Sweet like candy to my soul.

"Why are you so big on sending us to camp?" I asked my rabbi one afternoon. Not that I minded-I religiously counted down the months, days and hours until could return to camp each summer, reuniting with other Jewish kids from around the country.

"Well," he said, "honestly, the goal is for little Jewish boys and little Jewish girls to meet and grow up and have little Jewish babies."

"Oh," I responded, taken aback by his honesty. "That makes sense."

His view was shared by most of the adults at camp. Nothing too risque went on-some holding of hands and maybe a little kissing. The adults often turned a blind eye, their passive acceptance enough for us. But the counselors, many only a few years older than the campers themselves, encouraged us.

The end of camp was always the worst-no one wanted to leave and we fought back tears for days at the mere though of saying goodbye. On one of the last nights, our counselrs led us to another one of the girls cabins for some late night bonding-we sat cross legged on the beds, reliving of favorite moments of the summer and discussing plans for next.

We were all absorbed in our conversations, but when the door open our heads whipped around, turning to face the door.

The boys cabin, led by their counselors, began filing in, soon filling up an entire half of the cabin. Some of us saw our "summer boyfriends"-we waved and smiled, maybe even blew a few kisses.

Our counselors gave them a knowing smile, as the boys, in unison, got down on one knee.

We were still confused, but soon we understood.

"You've got your ball, you've got your chain..."

The boys began to sing, their off-key voices forming into the most awkwardly sweet melody many of us had ever heard.

"In a boys dream..."

The tears were now streaming down our faces.

"Crash, into me."

The song ended and we rushed the other side of the cabin, holding on to not only them, but the last night of summer.

We carried that memory with us for the next year, eagerly anticipating the coming summer, and following the plan exactly as my rabbi had hoped.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Flash memoir based on the word "crash"

I still love you New York.

I was in 8th grade, sitting in math class. Half way through class, our teacher turned on the TV. We were excited-TV during class? That only happened on special occasions. What was going on?

Every station was showing the same thing-smoke billowing out of the first tower. No one spoke-I don't think anyone could comprehend what was going on. The bell rang, but the classes stayed put, all eyes fixated on the TV screens.

The second plane came from the right of the screen, crashing into the second tower. I thought it was a replay of the first plane, it took a few minutes to realize it had happened again.

As the news came in about the other two planes, my thoughts turned to family, some of whom lived in New York, and an uncle who worked in the Pentagon. It seemed like everyone was one step removed from someone involved, and everyone was scared.

The rest of the day was a blur. It was eerily silent, like even nature was in shock.

I left school and came home to find my parents finishing up the lawn work. As I walked inside, my neighbor asked my father if they should be listening to music, maybe it would help.

"No," My dad answered, "it doesn't feel right."

We watched footage all day, a constant loop of the smoke and fire and screaming and collapsing.

"There were people jumping out of windows..." my dad muttered. That image, along with so many others haunts me.

The next day, we all gathered in our classes, as the teachers tried to explain what happened.

A girl to my left raised her hand.

"I know this is bad and everything, but...what does this mean to me? How does this affect me?"

Her statement drew shock from our teacher, he tried to calmly explain that we didn't know what was going to happen next, the specifics were still very uncertain, but life as we knew it would never be the same.

Today, and many days since then, the people who lost loved ones have been in my heart and in my prayers. And I am so thankful for everyone who gave their time and their lives so I am able to say how proud I am to be an American.

When I'm six feet underground, I'll need a drink or two. And I'll sure miss you.

I was drowning in booze and parties, trying to hold it together enough to be presentable, yet drink enough to forget everything on a daily basis.

It was a delicate balance that, no matter how hard or often I tried, I was far from mastering.

He was sick. I knew it, I knew it was a matter of time, but I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it. I was ashamed of what I was doing, but I couldn't stop. So I drank to gloss over the guilt.

"I got some pills. If you take me to pick them up, I'll share with you. We just gotta stop by my mom's and get some money first, then we'll go." His offer was tempting, but I was hesitant.

