Many prayers for the victims of the tragic flooding at summer camps, including Camp Mystic, in the Texas Hill Country. What happened over the 4th of July weekend is truly heart-rending. The piece I am sharing here was written before the tragedy. It offers memories but changes identities, as a tribute to the life-changing experience of Kickapoo Kamp near Kerrville, this year commemorating its 100-year-anniversary. I hope this work of memory encourages others to spend a moment to reflect on their own happy and formative experiences.
Link to recording: https://youtu.be/8HuqAn7PXfI
Speakers near the recreation hall blared Golden Earring’s "Radar Love" for what must have been the tenth time that day. Battery-powered radios scattered around camp added to the soundtrack of the summer of '73—Grand Funk Railroad's "We're An American Band," Elton John's "Daniel," and Vicki Lawrence's "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" competed with the constant refrain of "Locomotion" by Grand Funk that the younger girls couldn't seem to get enough of. From the direction of the counselors' cabin came the melodic "Eres Tu" by Mocedades, its Spanish lyrics floating across the camp grounds, while someone else had tuned into a station playing Sister Janet Mead's rock version of "The Lord's Prayer," the unexpected hit by the Australian nun that had become an international sensation. 15-year-old Genni Dyer shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, tugging at the hem of her shorts that seemed determined to ride up her thighs. All around her, girls chatted excitedly, their voices creating a cacophony that mirrored the chaos inside her head.
Why did I agree to this?
Five weeks at Camp Kickapoo near Kerrville, Texas. Five weeks of trying to be someone she wasn't—someone who could easily make friends, someone who didn't overthink every social interaction, someone thin.
"There you are!"
Genni looked up to see Melody Boker waving enthusiastically, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her as she navigated through the crowd. Behind her trailed her younger sister, Nancy, whose perpetual half-smile always made Genni wonder what private joke she was enjoying.
The Boker girls were the reason she was here. Ted Boker and her father, David Dyer, had been thick as thieves since their days at the University of Oklahoma, where they'd bonded over rock formations and late-night study sessions for their geology master's degrees. While her father had gone on to become district geologist for Samedan, first in Ardmore where Genni was born, and later in Oklahoma City, Ted had taken a teaching position at the University of Texas.
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| Source: Wikipedia |
"Dad's looking for you," Caitlin said, plopping down beside Genni. "They're announcing cabin assignments in ten minutes."
"Great," Genni murmured, fighting the flutter of anxiety in her chest. New cabinmates meant new people to impress, new people to inevitably disappoint.
"Aren't you excited?" Melissa asked, her eyes wide with genuine curiosity. At thirteen, she possessed a sincerity that Genni envied. "Second session is supposed to be the best. The swimming hole will be perfect by now."
Genni forced a smile. "Can't wait." At least in the water, she felt comfortable. On the Oklahoma City swim team, she'd found a place where her body was an asset, not something to be criticized. Her mother's voice still echoed in her head: "Genni, honey, maybe just half a portion? You're getting a little chunky for summer shorts."
Last month, she'd won bronze in the 200m butterfly at the Oklahoma Junior Olympics and placed eighth in the 200m freestyle. In the water, she was graceful, powerful. On land, she was just... chunky.
"Come on," Caitlin said, tugging at her arm. "Let's go find out who we're bunking with."
Cabin Osage housed four girls under the Choctaw tribe designation: Genni, Caitlin, a tall girl named Debbie from Houston, and a quiet, bookish girl called Laurie from Austin. The cabin itself was rustic—wooden bunk beds with thin mattresses, each camper’s foot locker, and a shared bathroom with lukewarm water at best.
Genni claimed the bottom bunk beneath Diana, unpacking the stack of books she'd brought: Future Shock by Alvin Toffler, The Peter Principle, a collection of Jorge Luis Borges' Ficciones that her English teacher had recommended, Franz Kafka's short stories, and her favorite, Richard Bradford’s Red Sky at Morning. Novels about plucky heroines who prevailed against all odds were her comfort food for the mind, while Butterfingers and butter-top bread were her comfort food for the body.
