Do you understand what Jenna is talking about? Do you have a favorite piece of clothing that you just don't want to part with

Can't Be Replaced

Jenna Schreier, 16
Switzerland

"Why don't you just let me get you a new pair? Those are so old and tattered," my mother has begged a hundred times.

"But why? There's nothing wrong with these. They're fine."

"Would you like me to take them so they just disappear? Then you won't be tempted to wear them. They're beyond reason now, Jenna. You can't even wear them to bed anymore!"

"No. NO. You can't! They're perfect. They're my Huckins pants."

Having gone to summer camp himself, my dad was determined that I, too, would have the same experience. Finding the right place to leave his 8-year-old daughter proved a daunting task. But eventually we decided on Camp Huckins in New Hampshire.

After a long winter anticipating the good time I was bound to have, the night finally came to pack my trunk. Crouched on my bedroom floor, with bathing suits, bug spray, and clean socks surrounding us, my mom and I tried in vain to stuff everything I would need into the seemingly tiny trunk. The next morning, with the trunk finally closed and loaded into the car, we set off on my adventure. I can still remember the nervous feelings of excitement fluttering in my stomach. Would anyone like me? Would I miss my parents? Would I have a good time?

We were ushered through the camp gates and informed of my cabin assignment. That first drive along Huckins' twisty dirt road was a daunting experience. All the white clapboard buildings looked so similar. On the playground, strange girls sat together swinging and riding the wooden seesaws. They already seemed to be best friends. How was I going to fit in?

But, of course, I did fit in, making friends and living like the lost boys of Peter Pan. The large, mazelike camp of that first day quickly disappeared and it was replaced by a child's paradise. Now, after many years have passed, I know I could still walk up from the waterfront to the lodge with my eyes shut and miss every root on the way. I have spent 14 weeks at that camp, but I know all the paths and trees and views as well, if not better, than my own home.

Every summer, the two weeks went by all too fast. Once at camp, all I wanted was for time to stand still so I would never have to leave. Huckins is a place to relax: no homework, no gossip, none of the stresses of living at home. Huckins became a part of my education. I struggled to pass the swim test when I was younger, and the year I was finally able to tread water with no hands for 90 seconds was one of my proudest moments. After passing the swim test, I signed up for water-skiing. I didn't get up the first time I tried, but by the end of my seven summers at Huckins, I was able to stay up for as long as my legs would hold me. With the boat only 50 meters ahead, the water rushing out behind me, the wind rippling in my ears, I felt alone and entirely at ease.

I rode a horse for the first time at Huckins. I don't like horses, really. They're too big and their hooves scare me. But somehow, trotting along a woody path at Huckins, riding seemed like the best thing in the world.

Despite the good times we all had, receiving mail from our parents—reassuring us that we were missed and that they weren't off having a good time without us—was a highlight of the day. Large envelopes stuffed full of as much junk as possible—magazines, nail polish, extra hair bands—were the most prized items. The lucky girls who received packages were famous for a moment as the surprises inside were revealed.

My father has horrible handwriting, so he always typed his letters to me on the computer. I loved getting those letters from Dad. I knew that he was typing the letters so that I could read every word, and that made the letters even more personal than anything handwritten. Once, he suggested that I try to memorize a single moment at Huckins so that I could remember it forever. What I remember most vividly is the smell. One girl was eating a candy bar, and the smell of the chocolate mixed in my nose with the smell of pine needles, dirt, and fresh air. I can see campers eating their candy. I can see girls playing in the dirt. The smell seems to make everything come alive.

My Huckins pants have all these memories embedded in their very fabric. That is why they can never be replaced. The butt has sat for hours on the dirt ground. The legs have lain many nights in an upper bunk. Although they don't smell of pine needles anymore, I know that they once did. They have absorbed all the same experience that I have. They are my record of Huckins.

My summers at Huckins are over. I have changed, become a different, more mature person. The pants, too, are older. Fading red and green plaid with a broken, knotted drawstring, peeling letters, and fabric scars, these pants could never seem tasteful to anyone with a sense of style. Messy, amateur stitches run up the side, closing a gash that once revealed the entirety of my lower leg. As soon as I mended a slight hole in the back, a new one appeared in the front. The fabric, soft from many washes, has been worn thin. Despite these physical grievances, my affection for these pants will never diminish, for these pants hold so many memories.