I became a dad at summer camp

         I never thought I wanted children. Diapers and projectile vomit had deterred me. Of course, knowing how difficult I was as a child didn’t help either.

         My parents’ divorce and their endless fights over money, custody, and anything they could think of left the idea of having children even less appealing.

My first marriage ended amicably without children. It was sad, but it was easy. I kept my record collection, and she took the dog.

         I was a camper at Camp Sangamon in the 70s. In the summer of 1994, I was newly divorced, and despite my lack of interest in kids, I went to work at camp and ran the woodshop program. The first week was for the staff to train and get the camp ready for the summer.

         I was repairing the stairs to the main house. As I walked by the barn to get wood, I saw a boy hunched over on a beat-up old sofa that was stuffed into a small balcony overlooking the main barn floor. I could hear the Wu-Tang Clan pumping through his headphones from thirty feet away. I was surprised to see a kid. Campers weren’t due until the following week.

         “Hey, what’s up?” as I grabbed some wood.

         Nothing.

         I raised my voice, “Yo!” He looked up and uncovered one ear. There wasn’t much joy on his face. “Hi, I’m Dave. Who are you?”

         “Justin.”

         Ok, that was a start. “What’re you doing here?”

         “My mom’s working in the main house.”

         “And you? What are you up to?”

         “Nuthin. Listening to some stuff.”

         “Got it. Well, I’m working on some stuff too. See ya.” I took the wood and headed to the main house, put the material down, and went inside.

         There were three women chatting away at a table. Two of them couldn’t have been more than 20. No way they were “mom.” That left Alley. I’d seen her before, but we hadn’t spoken. She has a son. Not a deal breaker. But something to think about. I was easily ten years older than most of the staff, so I was pleased to see someone else of my generation at camp. It didn’t hurt that she was drop-dead gorgeous, too.

         “Hi, do you mind if I put your boy to work?”

         She looked up, “If you can get him off his butt and doing something, that’d be great. Be my guest.”

After lunch, I asked Justin if he could help me. He reluctantly agreed.

         “Here,” I said as I pulled a box of tools out of my truck. “We’re going to need some of these. Go ahead and crack it open.”

         Justin opened the box and started pulling out tools. “What’s this for?”

         “That’s for marking straight and square lines.”

         “And this?”

         “I use that for pulling stubborn nails out. Tell you what, grab those,” I point to the sawhorses next to the main house. “We’re going to need them to hold the wood we’re working on.”

         We spent the afternoon together, and by the end of the day, the stairs were done. At dinner, I sat with Alley and Justin.

         “Mom, did you see the stairs? Dave and I built them, isn’t that cool?” Justin was excited and proud of his work.

         Alley looked at me and mouthed, “Thank you,” as Justin continued to describe our work. I waved off her thanks. He really had been helpful, and it was fun showing him how to use the tools. I felt good seeing Justin so enthusiastic about the stairs. I was also pleased to make Alley happy.

         She was a former camper at the sister camp, Betsey Cox, although we had never overlapped as kids. Turns out, she was newly divorced too and had come back to camp to work for the summer. We were both a little older than most of the staff, had been campers here at about the same time, and were both looking for fresh starts in life. We hit it off immediately.

         At the end of the week, a car pulled into the parking area, and a five-year-old boy jumped out and ran over to Alley. “Hi mom! Dad forgot my sneakers.” She gave him a huge hug and turned to me, “This is Max, my youngest.”

         “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Dave.”

         “Hi.” He turned to Alley, “What’s for lunch? I’m hungry. Dad said I had to wait until we got to camp.”

         OK. The woman I’m interested in has TWO kids. At least the diapering and projectile vomiting had passed, and they can walk and talk. But I’m not “dad” material. Am I? Now I had a lot to think about.

         The summer was great. Alley and I grew closer together. Max was easy-going. He was too young to be a camper, so he stayed with her but otherwise participated in the camp activities. Justin loved camp. He slowly stopped being that surly boy I met in the barn. We bonded over playing basketball.

         Each summer session, the camp held a three-on-three tournament. I am tall and played very competitive basketball during the year. It didn’t matter how inexperienced my teammates were; I almost always won the tournament. Justin and his friends tried to beat me time and again. Over three summers, I managed to turn them back every time.

         Our third summer, even though he was only 9, Max wanted to play too, so I took him on my team. It was so much fun to play with him, and Alley loved watching it all.

         In the fourth summer, Justin finally figured out how to beat me. He not only played well, but he also thought well and beat me tactically. I am very competitive and didn’t like losing. Yet, I could not have been prouder. Was this how a parent felt?

         By this time, Alley and I lived together in a small cabin at camp that I built for us. During the rest of the year, she and the boys lived in New York City. I lived in Western Massachusetts. We took turns commuting.

         Our time together as a family was not always easy. I had my share of “You’re not my Dad” moments. I questioned my choice to be with Alley, but always came back to the same answer. Yes.

         After another pick-up basketball game at camp, our fourth summer, I was sitting with Justin waiting for the next game to start.

         “Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” I said, handing him my water bottle.

         “Thanks. What’s up?”

         “Well, I know your mom and dad’s divorce was hard for you and Max. But you seem to be in a better place than when we first met. No?”

         “Yeah, I hate it when they fight, but I know it’s not because of me.”

         “You’re right, it’s not. Anyway, here’s my question: would you be ok if I asked your mom to marry me?”

         He paused a moment, “I would. So long as you let me win the next game.” Justin jumped up and grabbed the basketball.

         Now, more than thirty years later, I’m still not sure I’m dad – or granddad – material. But I am forever grateful to be one.