"Are you really going to read all those?" Vanessa asked, peering over her shoulder. "It's summer camp, not summer school."
Genni felt her face flush. "I just like reading."
"Leave her alone," Diana said quietly, not looking up from her own book—something with a worn spine and yellowed pages. They were older campers, experienced. This was Genni’s first year at Kickapoo, but she had spent other summers at Oklahoma camps – the Southern Baptist Camp Nunny Cha-ha in the Arbuckles, and Campfire Girls Camp Cimarron near the Cimarron River.
"What are you reading?" Genni asked her, grateful for the intervention.
"The Bell Jar," Diana replied, showing the cover. "Sylvia Plath."
Genni's eyes widened. "I've been wanting to read that."
"You can borrow it when I'm done," Laurie offered with a small smile. "I've read it twice already."
"As Boethius writes in 'The Consolation of Philosophy,' it's through adversity that we discover our true selves," Genni said, then immediately regretted it. There she went again, dropping medieval philosophy into casual conversation.
But Laurie just nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard of that but never read it. Tell me more later?"
Before Genni could respond, Melody, who had been organizing her makeup collection, turned around. "If you two bookworms are done bonding over ancient dead guys, we should head to the dining hall. It's almost dinner time, and I heard it's fried chicken night."
Genni's stomach rumbled in anticipation, followed immediately by her mother's voice in her head. Chunky girls don't get asked to homecoming, Genni.
"I'm not that hungry," she lied.
Diana looked at her curiously. "You should eat something. Tomorrow's the first activity day. You'll need your energy."
Something in Diana's tone—understanding without pity—made Genni nod. "Maybe just a little."
The first week at Camp Kickapoo fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for swimming in Turtle Creek, where Genni quickly established herself as one of the strongest swimmers. Afternoons rotated between crafts, hiking, archery, and free time. Evenings were for campfires, sing-alongs, and on Fridays, a social with the boys' camp across the lake.
Genni felt a friendship with Diana, who shared her love of books and didn't fill silences with meaningless chatter. One afternoon during free time, they sprawled under a live oak, reading.
"What would you be doing if you were home right now?" Diana asked, marking her place in The Bell Jar.
Genni considered. "Probably the same thing. Reading. Or sketching."
"You sketch?"
Genni nodded, reluctantly pulling out her battered sketchbook from her backpack. "Just designs. Nothing good."
Diana flipped through pages of clothing designs—angular business suits with unexpected details, school outfits that balanced practicality with flashes of personal expression. "These are amazing, Genni."
"They're just doodles," Genni mumbled, but pleasure warmed her chest.
"You could be a designer someday."
"That's not a real job," Genni replied automatically, echoing her mother's dismissal.
"Says who?" Diana challenged. "My aunt's a buyer for Neiman Marcus. She says fashion is serious business."
Genni's eyes widened. "Really? Do you think... I mean, could she look at my sketches sometime?"
"I'll ask her to write to me," Diana promised. "She'd love these."
In that moment, beneath the Texas oak with cicadas buzzing in the background and "Radar Love" drifting from someone's smuggled-in transistor radio, Genni felt something unfamiliar—possibility. A Spanish-language station faded in and out as someone adjusted the dial, catching fragments of "Yo Te Recuerdo" by Juan Gabriel before settling back on the American Top 40.
During the second week, Genni gained a reputation as an impressive runner during the camp's daily morning jogs. Her swimmer's endurance served her well on the trails around camp, though she remained self-conscious about how her thighs looked in the required shorts.
"How are you not dying?" gasped Caitlin after one particularly grueling uphill section, her face flushed.
Genni shrugged. "Swimming. It's good for your lungs."
"Well, it's not fair," Vanessa complained good-naturedly. "Some of us are suffering back here."
