Camp Firefly: For Kids Who Have Lost A Family Member

Philadelphia Inquirer, Local, Sunday, August 25, 2013, Page B4:


Medford camp helps deal with sorrow. At Camp Firefly, a light for children facing losses The two-day camp isn't about just grief; there's plenty of time to have fun, too. GALLERY: Medford camp helps deal with sorrow. » Julia Terruso, Inquirer Staff Writer POSTED: Sunday, August 25, 2013, 1:09 AM With their legs dangling off a wooden bench facing the lake, Cabin Six - the 7- and 8-year-old boys - took turns using a drum to tell a story about someone they lost. Gabriel, 8, went first, hitting the drum in sequences of two. He told the group the sound reminded him of his younger brother, who still calls out "Dada" when shown pictures of his father, who died in May. Dino, also 8, volunteered to go next and played the drum slowly first, then more rapidly. It was a rhythmic representation of the first time he caught a fish while out with his father, who has also died. "So you and Dino have something in common, you both lost your dad," counselor Michelle Halliwell said as sullen faces nodded on the sunny, clear afternoon. Moments later, a counselor pointed out a turtle, and the boys ran over to check it out, erupting in playful giggles. Camp Firefly, for children who have recently lost someone close to them, held its eighth annual two-day overnight this weekend at Camp Matollionequay, a YMCA camp in Medford. The camp is sponsored by Moorestown Visiting Nurses & Hospice, and this year, 45 children ages 7 to 14 attended from Burlington, Camden, and Gloucester Counties. Camp Firefly, named to represent a bright light in a dark situation, was born out of need, organizers said, after a similar South Jersey camp closed in 2004. Over two days, campers canoe and swim, play sports and do crafts, as well as share memories and feelings associated with the people they've lost. For many, it's their first time with others their age who share a similar loss. Dishéa Lightfoot, 11, took a break from decorating signs for his cabin to talk about his grandfather, who died in February at 74. Dishéa helped take care of his grandfather, who had Parkinson's disease. "My routine was, I'd wait till everyone fell asleep and then I'd go crawl up on his bed and turn on the PS3 and we'd just talk," he said. "There are a lot of memories on his medical bed." The incoming sixth-grader at Octavius V. Catto Community School in Camden said he wants to be a research scientist when he grows up - to try to cure diseases such as Parkinson's. He sleeps with his grandfather's blanket every night. "I cover up in it and all the good memories rush over me," he said. "It's like a dream-catcher you can wear." Dishéa speaks easily about his grandfather but says some of the campers are much more fragile. That's why the camp is staffed with 35 volunteer counselors, including Tom Jennings of Pennsauken, who was 9 when he lost his father to stomach cancer. "Back then, kids were just told to get over it," Jennings said. "It wasn't until my 40s that I started to feel this grief that I wasn't allowed to feel back then. This gives me a lot of hope that their lives can be different and that they have encouraging parents that recognize this is something that needs to be shared and talked about." The camp is free, paid for through bake sales and charity events organized by Moorestown. While splashing around in a lake one moment and writing a letter to a deceased loved one the next might seem disjointed, grief counselor Andra Vasko says it mirrors the grieving process. "We go from sad activities to very happy ones and then back to sad ones. And in the course of someone's day, this is very much how grief is. You could be having a great time, having a belly laugh, and then, all of a sudden, longing for the person you lost." The most moving part of camp is on Saturday evening, when each camper releases onto the lake an illuminated milk carton decorated in tribute to his or her lost loved one, Vasko said. "The children come up with their cabin-mates and, one by one, launch their boats," Vasko said. "It creates such a sense of connection to their loss to see all these little lanterns lit up. In a way, we're saying goodbye again, but we're also saying hello again."   Contact Julia Terruso at 856-779-3876, jterruso@phillynews.com, or follow on Twitter @juliaterruso.
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9/11-Kids Made/Make A Difference-Poem "I Hold In My Hands"-Remember

               I Hold in My Hands

I hold in my hands ...
The dust.
The dust and wreckage of the towers.
Even though I wasn't there,
I can still feel it.
It has damaged my hands with dirt.
It has damaged my heart with sorrow.
It has damaged my body with fear,
and it has damaged my life with war.

I hold in my hands ...
My life.
My life could soon be filled with war,
cruelty at its worst.
Miles away, I can hear the planes' roaring engines, gliding through the air.

I hold in my hands ...
My future.
My life ahead.
Whether it will be filled with war or peace, we will not know.
My future keeps me going from dawn to dusk.

I hold in my hands ...
Hope.
Hope for the future.
Hope for peace.
Hope for my country's freedom.
And hope for America to win this war on terrorism.

Publisher :- Aaron Walsh

Aaron Walsh was in the sixth grade and wrote this on 9/11/2001.