"I'll take you to get them. I...I'm not sure I want to try them, though. We'll see." Even though I was hesitant, my curiosity lingered.

We stopped to get the money. He went inside, coming out ten minutes later.

"I told my mom your grandpa was sick, so I wanted to treat you to dinner. She gave me an extra ten bucks!" He grinned ear to ear, so proud of his manipulation.

My stomach churned. I laughed and we were on our way.

Again, I waited in the car. He got in the car and we were three blocks away before he pulled out the baggie, twisted into a small tube, concealing two brightly colored pills.

"This one's an downer, I think," he mused, examining the lime green pill. "And this one...this one's perfect for you!" He pulled out the pink pill and placed it in my hand. There were a pair of Chanel C's stamped on one side. I laughed and gave it back to him.

"We'll see." I was still unsure.

We began the drive home, and by now it was dark. I had class in the morning, but I was past the point of caring about going. I had a bottle waiting for me at home.

The music was loud, the car was full of people and as we drove home, we laughed and sang. I was speeding down the highway, anxious to get home.

Then my phone rang. It was my dad. It was also 10:45pm.

Nothing good can come from a phone call at 10:45pm.

"Where are you?"

"At the store," I lied, hushing the people in the car and turning down the music.

"I need to tell you something."

I knew before he said anything, what was coming next.

"Papa died."

The tears came quickly and fiercely. I couldn't stop them.

"Are you ok? Where are you? I'll come pick you up." I could hear him getting his keys.

"No, no. It's ok. I'll be ok. I'm just going to go home."

"Ok...call me tomorrow. Be safe."

"I will." I hung up the phone.

Someone reached and put their hand on my shoulder.

"He died."

Everyone mumbled their I'm sorry's not quite sure of what to say.

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"You got those pills?"

He nodded in the passenger seat next to me.

"Let's go get high."

This post is in response to The Dare to Share prompt at the Lightning and the Lightning-Bug. The theme was "Loss".

So now I'm standing here alone. I'm learning how to live life on my own.

Sweat dripping, I take a deep breath. I look around in amazement. I am wonderfully, blissfully alone. Smile from ear to ear, I finally relax

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge.
"This week’s assignment was simple: write a story of your choice. The catch? Write it as a tweet. Use only 140 characters – including spaces."

(P.S. I typed this into Twitter to make sure I abided by the character limit, and this is 140 on the dot. But can I just say that the last sentence not having a period is killing me!?!?! haha)

This ole house was home and comfort.

We spontaneously decided to take a trip. Well, not so much we, as I, he just happened to be in the car at the time.

I took the backway and drove for hours. He didn't ask where we were going. He just let me ramble about nothing and tried to pay attention to signs, so he could guide us home in case we got lost. I knew exactly where I was headed, but I didn't want him to know. He wouldn't have told me not to, but I was having hard time admitting it to myself.

My circuitous path turned the two hour drive into four, but eventually, we pulled onto Main Street. My eyes welled with tears and soon, I was breathing in deep, gut wrenching sobs. Muscle memory kicked in and I navigated the streets of the small town, driving by the park, turning left at the cemetery and past the large red brick house at the end of the block.

I took my foot off the gas and slowly rolled toward the house. It's white paneling shone in the dead of night. Did the people inside know that underneath the bright white, was old, dark wood? I wondered. Or that the shudders, now deep red, were once the same shade of brown, blending into the wood, disappearing from view.

I pulled to the front of the house and imagine the layout as it had been the last time I was inside. The china cabinet to the left, right next to the front door that rarely got used, the ancient air conditioner to the right. My favorite Monet print resided above the Victorian couch, next to the beautiful arch of the door way. I could see the door way, but the print and couch were long gone.

I imagined the way the itchy, orange carpet felt when I walked barefoot through the TV room, and the way the textured walls stung my skin with I backed into them on accident. I looked at the street-trying to find the spot stained with my blood where I fell trying to catch the neighborhood boys on my bike. I scanned the lawn, searching for the indentation that was surely left behind when my cousin and I spent all day making snow angels, collapsing in the snow and onto the frozen ground underneath. I stopped myself from charging into the backyard and examine every square inch of grass, until I found the holes left behind from the stakes used to support our camping tent.