"I'll wait with you guys," Genni offered, surprised at her own confidence.
"No way," said Melissa, who had caught up to them. "You're going to win the Choctaw points. Cherokee is killing us in archery."
The tribal competition was fierce at Camp Kickapoo, with each activity earning points toward an end-of-session trophy. Genni had never been a key player in any team before, and the feeling was intoxicating.
That evening at dinner, she surprised herself by taking a full portion of chicken strips, salad, and potato wedges, eating slowly and thoughtfully while listening to Diana talk about the latest news on the Watergate hearings.
"Nixon's going to resign," Diana predicted. "My dad says it's just a matter of time."
"My dad says he should've resigned months ago," Vanessa contributed. "The whole country's waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"It's like we can't trust anything anymore," Genni said quietly. "Like everything we thought was solid is actually... I don't know, quicksand or something. Alvin Toffler talks about this in 'Future Shock'—how rapid change creates a kind of disorientation. But really, it reminds me more of what Aquinas explores in 'Summa Theologica' about truth and authority."
The table fell silent for a moment.
"That's deep, Genni," Melody finally said, but not unkindly. She adjusted the macramé choker around her neck, a perfect complement to white t-shirt with the navy blue neck and the Choctaw logo.
"Sorry," Genni mumbled, tugging at her own white t-shirt with green Kickapoo Kamp lettering. "I've been overthinking again."
"No, you're right," Diana said. "It's like what Kafka writes about—the world suddenly not making sense anymore."
Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Can we not talk about Kafka at dinner? I'm trying to keep this down. I don’t need Grigor Samsa, the giant human cockroach crawling around in my head. We had to read that last year for English."
They all laughed, and Genni felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. This was what it felt like to be part of a conversation, to have her thoughts considered.
By the third week, Genni had fallen into an unlikely friendship with her cabinmates. Even Debbie, initially intimidating with her Highland Park confidence, had revealed herself to be funny and fiercely loyal. Melody remained chatty but had taken to asking Genni's advice about books worth reading.
Melody dressed one evening in her new low-rise hip-hugger jeans with the wide cuffs that had become all the rage that summer. Her polyester shirt with its butterfly collar perfectly matched her platform sandals. "My mom just sent these," she announced, twirling to show off the ensemble. "What do you think?"
"Totally fabulous," Debbie declared, looking up from her own outfit—denim hot pants paired with a crocheted vest over a halter top. "Genni, you should borrow my suede fringe vest sometime. It would look dynamite with those culottes you wore yesterday." They loved changing out of their camp-required shorts and t-shirts to explore 70s styles.
Genni glanced down. At home, her mom encouraged preppy outfits, ignoring the fact that Genni desperately wanted to wear the same fashions as everyone else—the peasant blouses, maxi dresses, and wide-legged pants that dominated teen magazines.
One hot afternoon, they escaped the Texas heat by taking refuge in their cabin. Laurie had brought a battery-powered radio, and they tuned it to a station playing the melancholy strains of Cat Stevens. From cabins nearby, Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly With His Song" drifted through the air, while someone else blasted Paul McCartney's "My Love" loud enough to hear across the compound.
"The first song was from Harold and Maude," Genni said, surprised. "Don’t Be Shy – oh my goodness. I love the song! You've seen it?"
Diana nodded. "Three times. My mom thinks it's inappropriate, which makes it even better. She hates the song, “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out."
"What's Harold and Maude?" Melissa asked, having stopped by to borrow sunscreen.
"Only the best movie ever," Genni said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "It's about this young man who's obsessed with death and this old woman who teaches him how to really live."
"That sounds... weird," Caitlin said, wrinkling her nose.
"It's beautiful," Diana countered. "And the Cat Stevens soundtrack is perfect."
"If there's a sad boy and an old lady, why is it your favorite?" Vanessa asked Genni curiously.
Genni hesitated. She wasn't used to explaining her inner landscape to others. "I guess because... it's about finding your own way to be happy. Even if it's not what everyone else thinks happiness should look like."