September 6, 2011 Sixth-grader's 9/11 poem leads to unexpected bond By Cliff Radel cradel@enquirer.com She was an off-duty flight attendant from Oakley out for an evening stroll in Paris. He was a school kid in Delhi Township, a sixth-grader stuck in his morning social studies class. Then the planes slammed into the twin towers. And the world changed forever. The events of 9/11 eventually linked the lives of the flight attendant, Tanya Hoggard, and the student, Aaron Walsh. The tragedy showed them that one person can make a difference in helping good triumph over evil. And they decided, unbeknownst to each other, to spread the word. A month after the attacks, Walsh wrote a poem in his school notebook. Hoping to make sense of that horrible day in history, he began with the words: I hold in my hands ... The dust. The dust and wreckage of the towers. Even though I wasn't there, I can still feel it. It has damaged my hands with dirt. It has damaged my heart with sorrow. It has damaged my body with fear, and it has damaged my life with war. The poem wound up going around the world. That happened after it landed in Hoggard's hands. Thanks to her, Walsh's work came to rest in the collection of the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. The memorial, located in the footprints of the World Trade Center, opens Sunday. The museum opens in 2012 on the 11th anniversary of 9/11. As Walsh wrote his poem in a Delhi Middle School classroom, Hoggard stood under a tent at Ground Zero. She was a volunteer on the chow line. She would fly to New York on her off-days - using 30 of them in three months - to serve meals to the workers sifting through the rubble. "I didn't go because of my job," she said, "or because flight attendants were killed on 9/11. I went because my job enabled me to go. I could fly in and out for free on the same day and help out." She set out just to feed firefighters performing the grim task of searching for body parts of lost brothers and sisters. By chance, she wound up rescuing - and donating to the 9/11 museum - 3½ tons of thank-you notes and sympathy cards. They came to Ground Zero and New York's firehouses from children around the world. Most of the messages began with: "Dear Hero." "Those notes helped the healing process at Ground Zero," Hoggard said. "The faces of the workers brightened when they read those messages. They would smile. Then they would go out the door to look for more remains. "They didn't wear masks," she added. "I asked one guy why. He said: 'You can't find somebody if you can't smell them.' "That's when I got it," she added. "They wanted to find their friends. They wanted to make a difference. So did I." She sat on her sofa and looked across at Walsh. Ten years later, she's still a flight attendant. He's gone from the sixth grade to his senior year at Miami University. The flight attendant and the zoology major met recently to reminisce and go over their plans to participate in Sunday's program at the Cincinnati Museum Center at Union Terminal. She will talk about her "Dear Hero" collection. He will conclude the program by reading his poem. They talked about where they were that September day in 2001 when the world changed. Hoggard was going for a walk in Paris "when a Delta pilot came running up and said: 'Our country is under attack!' " Walsh came into social studies class that morning and saw the TV on, "which was rare. We saw one of the towers go down." At the end of the recollections, a stillness filled the room. Walsh broke the silence. "I have so much gratitude for Tanya," he said. Clutching his sixth-grade composition book, he used his thumb to mark the place of his pencil-written poem. "She actually made a difference. I'm just a very small part of this story." She frowned and shook her head. He ignored her. "I still can't wrap my head around this," he said. "Something from a little notebook, written on the West Side of Cincinnati, made it to a museum in New York City." Hoggard leaned forward. Quickly apologizing for interrupting - she's very impulsive - she let loose with a burst of enthusiasm as she explained her post 9/11 actions. "The messages I collected, Aaron's poem included," she said, "let kids know they made a difference. And if you do that with kids, they will keep trying to do good. They will learn that random acts of kindness don't go unnoticed." A random act helped Hoggard. She was several months into her rescue efforts. Fatigue had set in. She recalled how the whole thing began. She had just struck up a conversation with a New York firefighter at Ground Zero. He was admiring the "Dear Hero" letters she had pinned to the walls of the mess tent. She told him about the buckets of cards and letters that had found their way to the tent just by bearing the simple address: Ground Zero. He told her: You think you've got lots of mail, lady? There's so much at the firehouses some of it will have to go to a landfill. "You can't throw it away," she declared. "This means too much to too many people." The firefighter agreed. He took her to the city's firehouses. She saw towers of mail stacked in galvanized tubs next to fire trucks. She convinced the firefighters that she take it for safe-keeping. She began collecting pieces of mail by the ton. These weren't just cards and letters. They were "pieces of history. They had to be saved." And that's how an indefatigable flight attendant from Cincinnati came to amass 3½ tons of "Dear Hero" notes. She did it on her own time. And her own dime. Hoggard did not collect a penny for amassing the collection or donating it to the 9/11 museum. She did find "over $20,000 in the envelopes that the notes came in. I donated that to New York City's firefighters union." To the mourning firefighters, her mission was a blessing. She once overheard a first-responder say of her: "I don't know who she is or where she came from. All I know is she comes here and she takes the stuff and she's going to save it." But one day she needed saving. The physical and emotional enormity of her self-appointed task left her feeling overwhelmed. Help came in an e-mail from a friend. She told Hoggard she would feel better if she read the attached poem. Hoggard's friend got the poem from a pal, Sara Walsh, who was playing the part of the proud aunt. The poem was written by Walsh's nephew - none other than Aaron Walsh. Hoggard read and re-read the poem. Every time she reached the last stanza, she found more strength to carry on: "I hold in my hands.. Hope. Hope for the future. Hope for peace. Hope for my country's freedom. And hope for America to win this war on terrorism." She expressed surprise that the poem was written by a sixth-grader. "I was amazed at all of this maturity spewing from the head of a kid who was only 11," Hoggard said. Walsh smiled. She turned to the college student. "Ten years later, I still read your poem to get inspired," she told him. "A copy is in my work bag right now," she added. "I give it to passengers who need a boost. I don't tell people what I've done. I just tell them the story about how those little kids made a difference at Ground Zero. "Then I pull out the poem."