communal atmosphere was more to her liking. For whatever reason, without asking our permission, Patches packed her bags and set off for camp.
One evening in late May, my husband and I returned home from celebrating our first wedding anniversary to find a cryptic note from my stepdaughter. "Camp Scully returned Patches a few hours ago. She's in my room now," the note read.
Patches had been missing for several days. My husband assured me there was no need to fret. She usually took these sabbaticals as soon as the weather turned warmer. Since we had only been married for a short period, this was the first time I experienced these jaunts of Patches, and I must say they made me extremely uneasy. My cats had never even been outdoors. Furthermore, while I was glad to have Patches under our roof once again, I puzzled over the meaning of my stepdaughter's message. I went upstairs and knocked on her door.
"What's this about Camp Scully?" I asked.
"Someone from Camp Scully called and said they had Patches. They brought her back about eight o'clock," she answered in typical non-explanatory fourteen-year-old fashion.
"How did she get to Camp Scully?" I questioned, thinking I hadn't even filled out an application, let alone put down a deposit.
"I don't know. Someone just told me she was there," she said, already moving on to other more important teenage concerns.
A few nights later, my questions were answered. Patches had again disappeared and around 8:30 the doorbell rang. The young woman who ran the camp stood silhouetted under the porch light, a decidedly unhappy calico cat cradled in her arms. As I ushered her in, she explained how Patches first wandered up to her during the lull before the opening day of camp. Susan knew from her collar and name tag that a meal ticket waited to be cashed in elsewhere. Yet, no matter how she tried to ignore her overtures of friendship, Patches showed up daily, finally opting to move in completely.
"Patches hasn't been very happy since I moved in with my three cats," I told her, while Susan warily watched our strapping black and white male, dubbed the resident bully. "Especially him," I concluded.
Perhaps the thought of eight-pound Patches living with this towering menace unnerved Susan somewhat, because eventually she gave in to Patches' wishes. After a few more transfers between her rightful home and her dream escape, we all agreed that Patches would be better off at camp.
Patches settled into the routine of camp almost immediately. Rather than the campers intimidating her, as I had worried, she welcomed the chance to be cuddled and petted at every turn. Plus, she liked the many different diversions that camp offered, from supervising an arts and crafts session to lounging on the beach while reluctant ten-year-olds attempted the back stroke. Hanging around the mess hall had its rewards, too. Usually someone surreptitiously pulled a tidbit from a slightly bulging pocket or just happened to drop a leftover morsel of dinner. Patches adored the children, and they her. Soon she reigned as the camp mascot, at times surpassing Susan's leadership role.
The effect she had upon the children illustrated this well. Many of them had never been away from their families or out in the country for any length of time. The utter quiet and open spaces overwhelmed them when they first arrived. Patches provided just that necessary familiar touch, like the smell of grandma's home-baked cookies or the feel of a well-worn blanket on a nippy autumn night. In her, the children could confide their fears in ways they could not do with each other, and somehow Patches made them feel all right.
More importantly, the campers learned about responsibility from Patches, which in turn gave them a truer sense of belonging. Many of the children appointed themselves as Patches' official caretakers. Invariably, each morning and evening several willing servers showed up at Susan's cabin and helped prepare Patches' meals. Susan showed them how much food to put in the dish and made sure they changed her water. Soon, Patches took to parking herself on the porch to prepare for the arrival of her young wait staff.
I like to think that because of Patches, a few children left camp with a bit more than they brought with them. Perhaps it was an added air of confidence, perhaps a new understanding of compassion, or perhaps the sense of wonder which nature brings. In countless ways, Patches touched those around her and taught them to see as they hadn't seen before.
Several months prior to what would have been her fourth camp session, Patches succumbed to kidney failure at the age of fourteen. A marker commemorates the spot where Susan buried her, near a towering pine tree on the camp's front lawn. I suspect, though, that her spirit refuses to be likewise confined. Often on a summer's night, as I hear the sound of taps carried on the breeze, I picture Patches with one paw placed against her heart, giving thanks for another day at camp.