She ran a hand through her hair, wishing she had Melody's fashionable shag haircut instead of her ordinary shoulder-length style. "Dante explores this in 'Vita Nuova'—the idea that true happiness comes from a kind of inner transformation. And Avicenna talks about how the soul needs to recognize its own nature to find fulfillment."
Diana added, “The fake suicide attempts are really funny – and then you realize that Harold is making a statement about American and Vietnam – how death-cultish it was to have the young go to Vietnam to be traumatized, badly wounded, and killed. It’s funny because he’s trying to shock his mom – who’s just a total nightmare who cares about her social events and not her son’s well-being. And then, he meets the total free-spirit Maude. Anyway – it’s a long story and there is just so much to it – especially when you find out that Maude is a Holocaust survivor who tells Harold to relish life.”
“And,” added Genni. “You have to do what you love, not what someone prescribes for you.”
The cabin was quiet except for Cat Stevens singing softly about trouble. Outside, someone's transistor radio blasted Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On," a song the counselors were constantly trying to ban from camp. From the direction of the lake came the soulful Spanish lyrics of "Eres Tu," which had become an unlikely crossover hit in Texas that summer, especially popular in the hill country with its strong Mexican-American influence.
"That actually makes sense," Nancy said finally, adjusting her mood ring. "Like how my dad wanted me to love geology like him, but I want to be a veterinarian."
Genni smiled at her. "Exactly."
"Well, my idea of happiness right now would be not melting in this heat," Vanessa announced. "Secret swimming hole? The counselors are all at their meeting."
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| Source: Wikipedia |
Diana raised an eyebrow. "The one past the restricted trail?"
"That's the one," Vanessa confirmed with a mischievous grin.
"We could get in trouble," Caitlin pointed out, but she was already reaching for her swimsuit.
Genni felt a flutter of anxiety. "I don't know..."
"Come on, Genni," Diana urged quietly. "Live a little dangerously."
The phrase, so reminiscent of Maude's philosophy, made Genni smile despite herself. "Okay, but if we get caught, I'm blaming all of you."
The secret swimming hole was a revelation—a deep, clear pool formed by a natural dam of limestone, shaded by bald cypress trees with their feathery foliage and knobby knees protruding from the water. The limestone walls of the swimming hole were striated with bands of darker material, telling a geological story that Genni wished her father was there to read.
"It's like Keats wrote," Genni said, gazing up at the dappled light filtering through the cypress branches. "'A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.'"
"You really do have poetry for everything," Debbie said, but she was smiling as she dipped her toes in the cool water.
A flash of movement caught Genni's eye—a six-lined racerunner lizard darting across a sun-warmed rock, its bright blue stripes vibrant against the limestone. Further up on the bank, amid a tangle of mustang grape vines, the distinctive black and yellow pattern of a Texas patch-nosed snake was visible as it slithered away from their voices.
They slipped into the cool water with sighs of relief from the July heat. The creek bottom was a mosaic of smooth limestone and river pebbles, with occasional patches of soft sand collected in the deeper parts.
Genni floated on her back, gazing up at the dappled sunlight through the leaves. For once, she wasn't thinking about how her body looked in her swimsuit or what her mother would say about her sneaking off. She was simply present in her body, feeling the water support her weight, hearing her friends' laughter echo off the limestone walls.
"Race you to the other side," Vanessa challenged, and without thinking, Genni flipped over and took off with powerful strokes.
After easily winning, she treaded water, waiting for the others. Diana arrived second, her technique less polished but effective.
"Show-off," Vanessa called out when she reached them, splashing Genni playfully.
"Can't help it if I'm part fish," Genni retorted, splashing back.
"You really are amazing," Diana said. "You could probably swim in college."
The thought hadn't occurred to Genni before. Swimming had always been something she did, not something she could build a future around. "You think?"
"Absolutely," Diana nodded. "My cousin got a scholarship to swim at Rice."
