Remembering the king

The bunk was deserted and I was running late for dinner that was probably something gross like turkey slop and tater  tots or meat loaf. 

 Or a combo.

 This was my first summer working there when  the camp  became coed, so I was probably running late because I had to squirt some perfume or add some lipstick or something that I'd NEVER do today, and shouldn't have done back then.

I had my radio plugged into the three-stall bathroom we shared.  I usually never turned it on while running late, and I had to still navigate the steep hill to make it to the dining hall in time for roll call.

As a camper, I thought the designated bunk speaker was saying "All prisoners counted for", when we checked in at the flagpole. 

  As a counselor, I knew the phrase was "all present and accounted for"--which I wouldn't be if I didn't hustle.

I was just about to turn off the radio of my favorite Philadelphia easy listening station, when I heard the shocking news:  "Tragic news just coming out of Memphis..Elvis Presley has died. The King is gone"

I was shocked!  He was forty-two!  

This must have been a mistake..would I see him en route to the dining hall?

But it wasn't a mistake and I pretty much broke the news to the entire camp as I explained the reason for my lateness.

  The little girls cried, the little boys immediately started creating tasteless jokes.

After dinner, instead of the usual bunk challenges like "Pajama Breakfast!" or "Grab Bag Dinner!" the following day(where I'd always draw the knife, and attempted to eat tapioca pudding with it) the entire camp accepted the challenge when a beloved counselor, Rhonda, uttered words I'll never forget:

"In memory of Elvis..."Love Me Tender" like he would have wanted.."

We had a moment of silence and then joined her in song.

Even those of us who couldn't sing.

Of course the wise cracking male counselor donned a wig and a fat Elvis suit later that night and took over the stage with customized lyrics to a song he titled "I'm All Dead Up." 

I miss the days of the all girl camps, when the gals cared more about accomplishments than eye shadow, where the death of an icon would bring on a need to treat each other with kindness  instead of cruel parodies.

This year, I miss camps altogether.

Sleep well, Mr. Presley