Patches had been missing for several days. My husband assured me there was no need to fret. She usually took these sabbaticals as soon as the weather turned warmer. Since we had only been married for a short period, this was the first time I experienced these jaunts of Patches, and I must say they made me extremely uneasy. My cats had never even been outdoors. Furthermore, while I was glad to have Patches under our roof once again, I puzzled over the meaning of my stepdaughter's message. I went upstairs and knocked on her door.
"What's this about Camp Scully?" I asked.
"Someone from Camp Scully called and said they had Patches. They brought her back about eight o'clock," she answered in typical non-explanatory fourteen-year-old fashion.
"How did she get to Camp Scully?" I questioned, thinking I hadn't even filled out an application, let alone put down a deposit.
"I don't know. Someone just told me she was there," she said, already moving on to other more important teenage concerns.
A few nights later, my questions were answered. Patches had again disappeared and around 8:30 the doorbell rang. The young woman who ran the camp stood silhouetted under the porch light, a decidedly unhappy calico cat cradled in her arms. As I ushered her in, she explained how Patches first wandered up to her during the lull before the opening day of camp. Susan knew from her collar and name tag that a meal ticket waited to be cashed in elsewhere. Yet, no matter how she tried to ignore her overtures of friendship, Patches showed up daily, finally opting to move in completely.
"Patches hasn't been very happy since I moved in with my three cats," I told her, while Susan warily watched our strapping black and white male, dubbed the resident bully. "Especially him," I concluded.
Perhaps the thought of eight-pound Patches living with this towering menace unnerved Susan somewhat, because eventually she gave in to Patches' wishes. After a few more transfers between her rightful home and her dream escape, we all agreed that Patches would be better off at camp.
Patches settled into the routine of camp almost immediately. Rather than the campers intimidating her, as I had worried, she welcomed the chance to be cuddled and petted at every turn. Plus, she liked the many different diversions that camp offered, from supervising an arts and crafts session to lounging on the beach while reluctant ten-year-olds attempted the back stroke. Hanging around the mess hall had its rewards, too. Usually someone surreptitiously pulled a tidbit from a slightly bulging pocket or just happened to drop a leftover morsel of dinner. Patches adored the children, and they her. Soon she reigned as the camp mascot, at times surpassing Susan's leadership role.
The effect she had upon the children illustrated this well. Many of them had never been away from their families or out in the country for any length of time. The utter quiet and open spaces overwhelmed them when they first arrived. Patches provided just that necessary familiar touch, like the smell of grandma's home-baked cookies or the feel of a well-worn blanket on a nippy autumn night. In her, the children could confide their fears in ways they could not do with each other, and somehow Patches made them feel all right.
More importantly, the campers learned about responsibility from Patches, which in turn gave them a truer sense of belonging. Many of the children appointed themselves as Patches' official caretakers. Invariably, each morning and evening several willing servers showed up at Susan's cabin and helped prepare Patches' meals. Susan showed them how much food to put in the dish and made sure they changed her water. Soon, Patches took to parking herself on the porch to prepare for the arrival of her young wait staff.
I like to think that because of Patches, a few children left camp with a bit more than they brought with them. Perhaps it was an added air of confidence, perhaps a new understanding of compassion, or perhaps the sense of wonder which nature brings. In countless ways, Patches touched those around her and taught them to see as they hadn't seen before.
Several months prior to what would have been her fourth camp session, Patches succumbed to kidney failure at the age of fourteen. A marker commemorates the spot where Susan buried her, near a towering pine tree on the camp's front lawn. I suspect, though, that her spirit refuses to be likewise confined. Often on a summer's night, as I hear the sound of taps carried on the breeze, I picture Patches with one paw placed against her heart, giving thanks for another day at camp.
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