By Hannah Reich Berman
For years I was a slave to the ridiculous practice of sending packages up to camp for my grandchildren. So many times I stood in a store, looked around, and realized that I had no idea what to buy. Not only did I not know what to buy, I did not know why I was buying it! Wisely, I always made sure to take along a list with the age and gender of each grandchild. Suffice it to say that I knew as soon as I entered the store that I would likely be spending an entire day making purchases. I also knew that they were for grandchildren who had absolutely no need of anything I would buy.
It never took long for me to realize that I needed major help, and I would start by asking the storekeeper what he recommended. But it was fairly obvious that this guy figured he was seeing a real live cash cow, because the bill for his suggestions was adding up to a number high enough to resemble the national budget. As soon as I decided that it was getting pricier than necessary, I would dismiss him by thanking him for his help and saying that I could do the rest myself.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. I still needed help. So I would try a different option: I stalked other shoppers. But not just any shopper—I went after the young mothers in the store who were there to buy things to send to their children. Who would know better what kids want than a mother? There were a few moms there, though not as many as I would have expected. But there was a reason for that. As I later learned, many moms had done some pre-planning. They had made their package purchases well before the kids even left for camp! When I was in the store, it was already midsummer. I was late!
Eventually I completed the task, but I remember it as being my least favorite day of the summer. By the time I left the store I had considerably more gray hair on my head than I had when I went in. Since I was not into the pre-planning and pre-shopping scene, this went on every July for several years. It lasted until I wised up and went cold turkey. I simply quit! The next year, as my precious grandchildren were boarding the bus and would shout out reminders to send packages, I just waved and smiled. It was neither a yes nor a no.
These days, just as I no longer participate in the visiting-day scene, I no longer participate in the package-sending. I leave that meshugas to the parents. I figure it is their job, not mine. Rationalization is a wonderful thing. It has always worked for me, so I rationalize by reminding myself that each mom has only her own few children to shop for but, as Savta, I have many more. I would have to buy for everyone’s children. And that translates to many more hours of shopping torture. I thank G‑d for blessing me with many grandchildren, but when it is package-sending time, it can feel like something less of a blessing.
The requests start early. As the kids are climbing up the stairs to the bus, they are thinking about what they want to receive. And they do not just think about it, they voice it. Some kids shout from the stairs and others wait until they find seats. Then they crowd together—two or three to a window—sticking their heads and hands out and shrieking, “Ma, don’t forget to send up blah blah blah and blah blah blah.” The list of items that they ask for is a long one—and woe to the parents who do not send what the mammelehs and tattelehs request.
After spending only a few days at camp it becomes clear that one package is not going to do the trick. The kids want to get packages as often as possible. It is unlikely that there is anything they actually need, so it is my guess that this might just be a competition. Maybe they hold a contest with their bunkmates to see who receives the most packages, or the largest packages, or the best packages, or whatever!
Parents shell out thousands of dollars to send their kids to camp, they give them spending money for trips and for canteen purchases, and they tip the counselors who have the privilege of caring for the kids for six or seven weeks. (The eight-week camping season is long gone.) Each of these expenditures is an integral part of what might be considered the parents’ camping experience. But I did recently hear some good news. Apparently there are some camps that do not allow campers to receive packages. I have no idea if any of my grandchildren are at a camp where packages are forbidden, but it makes no difference since I have no plans to send any.
For so many years I thought that nothing was more time-consuming or challenging than trying to figure out what to buy for the grandchildren for Chanukah. For me, that was always the most difficult challenge of the year. But I long ago revised my opinion: Chanukah-gift selection takes a back seat to figuring out what to put in camp packages. And I am delighted to longer be a part of that activity. That’s the way it is.
Hannah Berman lives in Woodmere and gives private small-group lessons in mah-jongg and canasta. She can be reached at Savtahannah@aol.com or 516-902-3733.