A Somber Memory of Camp Clifton
The tragic passing of a camp mate from childhood highlights the importance of asking for help
This story was originally published in Clifton Merchant Magazine in August 2011.
It was the rise of Facebook in the late 00’s that got the ball rolling, connecting me first with coworkers, then folks from high school and college. Then Camp Clifton. It was a blast to reconnect with people who had been absent from my life for decades and find that we had all evolved into responsible adults with homes, kids, jobs.
Reconnecting with the Camp Clifton crew unleashed a flood of memories and emotions. A troubled, introverted, and lonely kid, Camp Clifton was one of the few places on earth that I felt like I fit in. It was the one place where I could be welcomed as one of the cool kids.
On my first day at camp I was wearing a tee shirt with the ubiquitous bunny logo. When teams were being selected for a basketball game, one of the counselors said, “Hey you - Playboy - you're on this team.” The name stuck. For the rest of my years at Camp Clifton I was Playboy. I relished that nickname.
There was one common denominator for all of us who attended Camp Clifton in the 1970s: Joe Balega.
When I first started going to camp Joe was one of the older campers, a senior camper really. He had he had achieved “Warrior”: the highest honor that could be bestowed on a Camp Clifton camper and was on a path to be a counselor once he was old enough. He knew the ropes and was respected and admired.
Joe and I were a stark contrast. He was driven, focused, confidently moving through life towards his goals. If you ask him back then what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would tell you he wanted to be a lawyer. Joe Balega kept his nose clean and stayed out of trouble, walked the straight and narrow. A model camper. A model kid. A clean-cut young man.
Joe Balega was the one who broke the news to me and my fellow campers that Yankees catcher Thurman Munson died in a plane crash. We sat in stunned disbelief while Joe openly cried for the loss of one of his childhood idols.
Me, I got in trouble. I smoked. Brought magazines that were associated with my nickname to camp. Snuck off to the girl's side of camp late at night to rendezvous with girlfriends. Basically, ignored the rules and annoyed the powers that be that ran the camp.
My last year at camp I was 15 and working as a counselor-in-training. And though it was never formally stated that I wouldn't be welcomed back the next year as counselor, it was clear to me that I shouldn't apply. The next summer I would find a new camp to try my act at. It would last one year. After that, I spent my summers lifeguarding at pools in and around Clifton. My camping days had come to a close.
Joe Balega continued to work at Camp Clifton for many more years, touching many more lives. When we all reconnected on Facebook, it was no surprise to me to learn that Joe had gone to Rutgers and become a lawyer. Now living in Ohio, he was a single dad to three boys. And dozens, if not hundreds of former campers who had their lives touched by him as a kid were overjoyed to reconnect with him.
Joe drove the furthest to attend a Camp Clifton reunion in the summer of 2009. He was engaged to a beautiful woman. His law business was going well. He seemed genuinely happy. All of us were thrilled to see him again, and even more thrilled to see him open the reunion’s “council fire” - a Camp Clifton tradition. We all said goodbye as darkness fell and the fire burned down, and we made a pledge to meet again a few years hence
Fast forward to April 1, 2010. It's morning and I'm settling into my routine at my office, when I get an e-mail from Amy Castillo, one of my newfound friends from the Camp Clifton reunion: “Joe, call me ASAP. It's important.” This was odd, and not at all like Amy.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Amy broke the news to me that the previous morning, Joe Balega had been found in his home, dead of an apparent suicide. I sat in stunned disbelief.
Not Joe Balega. That's not possible.
If you had asked me my impression of Joe at the reunion, I would have said, “he's happy.” He seemed genuinely happy to be there and genuinely happy with his life. He was all smiles, as were his sons. My lasting memory of Joe and his family was that they were joyful. My lasting memory of Joe as a teenager was that he had his act together. He was one of the good kids. He was universally nice and kind to everyone.
Others concurred. Renee Ilaria, a fellow classmate and fellow camper, said, “I didn't see someone who was struggling the day of the reunion. I saw someone who was filled with joy, pride, and promise for the future.” Amy Castillo added, “I think if Joe could be in such a place, anyone could. He had an amazing impact on all of us.”
We really didn't know each other all that well. A few summers spent together at camp. A few months spent planning a reunion as adults. But his life touched mine. He treated others well, and he did so simply because he was a genuinely good guy. He seemed to me one of those rare people who didn't have a mean inclination in his being.
He was the absolute last person I would have expected to do this. And the irony is that if he had asked any of us from the Camp Clifton crew for help, if he had called any of us on that fateful night, we would have been there for him. I think there are probably 100 people from camp that would have driven all night hopped or on the first flight to Ohio to sit by his side, talk him through whatever dark demons were haunting him, convince him that he was loved and needed - by his sons, by his family and friends, and by us. To open that next council fire at that next reunion.
On the one-year anniversary of that horrible day, a number of folks from camp posted on Joe's Facebook page.
“Grateful for the time we had. Heartbroken for the time we won't. Too many tears, not enough memories. Have a peaceful rest. I look forward to catching up.”
“Camp Clifton on the brain today thinking how amazing it was to have a reunion and reconnect with everyone, feeling lucky to have had those experiences, and missing you terribly, Joe Balega.”
“I miss you Joe, I think of you so very often. XOXO.”
And the most heartbreaking post of all from one of Joe's sons, which simply said: “Hi dad.”
Some have kicked around the idea of another reunion. But the idea of a reunion without Joe just seems so incomplete. In many ways, Joe Balega was Camp Clifton. If only we had known. If only he could have found the words, the word, to ask for help.
So many troubled kids spent summers at Camp Clifton - myself included. So many kids who you just knew were going to have a hard time making their way through life.
But not Joe Balega
.