Getting to Camp Alzafar felt like driving to nowhere.
The city disappeared behind us.
Then the suburbs.
Then the small towns.
Soon there was nothing but country.
Then more country.
Woods.
Ranches.
Fence lines stretching into the distance.
The road seemed to get smaller with every mile.
Eventually we would turn onto a road that looked more like somebody's driveway than the entrance to a camp.
The cattle guards would rattle beneath the tires.
Dust would rise behind us.
Signs would begin appearing one at a time.
And then finally:
Camp Alzafar.
The feeling wasn't excitement.
It was relief.
Finally.
We had arrived.
Camp Alzafar had been part of Elizabeth's life long before I came along.
It was part of Jay and Peggy's world.
A place where Shriners gathered.
A place where families gathered.
A place where traditions lived on year after year.
What surprised me most was how quickly I felt welcome.
Jay and Peggy never made me feel like an outsider.
They didn't make me prove myself.
They didn't treat me like somebody who had married into the family.
They welcomed me from the beginning.
I think families like that can see things.
They saw I loved Elizabeth.
They saw I wanted the best for her.
And that was enough.
Looking back, I think that acceptance meant more to me than I realized at the time.
The center of camp life was an open-air pavilion.
A dance floor sat in the middle.
Tables and chairs surrounded it.
The main office was attached nearby.
Just outside sat a round swimming pool where generations of kids spent their summers.
One of the biggest events each year was the Watermelon Swim.
The kids would line up around the edge of the pool waiting for the signal.
Watermelons would be tossed into the water.
Then someone would shout for them to begin.
Chaos followed.
Kids splashed and swam toward the floating prizes.
Each one trying to claim a watermelon to take back to their family.
It sounds simple now.
But those were the kinds of traditions that made Camp Alzafar special.
The kids loved it.
The adults loved watching it.
Everybody left smiling.
The camp was also a place where children still had freedom.
The kind of freedom that seems rare today.
Kids disappeared for hours.
They swam.
They explored.
They found friends.
Nobody worried much.
Everybody knew everybody.
It felt safe.
The river was another favorite.
Tubing wasn't dangerous.
It was nature.
Real nature.
The kind that reminds you there is a world beyond schedules and responsibilities.
One of my favorite river memories involved Elizabeth and an inner tube.
I was floating ahead of her when she hit what I believe was a beaver dam and got knocked off her tube.
The important detail is that I didn't actually see her fall.
What I saw was her tube floating downstream without her.
So naturally I went after the tube.
In my mind I was solving the problem.
If I caught the tube, she wouldn't have to spend the rest of the trip without one.
Elizabeth remembers the event somewhat differently.
Her version involves her being in the water while her husband heroically chased an inflatable piece of rubber downstream.
To this day we disagree on which version is more accurate.
I maintain the tube was the first thing I saw.
She remains unconvinced.
Food was always part of camp life.
There was a lot of brisket.
A lot of cooking.
A lot of volunteers.
Fundraisers often involved cookouts where plates were sold for donations.
We were always happy to contribute.
The smell of smoke drifting across camp became part of the experience.
And somewhere nearby there was usually a familiar sight.
Jay wearing an apron.
Cooking.
Serving.
Helping.
That seemed to be his natural state.
One of the biggest events was the chili cook-off.
Different lodges would prepare their best chili and compete for bragging rights.
Officially it was about the chili.
Unofficially it was about visiting with friends, drinking a few beers, and enjoying the festival atmosphere.
There was also a baseball game.
One year Jay played.
Some people worried about him because of his age.
Jay didn't seem particularly concerned.
If memory serves me correctly, he even managed to score a run or two.
That was Jay.
He wasn't interested in sitting on the sidelines simply because somebody thought he should.
Halloween may have been my favorite event.
The camp hosted haunted hay rides.
People dressed in costumes and became characters for the evening.
One year I decided to participate.
I borrowed a lab coat from lisa's sister.
her neice did my makeup.
The final result looked something like the Joker dressed as a nurse.
At least that is what people told me.
I didn't care.
I had shorts on underneath and was having far too much fun to worry about appearances.
I joined the hay ride and spent the evening helping scare children.
The reactions were priceless.
It was one of the most fun evenings I ever had at camp.
Unfortunately I only did it once.
The dances were another tradition.
I wasn't much of a dancer when I met Elizabeth.
Before our wedding we took lessons.
I learned to two-step reasonably well.
I could dance.
Maybe not elegantly.
But I could dance.
The funny thing was that Elizabeth genuinely loved dancing.
So did Jay.
By then Peggy's lung problems made it difficult for her to spend much time on the dance floor.
Elizabeth was happy to step in.
When the music started, Jay would escort her onto the floor.
I was perfectly content to sit back and watch.
They laughed.
They knew the steps.
They moved with the ease that comes from years of sharing something they both loved.
Watching them together told me everything I needed to know.
Jay may have entered Elizabeth's life as a stepfather.
But somewhere along the way he had simply become Dad.
Looking back, Camp Alzafar was never really about the river.
Or the dances.
Or the chili cook-offs.
Or the Watermelon Swim.
It was about belonging.
It was about community.
It was about family.
It was a place where people volunteered because they wanted to.
A place where people helped each other.
A place where children could still roam free.
A place where I felt accepted.
Most of all, it was a place connected to Jay and Peggy.
When Jay passed away, the camp didn't disappear.
The pavilion was still there.
The pool was still there.
The river was still flowing.
The dances still happened.
The Watermelon Swim still happened.
The camp remained exactly where it had always been.
And yet everything had changed.
We stopped going.
Not all at once.
Life simply moved on.
Years passed.
The trips became memories.
Looking back now, I realize the camp was never really the reason I went.
The people were.
Especially Pops.
Sometimes places are really people.
And when those people are gone, a piece of the place leaves with them.
That is what Camp Alzafar became for me.
A place full of good memories.
A place full of family.
A place I will always be grateful for.
A place that once felt like the center of a wonderful little world.