Letters, Camp, and the Fine Art of Missing Home

Mail Call Is My Love Language

Dear Reader,

As kids everywhere begin packing their trunks for sleepaway camp (do they still use trunks?), I can't help but remember my own camp summers. I distinctly recall at age 11, sitting on my cot at Larry Bird’s basketball camp, tears rolling down my cheeks, writing dramatic pleas for rescue to my parents. Their response came on plain, ivory stationery:

c/o Camp Mel Brooks (Yes, my dad wrote that. Told you I was a fan.)
July 1, 1981

Dear Felice:
We got your letter the same day we sent out a package to the camp. It was filled with a few of the things you wanted (and even a few things you probably didn't want!). I remember camp when I was ten was big and lonely, but after three or four days things began to get better. I think if you throw yourself into a few things (not the lake!) camp will get to be more fun. Jackie, mom and I miss you. Listen, show them what you can do with a basketball and a baseball and a softball and a tennis racket. You don't have to be the best, just have fun and do the best you can. I love you as always.
Dad

Seeing my dad’s handwriting was like a warm hug in ink—a reminder that I was loved, that I would survive, and that, no, they were not coming to pick me up early.

After a week, things got better. I made friends, enjoyed arts and crafts, and got my picture taken with Larry Bird. But my absolute favorite part?

Mail Call. (Shocking, I know.)

Our counselors would weave between the rows of cots, placing letters on our beds. (I imagine it felt similar in the military, though their beds were definitely better made.)

I went back to camp again the next summer, leaving a week after my youngest sister, Meredith, was born.

August 19, 1982
Dear Felice,
It sure is quiet here, no one to pinch me and drive me nuts, but I really miss you and love you very much. Meredith is not doing too much, just eats and sleeps. By the time you come home from camp she will just about be starting to do things such as see you. Jackie, of course, wants to do all the holding and can't understand why we don't allow her to take the baby out of the crib or walk around with her. Of course, it’s because she’s eight and we don’t want accidents. She says I hog the baby. Well, my love, sorry you don’t love camp for I would love to change places. I always wished I could keep going, so enjoy it all for as you get older you will look back and say, “Oh, those good old days.”
Love, Nana
P.S. Best from all, except Meredith.

My paternal grandmother was pretty funny. To this day, I can hear her voice in her letters, of which I have 50. But those camp letters were my first taste of what letters can do: connect us across distance and remind us we're not alone.

Which is why, in honor of campers everywhere, I couldn't resist writing a modern spin on Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah—a playful peek at what camp might look like today (AC, juice cleanses, and all), with a healthy dose of my own nostalgia mixed in.

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah,
Camp is luxe now, not much drama.

There’s no muck and no mosquitoes,
Just massage tents, with vegan burritos.

We do “mindfulness,” every morning,
And get juice cleanses, and strips for snoring.

Our bunkhouse hums with AC blasting,
Plus workshops on intermittent fasting.

We’re told writing letters is passé,
so we text memes and scroll away.

As for me, I wouldn’t trade those days,
they made me who I am today.

A letter-writing, nostalgic queen,
who loves to reflect on what she’s seen.

With pen in hand, I’ve made it clear:
I’m writing one letter each day this year.

So enjoy it, kiddies, as my Nana phrased,
Soon these’ll be the “good old days.”

Not quite what Allan Sherman intended—but it’s my Substack, and poetic license is a thing.

With love (and the faint scent of DEET),
Felice

P.S. Write a letter to someone far from home. We all need reminders we’re loved.

SONG OF THE WEEK
Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah by Allan Sherman. Still a classic.

Felice Cohen is an award-winning author, best known for squeezing big ideas into small spaces—like her 90-square-foot NYC apartment (yes, really). Her books include Half In: A Coming-of-Age Memoir of Forbidden Love, 90 Lessons for Living Large in 90 Square Feet, and What Papa Told Me, with praise from legends like Elie Wiesel and Rita Mae Brown. Her viral YouTube tour has racked up over 25 million views—mostly from people wondering where she kept her shoes. More at felicecohen.com. A Love Letter to Letters is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.