UNCLE SAM AND CAMP DEARBORN

The pale pre-dawn light barely filtered through my window, but sleep was a distant memory. Every rustle of leaves against the glass, every creak of the old house, sent a jolt of anticipation through me. It was Sunday, the day that belonged to Uncle Sam Makki and Camp Dearborn. He was as predictable as the sunrise, a human clockwork, and between 6 and 7 am, without fail, his booming knock would echo through the house.

I was ten, and for me, those Sundays were the most sacred days of the year. The week leading up to them was a drawn-out torture of waiting, a constant hum of excitement that buzzed beneath my skin. My Saturdays were filled with meticulous preparations, checking and re-checking the fishing pole, the well-worn tackle box, and the bag of marshmallows for the campfire. I barely slept, my mind a whirlwind of images – the shimmering lake, the towering trees, the crackling fire, and most importantly, the stories Uncle Sam always had to share during the drive.

My mother, a creature of habit herself, would always shake her head with a fond smile when my energy reached fever pitch. “You’d think he was bringing you to the moon, not Camp Dearborn,” she would say, but I knew she understood. Camp Dearborn wasn’t just a place, it was an adventure, and Uncle Sam, with his boundless energy and even bigger stories, was the perfect guide.

The familiar, rhythmic thump against the door finally arrived, sending a shiver of pure joy through me. I was already halfway down the stairs before my mother could even yell, “Slow down, young man!” I flung the door open to reveal Uncle Sam, his face a roadmap of laughter lines and his eyes twinkling like the distant stars. There was always that glint in his eye and a belly that shook when he laughed, which was often.

“Ready for the wilderness, young man?” he bellowed, his voice like a warm summer wind that swept away any lingering sleepiness.

“Yes!” I shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. Richie Makki, my cousin, was already dancing in the car, his face alight with the same anticipation.

The ride to Camp Dearborn was filled with boisterous chatter and with stories, the same ones he told each year. We knew the stories by heart, but they were part of the ritual, part of the magic of those Sundays.

Camp Dearborn was everything a ten-year-old boy dreamed a wilderness should be. Towering pines cast long shadows across the grassy fields, the lake shimmered like a giant sapphire, and the air was thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. It felt a million miles away from our suburban homes, a portal to a world of endless possibilities.

We spent our days exploring, our boots crunching on fallen leaves, and our laughter echoing through the trees. Uncle Sam was a master storyteller, weaving tales of the early pioneers and the native peoples who had once called this place home. He taught us how to identify different types of trees and plants, how to bait our hooks with worms, and the importance of leaving no trace behind. He never talked down to us; he treated us like his equals, as if we, too, were seasoned adventurers.

Lunch was a feast of charcoal-grilled burgers, shish-kabob, potato salad, and salad, in the fresh air of Camp Dearborn, which tasted like ambrosia. Afternoons were reserved for exploration, building elaborate forts in the woods, and heading for a swim on the beach.

As the sun began to dip below the treeline, casting a golden glow over the lake, we would gather around the campfire. The crackling campfire at Camp Dearborn licked at the cool Michigan air, each snap and pop a familiar comfort. Uncle Sam, his face etched with the wisdom of a thousand stories, would always lead us here. He’d gather the family close, the scent of roasted marshmallows mixing with the earthy aroma of the woods, and he’d begin. It wasn’t just about the campfire stories, it was about our stories. He’d weave tales of my grandfather, Massoud Makki, his voice a low rumble. He told stories of his resilience, his unwavering loyalty, and his love for his family. He talked of late-night card games, of the way my grandfather would always reach out first, a silent offering of connection. “Family,” Sam said, his gaze sweeping across our faces, “family is the anchor that keeps us steady. Your Jiddo, he knew that more than anyone.” Every summer, we’d come to this same spot, a small clearing nestled amongst the pines. And every summer, Uncle Sam would share a memory of my grandfather. He’d gesture with his hands, mimicking my grandfather’s booming laugh, and his eyes would twinkle with a love that transcended time. These tales I’d heard countless times, yet each telling felt new, layered with a deeper understanding. Uncle Sam’s voice, warm and resonant, painted vivid pictures of a life I longed to be a part of. He showed us the importance of family, the unbreakable bonds that stretched across time and distance. The campfires here, under the same starry sky, were where those bonds were forged, strengthened by his words and love. As the day drew to a close, a quiet weariness would settle over us. The ride home was always a quiet affair, filled with the contented sighs of exhausted children. We were coated in a layer of dirt and campfire smoke, but we also carried a wealth of memories, a patchwork of stories and experiences that would last until the next Sunday.

Those Sundays with Uncle Sam at Camp Dearborn were more than just camping trips; they were life lessons. They were where I learned about the beauty of nature, the importance of family, and the power of stories. They shaped who I became, instilling in me a love for adventure, a thirst for knowledge, and an appreciation for the simple joys in life. And while the years have passed, and I am no longer that wide-eyed ten-year-old, the memories of those Sundays, the smell of pine, the sound of Uncle Sam’s laughter, and the gentle whisper of the lake, will always remain, a timeless treasure kept safe within my heart. And sometimes, when the world feels too complicated, I still close my eyes and imagine myself back at Camp Dearborn, with the calm and reassuring voice of Uncle Sam filling the air.

Uncle Sam is gone now, the laughter and stories silenced by time. But, when I sit by the fire at Camp Dearborn with my kids now, and share stories, I see that same light flicker in their hearts, and a beacon of hope is ignited within my own heart, as I recall uncle Sam and his stories and the legacy he left behind. My grandfather’s values and Uncle Sam’s enduring love, two lessons I now share and teach my kids. Each moment spent in the company of my kids felt like a blissful dream, one I hope to inhabit forever, all thanks to the guidance and unselfish love Uncle Sam showed us many summers ago.