When summer comes on full blast, I almost long for the days of my
youth. Memories of angst and acne aside, summer still means one place, one
person to me: Camp Maria Pratt and Bernie Moore. When I try to explain myself
to people now, I always mention Bernie, and I always say, "She made me who
I am." It's difficult to go beyond that very cliché statement, difficult
to put into words, verbal or written, why I have had only one hero in my life,
and why I credit that one hero with more of my making than my parents,
siblings, or life-long friends.
Bernie was a woman comfortable in her own skin. That, more than
anything, is reason enough to call her a hero. For this young girl in the 1970s
and into the 80s, an older woman who didn't complain about her figure, fuss
with her hair, or need a matching bag and shoes was an unknowing godsend. And
add to that someone who could cook an entire meal over a fire, play the panicky
victim in a lifesaving drill, bike for miles, and dance the bossa nova. Bernie
rocked, we knew it, we adored her, and she adored us. But she also instilled in
us a great sense of responsibility and respect: for the environment, for the
importance of routine, for equity and justice, for our selves.
As a camper, I remember Bernie in several ways. I remember her
cooking fried dough on the porch of the lodge: white apron over green tee shirt
and jean shorts, wavy silver hair pushed back from her face, sweat running from
every pore. Every now and then she'd take a break, come onto the tarmac where
we huddled in small groups, put her arms around all of us (somehow), and make
us feel as if we were the most important people she knew. I remember Bernie
dancing on that same tarmac, keeping time to the bossa nova with those few
bangles around her wrist that she wore at all times, stepping lightly in worn
sneakers and somehow getting all of us to join her. I remember her best at
candlelight ceremonies, where we'd mark the close of another session in one
immense gorgeous candlelit circle. Bernie would recite, "If you stand very
still in the heart of the woods…" and no one would move, speak, or giggle,
simply because we recognized the beauty of the moment and wanted to hold onto
it, forever.
When I was old enough to work at camp, Bernie became so much more
than the coolest camp director ever. She became a parent for eight weeks,
urging and challenging, scolding and comforting. Bernie's cardinal rule for
staff was, "Whatever you do on your free time, you better be able to be at
100% for your job the next day." On more than one occasion, I took
advantage of the freedoms allowed me at camp, and a few times, I had to answer
to Bernie the following day. You always knew if you'd let her down. She'd
approach wearing a serious expression, and you'd know you fouled up again, and
that somehow, she knew where you'd been, what you'd done, and with whom. Bernie
would talk of your responsibility, then her concern, and finally, the ultimate
response, disappointment. All quietly, patiently, and firmly but lovingly, usually
with her hand on your arm or her arm around your shoulder. Tears would come,
then the hug. Getting in trouble didn't get any better than that.
I couldn't bring myself to visit Bernie in her old age, or even,
most days, to ask others about her health once she was ill. I was, thoroughly
and completely, in denial. To picture my hero anywhere else but camp, or in her
cozy home she made with Harry, was (still is) impossible. And despite the years
that have passed since Bernie died, I can't accept that she won't be somewhere
this summer, teaching young girls how to paddle, making the perfect campfire
dessert, or dancing the bossa nova into the warm night.
