Camp Seneca is nestled in the woods on the southern shore of Lake Seneca in an area served by Watkins Glen in central New York state. A tiny piece of land of no more than 10 acres, it was acquired in the 1940s by the JCC of Rochester as a summer retreat for the Jewish youth of the area. For me it was a life changer in that for the first time, at age 12, I left home and spent a week away with young people my own age and counselors not much older who taught me to swim and how to get along with all kinds of personalities, eat things that were never on the table in our kosher home, and hear stories about the opposite sex. Camp was where I became my “own man.” I was no longer Marty’s little brother. My older brother dominated our household as firstborn male and excellor at all things.
The last days at camp were filled with goodbyes to fellow campers from outside my small group of friends from the neighborhood and school: the twelve or so campers who went with me to paddle the war canoe from our camp to Watkins Glen, the fellows I played baseball with daily, the counselors who encouraged me to grow and “be my own person.” I still have a camp photo from then with notes written in children’s script wishing me well.
Today, I look back on Camp Seneca as we leave my fishing camp in Maine at the end of the 2024 season. It is my refuge in the woods as summer camp was back then. Now, it is not an escape from Marty’s influence — he passed away too young some 30 years ago — but from the daily pressures of life. It is where I put down my Apple watch for the duration and set my iPhone aside and where I do not feel guilty being away from my desk. It is the dock where I enjoy the sunrise with coffee in hand. Yes, it is where I am “my own man.” It is about sharing the camp with Patti and friends and family, where my girls truly enjoy the outdoors, energized by the natural surroundings of the lake and woods.
Everyone who visits camp gradually slips into the rhythm and energy of the environment: sleeping late, swimming in the lake, walking the trails, and visiting the Farmer’s Market on Friday mornings to buy vegetables and mingle with the local Mainers. The locals are down to earth — no airs or fancy dress. They have seen hard times with the decline of timber work over the years. I draw my energy at camp from all of this and from Greg and Andy, my friends and guides who I can count on to take me to the latest secret fishing spots. Those hidden ponds are where we truly relate and have our most interesting conversations, deepening our friendship bond; they are the best days at camp for me. Greg and Andy are like my counselors of years past at Lake Seneca.