A scholarship. A way out. A path forward that had nothing to do with being chunky or pretty or normal. Just being strong.
"I might look into that," Genni said thoughtfully.
That night at the campfire, Genni sat between Diana and Melissa, toasting marshmallows for s'mores without her usual guilt about calories. The past three weeks had changed something fundamental in her relationship with food. She wasn't cured—she still heard her mother's critical voice—but she had begun to see food as fuel for swimming, for running, for living.
One weekend, Ted Boker stopped by camp at lunchtime on his way back to home. "Having fun, girls?"
"The best, Dad," Caitlin assured him.
"Glad to hear it." He turned to Genni. "Got a letter from your father today. He says to tell you he's proud of you for trying something new this summer."
Genni felt a lump in her throat. Her father, unlike her mother, had always accepted her as she was—bookish, analytical, and yes, a little chunky. "Thanks, Mr. Boker."
"You remind me of him at your age," Ted continued. "Always with your nose in a book, always asking the big questions."
"I do?" The comparison startled her. She'd never thought of herself as being like her father.
"Absolutely. He was the only other undergraduate who wanted to debate medieval philosophy while we were supposed to be studying rock formations." Ted smiled. "You've got his mind. It's a gift, even if it makes life complicated sometimes."
After he moved on to check on other campers, Diana nudged her. "Medieval philosophy, huh? You've been holding out on us."
Genni blushed. "It's just something I read about once."
"Don't do that," Diana said firmly. "Don't make yourself smaller."
"What do you mean?"
"You do this thing where you know something interesting or have a unique thought, and then you apologize for it." Diana's gaze was steady. "Stop apologizing for being smart."
Across the fire, someone had started playing "Radar Love" on a guitar, and the familiar notes floated up with the sparks from the fire.
"I've been driving all night, my hands wet on the wheel," a counselor sang, and others joined in.
Genni looked around the circle—at Diana with her quiet intensity, at Caitlin braiding Melissa's hair, at Vanessa teaching younger campers a complicated hand-clapping game. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt a sense of belonging.
The fourth week brought the camp Olympics, a day of intense competition between the tribes. The Choctaws were trailing the Cherokees by a narrow margin, and the final event was the lake swim—four laps of the marked course, with each tribe fielding their strongest swimmer.
"It has to be you, Genni," Melissa insisted during the strategy session. "You're our best shot."
Genni felt the weight of responsibility pressing on her chest. "What if I mess up?"
"You won't," Diana said with certainty.
"But what if I do?" The anxiety that had been her constant companion for years bubbled up. "What if I let everyone down?"
Vanessa put her hands on Genni's shoulders. "Then we'll still be your friends, stupid."
The simple declaration stunned Genni into silence.
"It's just a game," Caitlin added. "A fun one that we really want to win, but still just a game."
Genni took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll do it."
At the lake's edge, Genni adjusted her swim cap, trying to ignore the crowd of campers cheering. The Cherokee swimmer was Kimberly, a tall girl from Dallas who had been eyeing Genni with respect mingled with competitive fire all week.
"Swimmers ready," called the head counselor.
Genni closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. In her mind, she was back at the Junior Olympics, feeling the water welcome her.
The whistle blew, and she dove.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of her strokes, the burn in her muscles, the steady pattern of her breathing. She was vaguely aware of Kimberly beside her, matching her pace. At the first turn, they were neck and neck.
By the second lap, Genni had settled into the meditative state that always came during long swims. Her mind, usually buzzing with anxious thoughts, quieted. There was only the water, the movement, the steady beat of her heart.
On the third lap, Kimberly began to flag slightly. Genni maintained her pace, letting her endurance carry her.
The final lap was pure joy—the knowledge that her body was strong, capable, carrying her toward the finish while the voices of her tribemates urged her on.
