A Eulogy, of sorts.

I started going to Cazadero Music Camp when I was 13, awkward in my pubescence and somewhat concerned with what was coming next. I'm still awkward, though that is no longer due to the horrors of puberty, and I'm still concerned with what's coming next, but high school was a lot different than I thought it would be, so I suppose it's kind of silly to worry about the future because it never really turns out how you'd expect. This post isn't about the future, though, or even the present, regrettably, but about the past.

There was always something special about being in the redwoods each summer, whether it be the magic of the sunlight filtering down hazily through the green branches or music echoing raucously through the canyon; sweet strains of march melodies and some big romantic classical piece being performed far more beautifully than most people would ever expect out of a group of young children. The environment of camp is obviously a fantastic one, what with the bucolic setting and passion of the participants, but the employees also make it unique.

A group of individuals collected by audition and interview to work for one of the most grand summer experiences in California by definition must bring something to the table, and they do. Never have I met a more vivacious, outgoing, caring, and utterly talented group of people who share in the joy of bringing music and fun to children. Impressively, the staff who do not work directly with the kids are also hard-working, industrious, friendly, and eager to help, throwing themselves into jobs that might not be glamorous but certainly are required to make the camp run.

Aside from all that, though, what every camp truly needs are the personal touches. Memories and ideas and little friendly details that create a setting that cannot be forgotten. One of those things, for me, was this little black and white dog, Jazz, who belonged to the Camp Director, Jim, and his wife, Anita, the Head Chef.

My first summer I remember trying to pet Jazz, along with the rest of the campers, but also finding her collar on the rec field with a couple of my friends. We eagerly collected our prize of a few 'Mazz Bucks' each, but I kept mine instead of using them to buy candy. I still have one, tucked away in a corner of my room at home, and I'm glad I held on to it. She was always loyally following Mazz around on his journeys surveying the camp, and often could be found lingering in front of the Dining Hall, waiting patiently for someone to drop something or Anita to emerge.

When I started working in the kitchen, I found out one of her favourite places to relax was on the steps leading to the storage room. She had a view into the cooking area, and could watch Anita as she worked. Eventually, Jazz and I developed a rapport, probably because I was willing to scratch her behind the ear for hours at a time. Okay, not hours, but at least 20 minutes. In any case, I was enough of a sucker that if she rested her head on my knee and looked at me expectantly, I'd begin again, if ever I had the audacity to stop.

I suppose it was sort of naive to believe she'd always be there, resting her head on my knee or trotting around the grounds like she owned the place; which she did, in case you had any doubts, but considering I haven't been 13 for a while I might have seen this sad day coming. Jazz recently left to get scraps from the spectral Cazadero, but she will be sorely missed when camp commences again this summer.

I don't know if I can imagine a camp without her little half-cocked ears or wet black nose, but I will live with the memories, fondly. Thank you, Jazz, for bringing joy to so many of us.