Back to the summer of 1993. That was the one summer my father did not complain about going to camp
This past Shabbos, my father told us the tale of his first business endeavor. Though he had no share of the profits, and could be considered more of a worker than a kingpin, he was part of
an enterprise at camp that brought in nearly $1,000 in profit, while still selling merchandise below cost price. Astounding, I know.
We sat enthralled, wide-eyed as we envisioned our father as a little boy raking in all that money. The stark contrast between the days of his youth and today is evident in this story. Many mothers will sit and cluck their tongues reading this, but all I see is an amazing adventure that children today will never be able to experience.
It was the year 1993. My father was a boy of 14, learning in the Satmar cheder on Throop Avenue. In those days, the kids were mustangs — wild and free. They spent their afternoons in the large courtyard of Clemente Plaza housing projects playing ball and riding their bikes.
Create a free account to keep reading.
