A Me Grows in Brooklyn - Memories of an Irish Childhood
Oct 13, 2026 · 1 hr 10 min · 10 segments
At fourteen, I was too homesick to stay at summer camp. But Buck and Beaver eventually gave me something I hadn’t known I needed: a glimpse of life beyond my familiar Brooklyn streets. Three years…
The world first knocked on my door the day my brother Frank decided to return to Buck and Beaver Camp in the Poconos.
Danny and Frank had described the previous summer there as the best of their lives.
They were both very popular counselors, Danny with the older kids and Frank particularly skilled taking care of the youngest children in the camp.
Danny was unable to return for a second year.
I was sprawled out on the living room couch watching TV, a posture which would certainly be my go-to during a summer with no plans, when I overheard Frank speaking to my parents in the kitchen.
"I'm sure he'd like it, but that place must cost a fortune," said my father, who, as was his wont, was eating with his mouth full and making slurping noises so loud that not even the blaring television drowned them out.
I knew it must be taking every ounce of self-control in Frank's body to remain in a room when my father was leaning over his plate, scarfing up his food like a caveman.
"Yes, a thousand dollars for the summer, but I dealt with that.
Jerry would be an assistant counselor.
They've agreed to let him come for free." My mother piped up from her end of the dining table, where she sat pressing a hot tea bag against her eyelid, as she often did to ease the styes which plagued her.
"Really? Why would they agree to that? Isn't he too young to be taking care of any other campers?" Frank had the same annoyed tone he always took with my parents, whether they deserved it or not.
"I don't know.
Believe it or not, maybe they like me." It was true.
They did like him very much.
Any friend of Frank was a friend of Buck and Beaver, so they came up with a way to get his little brother to the camp at no cost.
He had also managed to get my brother Patrick a job as well, as a full counselor running one of the cabins.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I ran into the kitchen, thanked Frank profusely, and began an active campaign to get my parents to agree, which was in reality not very difficult because I can't remember my parents ever refusing me anything I asked for, not once in my entire life.
Two weeks later, we piled into the car and made the two and a half hour drive to the countryside surrounding Milford, Pennsylvania.
It was check-in day at Buck and Beaver Camp.
I stepped out of the car, inhaled a deep breath of the fresh country air, and looked in wonder at the gorgeous surroundings.
The camp had been founded by Ed and Dolores Jacobson in the early sixties.
At the base of a steep hill, the camp spanned a hundred and sixty-six acres, but its expanse felt limitless.
The world first knocked on my door the day my brother Frank decided to return to Buck and Beaver Camp in the Poconos.
Danny and Frank had described the previous summer there as the best of their lives.
They were both very popular counselors, Danny with the older kids and Frank particularly skilled taking care of the youngest children in the camp.
Danny was unable to return for a second year.
I was sprawled out on the living room couch watching TV, a posture which would certainly be my go-to during a summer with no plans, when I overheard Frank speaking to my parents in the kitchen.
"I'm sure he'd like it, but that place must cost a fortune," said my father, who, as was his wont, was eating with his mouth full and making slurping noises so loud that not even the blaring television drowned them out.
I knew it must be taking every ounce of self-control in Frank's body to remain in a room when my father was leaning over his plate, scarfing up his food like a caveman.
"Yes, a thousand dollars for the summer, but I dealt with that.
Jerry would be an assistant counselor.
They've agreed to let him come for free." My mother piped up from her end of the dining table, where she sat pressing a hot tea bag against her eyelid, as she often did to ease the styes which plagued her.
"Really? Why would they agree to that? Isn't he too young to be taking care of any other campers?" Frank had the same annoyed tone he always took with my parents, whether they deserved it or not.
"I don't know.
Believe it or not, maybe they like me." It was true.
They did like him very much.
Any friend of Frank was a friend of Buck and Beaver, so they came up with a way to get his little brother to the camp at no cost.
He had also managed to get my brother Patrick a job as well, as a full counselor running one of the cabins.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I ran into the kitchen, thanked Frank profusely, and began an active campaign to get my parents to agree, which was in reality not very difficult because I can't remember my parents ever refusing me anything I asked for, not once in my entire life.
Two weeks later, we piled into the car and made the two and a half hour drive to the countryside surrounding Milford, Pennsylvania.
It was check-in day at Buck and Beaver Camp.
I stepped out of the car, inhaled a deep breath of the fresh country air, and looked in wonder at the gorgeous surroundings.
The camp had been founded by Ed and Dolores Jacobson in the early sixties.
At the base of a steep hill, the camp spanned a hundred and sixty-six acres, but its expanse felt limitless.
The rest of this transcript — segmented and speaker-labeled, so you land on the exact moment something was said
Search every transcript — by keyword, by phrase, or by meaning, across every show Radar indexes
Trends — what is surging across podcasts, measured against its own baseline
Alerts — when a name you follow appears in a newly indexed episode
No account is needed to search Radar.