"Where are we?" He finally asked.

"My grandparents house," I answered through tears, my throat growing tighter by the second.

"Aren't they..."

"Yes," I interjected before he could finish, "I miss them so much."

This post is in response to The Lightning and The Lightening Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #9- House

Those are your shoes. These are my shoes. We've got issues.

Growing up, all I ever wanted to be was a punk rock kid. I thought they were so glamorous with their tattoos, and their piercings, and their dreadlocks. And in my 12 year old mind, being a punk rock kid was synonymous with skateboarding. I gravitated to the boys with the boards, who stood outside my middle school and jumped down flights of stairs.

I immersed myself in everything skateboarding. I read Thrasher cover to cover and dog eared pages in CCS, picking out trucks, decks and barrings. My closet was soon filled with tee-shirts baring logos from element, DC and Independent. As the summer drew to a close and the back to school shopping began, I had my eyes set on one thing-shoes.

But not just any shoes. I wanted my first pair of Vans, in all their color-changing glory.

That's right-my shoes changed colors. Inside they were stark white, but step into the sun and they turned bright yellow. I never felt cooler than walking into the first day of school that fall, as my shoes faded back to white during first period and watching every one stare in amazement at my shoes.

I wore those shoes everyday. No matter how dirty, or worn out they looked, they still retained their color changing magic. I covered the soles with lyrics I deemed fitting to my teenage angst, and continued to wear them as a symbol of rebellion.

Almost two years later, I was on the brink of high school and decided to trade in my well worn, and even more well loved, pair of shoes for a new pair. By this time, Vans was no longer just a skating brand and every one of my friends had at least one pair. I bought a pair of standard pink and black shoes, but every time I put them on, I missed my worn in, eye catching, dream encapsulating shoes.

Today they sit at the bottom of a closest at my parents house, thier fat tongues and think laces, collecting dust. I just can't bear to throw them away and finally give up my dream of living the life of a punk rock kid.

Today's prompt is Flicker of Inspiration #6: These Shoes Were Made For Talking at The Lightening and The Lightening Bug

As we take our stand, down in Jungleland

Most of my earliest memories involve music. I was raised on everything from The Sex Pistols to Marvin Gaye, Wynton Marsalis to Steve Earle. My musical taste has changed over the years, first veering as far off course from the music of my parents as humanly possible and then coming back to to my musical roots. But there has been one constant throughout the life.

The Boss.

From the time I was young, I can remember listening to "Born to Run" and "The Darkness on The Edge of Town" as my peers listened to Backstreet boys and N*Sync. I saw my first Springsteen concert in middle school and my second a few years later. I was in awe watching Bruce, belt the lyrics till the veins popped out of his neck, while his band surrounded him, producing some of the most powerful music I had encountered up to the that point. Max on drums, Lil' Steven and Patti on guitar, and The Big Man, Clarence Clemons on sax. Sitting in the audience, I would get chills as he played the solo to "Jungleland", the notes careening out of this saxophone. At times, he was the perfect accompaniment to everyone else on the stage, and during those powerful solos, he was dangerously close to stealing the show. If I closed my eyes, I could block out everything except what was going on in that moment.

When they performed live, Bruce would introduce his band and when he got to Clarence, he would inevitably ask "Do I even have to say his name!?!?!" and the crowd would scream "No!", because everyone knew exactly who he was, but Bruce did it anyway.

The love between them radiated into the crowd-their passion both for the music they were creating and for each other was palpable.

A few weeks ago, I told my father that if Bruce toured again, I was going to go, no matter the cost. He laughed and said he doubted it would happen, but "more power to ya."

With the death of Clarence, I am sad to say that I may never get a chance to see Bruce live again. But I am eternally grateful that I was able to experience two of the most moving concerts I've ever been to and have been able to enjoy the music that shaped me as a child and will continue to hold a special place in my heart for the rest of my life.