When her hand touched the dock, seconds before Kimberly’s, the explosion of cheers barely registered. What she would remember later was the feeling of being lifted from the water by many hands, of Diana's fierce hug regardless of how wet she was, of Vanessa's uncharacteristic whoop of victory, of Caitlin jumping up and down while Melissa chanted "Choc-taw! Choc-taw!"
That night, celebrating their overall victory with an extra hour of campfire time, Genni found herself writing in her journal—not self-recriminating thoughts or angsty poetry, but a letter to her future self. Remember this feeling, she wrote. Remember that you are more than what people see or say. Remember that you can be strong and smart and weird and still find your people.
She paused, chewing on her pen, then added: As Boethius would say, fortune's wheel turns for everyone. Today it turned in my favor. The Peter Principle suggests that people rise to their level of incompetence, but maybe sometimes we also rise to our level of unexpected excellence. Maybe Aquinas was right about how virtue is cultivated through practice—swimming laps, making friends, being brave enough to be myself.
Across the campfire, Melody was showing off her new Indian print gauze blouse and elephant bell-bottoms that her mother had sent in a care package. Her cork-soled platform shoes made her tower over everyone else. Next to her, Debbie had paired some spectacular striped pants with a peasant blouse, adding puka shell beads that gleamed in the firelight.
The final week of camp arrived with the bittersweet knowledge that their time together was coming to an end. Genni had exchanged addresses with Diana, Vanessa, and of course the Boker girls, with promises to write.
On their last free afternoon, Genni and Diana returned to their spot under the live oak, now a place of comfortable silences and deep conversations.
"Are you scared to go home?" Diana asked suddenly.
Genni considered the question. "A little. I'm different now, but home will be the same."
"Maybe that's good," Diana suggested. "Maybe home needs you to be different."
"Maybe." Genni plucked at the grass beside her. "I'm going to miss this. Miss you."
"We'll write," Diana promised. "And maybe next summer..."
"Maybe."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the camp—shouts from the ball field, someone playing piano in the rec hall, the ever-present "Radar Love" from someone's radio.
"Hey," Diana said suddenly. "I never asked why you came to camp this summer. You don't seem like the typical camp person."
Genni hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I was... not in a good place this past year. My parents were worried. My dad thought being with the Boker girls might help."
Diana nodded, understanding without requiring details. "Did it? Help?"
Genni looked out over the camp—the dusty paths between buildings, the shimmer of heat rising from the tin roofs, the lake glittering in the distance. She thought about her body, carrying her through water and over trails. She thought about her mind, finally finding people who didn't flinch when she mentioned Kafka or medieval philosophy.
"Yeah," she said softly. "It did."
Five weeks at Camp Kickapoo near Kerrville, Texas, in the summer of Watergate and "Radar Love." Five weeks that had somehow managed to be a lifetime.
Somewhere inside her, the girl who'd arrived—lonely, self-conscious, hiding behind books and comfort food—was still there. But alongside her now was someone new, someone who could win races and make friends, someone who could remain analytical and bookish without using it as armor.
"What are you thinking about?" Laurie asked, her own outfit a perfectly on-trend combination of a smock top and wide-legged jeans. Her center-parted hair fell straight and long, the quintessential early seventies look that Genni had always admired.
Genni tugged at the hem of her simple shorts, but for once didn't feel self-conscious about her lack of fashion sense or her athletic build. Here at camp, her strength had become a source of pride rather than shame.
From somewhere in the distance, some of the Hispanic campers were playing "Tú y Yo" by Roberto Carlos, its romantic Spanish lyrics a reminder of the rich cultural blend of Texas.
"I was thinking about Avicenna's concept of the flying man," Genni said, surprised at her own candor. "The idea that even if you were created suspended in the air, unable to see or touch anything, you would still be aware of your own existence. That your sense of self is independent of your body or surroundings." She smiled. "And I was thinking about the future. And how maybe it doesn't have to be a shock after all."
This is an excerpt from Shells and Shadows, available at Amazon in paperback, e-book, and audio.
