The Kikar at Camp Ramah
The tree appeared that summer --
its skinny branches barely supporting
the sparse yellowish-green leaves that
couldn’t even provide shade
from the July sun, its
trunk tied with yellow ropes,
chaining it to the ground
against wind, frisbees, and
wayward shots from shoe golf.
Its new home, in the middle
of camp’s central field,
(surrounded by the chipped white paint
of the dining hall and the newly dedicated
basketball courts) --
where groups of campers
gossip and sleep,
staff attempt to hang out
undisturbed, and
Rabbi Soloff (who never
sleeps) watches all
from the stone monument
near the edge --
was just in the way
of everything.
In the half-hour free time before lunch,
grilled-cheese scenting the air
(the coveted meal, though it usually
turns out to be tuna or blintzes,
despite the smell),
the older campers tug
at those yellow ropes,
litter the monster with toilet paper,
tack signs to it --
“Death to the tree” --
while the staff hand out “logical consequences”
(like planting new trees or writing
a paper on the environment)
but silently cheer them on.
Where the field’s sloping sides meet,
the grass is stamped dead
from sandals and sneakers
dancing each Friday
to old Israeli music
as Karen calls out steps
from the crackling karaoke machine,
interrupted by the occasional “Fabulous!” --
though they know these dances
as well as their best friends’ laughs
and their feet move automatically --
but now the tree invades
the dance floor,
its branches and ropes the
stubborn camper every counselor
dreads, while the campers
scream at it,
their feet still moving,
unthinking, over the
trampled brown grass.
(c) 2000 Ann Lesley Hamvas