R.I.P. Big Man.

In response to The Lightening and The Bightening Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #4-
Song Worth a Thousand Words

Lo kala hi, lo kala darkeinu V'einayich lifamim ko nugot

It's not easy, our path is not easy, and your eyes sometimes are so sad.

The first time my soon-to-be camp director came and gave a presentation at my religious school early one Saturday morning, he talked a little and then showed a video highlighting the amazing religious studies programs and Hebrew we would be able to learn if we attended camp.

And while that was well and good, all I saw was the beach and the horses and those looked sweet enough for me to start begging asking my parents to spend the summer in what would be my home away from home for five summers, Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.

Olin Sang Ruby Union Institute is Jewish Summer camp and when I would tell my friend back home what we did there, they often stared back with blank expressions. I think they were a little confused as to why I wanted to spend my summers studying Torah, praying and speaking Hebrew. And looking back on it, it does sound a little crazy, but I enjoyed doing these things, more than anything to be honest. OSRUI sparked my faith and helped me to realize I could enjoy my Judaism and I could make it my own.

Because it was a Jewish camp, we celebrated Shabbat (the sabbath) every Friday night. Everyone would get dressed up and we would begin the night with a special service. We prayed as a group twice a day, in the morning and before bed, but the Shabbat service was different-different prayers, different songs, different meaning. We began Shabbat with prayers of thankfulness that set the tone for the rest of the evening.

After the service, the whole camp would come together for dinner. During the week, our meals were pretty standard fare-even though we kept kosher, we had hamburgers, salads, sandwiches, etc. But since everyone, including the kitchen staff took Shabbat off, our meals were catered, lavish affairs. Roasted chicken, stuffed peppers, roasted vegetables, cakes and cookies for desert. It was all absolutely delicious.

After dinner, while fighting the food coma that was sure to come, the entire camp would migrate for shira, which means song in Hebrew. We would all cram into a room that was ample size any other day of the week but when the entire camp was in it, it was much more cozy. Everyone sat on the floor in a circle, the girls trying their hardest to be modest while sitting cross legged. The song leaders would start softly but the energy would rise quickly as the song leaders played the guitars and danced and jumped around the room, filling the room and woods surrounding with song. The kids would clap and dance from their seats, singing as loud as possible- in fact, most people woke up missing their voices the next day. It doesn't sound like it would be the most beautiful sound, but it was glorious-a few hundred people all singing in praise. Beautiful.

The director would get up half way through and tell a story of the Baal Shem Tov, an ancient Jewish rabbi known for his stories and anecdotes, while the song leaders softly plucked the strings on their guitars, untill after he finished when they all jumped in unison to lead us in more songs, eventually, slowly, winding down to a soft hum of guitar chords and many, many voices.

After shira, the little kids would shuffle off to their tents and cabins while the older kids would head to the sports center for everyones favorite part of the evening, Israeli dancing. During the week we could practice the dances every chance we would get-you would often pass a group of girls holding hands in a circle, spinning around the basketball court or a group in meticulous lines perfecting the "step-ball-change". Friday nights was the culmination of the hard work. Even though we spent a lot of time dressing up for Shabbat and began the evening looking decidedly more like adults that children, by the time Israeli dancing came, there was no mistaking who we were. Our once perfect hair and make-up was streaked with sweat and our fancy dresses were often stained with dirt and grass. But we laughed and giggled and danced the night away, following our Israeli counselors lead. Far too soon, we would wind back to our cabins, enjoying the cool summer air hitting our sweat stained faces and would stare mesmerized at the vast expanse of stars spread out above us.

What began as a yearning to swim and ride horses, left me with a life long connection and appreciation for my Judaism and years later, I still say the same prayers of thankfulness.

Lo telchi l'vadeich Ani eh'yeh sham itach You won't walk alone, I'll be there with you

Linking up with Mams Kat's Writer's Workshop for the Prompt:

Share a Summer Camp Memory.