Dear Maggie —
We are experiencing in our house what we are referring to as the “Great Summer Camp Fail Of 2026” – otherwise known as, my husband was in charge of signing up for camps this Summer, but he put most of the crucial dates down in the wrong month. 🤦🏼 You guessed it – by the time we realized our error, it was too late, and we’ve been scrambling ever since to put together a hodge-podge of off-the-beaten-path camps (I’m really hoping Yodel Camp is better than it sounds!?!), fingers-crossed waitlists (anyone else still waiting for SLU??), local teens, my great aunt, and even school parents who we’re paying to run “Camp Carol” for a week since we had nowhere else to go. Needless to say, it’s been nerve-racking and not fun! I know you always put together fun plans for your Summer – so please, Calgon, take me away… and let me live vicariously through your summertime fiesta!
— Up The Creek Without A Patty
Dear Up The Creek Without A –
Oh honey, I remember those days. Though admittedly, the process looked a little different back then. Without online registration portals and twelve reminder texts from other moms, we had to wait for camp signups to arrive by monk on horseback carrying a parchment scroll and an unreasonable amount of judgment. If you missed the deadline? Tough luck. Your children spent the Summer chasing goats and trying not to contract the plague.
And instead of “Camp Carol,” we had “Camp Carl.” Carl the Executioner. Terrible nickname. Lovely man. Made one heckuva mutton stew and taught the children practical medieval skills like candle-dipping, turnip preservation, and how to survive a minor Viking invasion. Honestly, some of those life skills have held up better than STEM. And desperation is the mother of invention – so the Summer of 1082, Camp Carl was the best we could come up with. 🙄
But enough about childhood neglect. Let’s talk about me.
I am headed to Sarasota for the Summer to work as the social director at an octogenarian summer camp called the Golden Years Getaway. My bestie Bernie has worked there for years and finally convinced me to come on board after what she called my “unfortunate but inspiring” recovery from the volunteer injury incident.
Now, before you picture a bunch of retirees silently assembling puzzles while Lawrence Welk plays in the background, think again. Think Love Island – with more Depends and dentures. Nothing untoward, though – we’re talking romance. Probably more Love Boat than Love Island, actually. This is about newly single seniors looking for love. No basket weaving and mahjong here – it’s a hoot! They actually rebranded a few years ago. It used to be called Camp Old Fogey, but apparently, focus groups found that “fogey” tested poorly with the hot-to-trot 78-to-84 demographic.
And let me tell you, these seniors are frisky. Nothing spices up a happy hour quite like two widowers fighting over the same woman while one of them forgets where he parked his scooter. It’s electric.
There’s salsa dancing. Tai chi. Sunset mixers. Chair yoga that occasionally turns into a medical event. One gentleman named Ron has already proposed to three women and accidentally to a floor lamp. Bernie says that’s still better odds than most dating apps.
And naturally, I’m in charge of programming. So far, I’ve planned:
- Swing It While You Still Got It – a golf scramble for vintage Valentines
- Carbon Dating – speed dating for people who move with a walker and need an oxygen break halfway through
- Wheel of Misfortune – we did a trial run of this one, started as a mobility scooter obstacle course and ended with Mildred in a koi pond
- Put Harriet Back In The Recliner – exactly what it sounds like, and surprisingly competitive
- and our big luau finale: Margaritaville and Metamucil
Frankly, it’s my calling. You know I love organizing a party almost as much as I love inserting myself into other people’s business. And helping a bunch of old-timers rekindle the flames of romance – or at least locate a warm ember beneath years of orthopedic footwear and unresolved grief – fills me with hope.
Because truly, nothing says “life goes on” quite like watching two seniors lock eyes across a bingo hall and think, “Yes. That one. I shall burden my adult children with this relationship.” That’s right – throw caution (and maybe a hip) to the wind and dive headfirst into a relationship lacking libido and a full set of teeth.
So don’t despair, dear camper. Somewhere in the Florida Everglades, two latent lovers are slowly canoe-doling into the sunset, paddle or not, while arguing about thermostat settings and whether Matlock was better before the reboot. And honestly? That’s what Summer is all about.
Wishing you a season filled with adventure, minimal scheduling catastrophes, and at least one camp experience that doesn’t require a signed liability waiver from Carol. See you next school year – bronzed, rejuvenated, and hopefully banned from at least one Sarasota retirement community.
— Maggie
