Forever Baron Pete

There is no one like Baron Pete Jelalian. 

He answers AYF Camp Haiastan’s call every time it comes, and with unwavering commitment and love, he dedicates his summers to the place. 

He is the Baron of Barons. The beloved BP. The man who is the spirit of Camp made flesh. 

He walks the grounds at all hours of the night, ensuring our kids are safe, that they are tucked snugly into their cabins, that they are exactly where they should be. 

He sees and hears everything, anticipating problems several steps ahead, formulating solutions before they are even ready to be deployed, making you think it was your idea all along.

He cares for his staff in quiet, thankless ways, paying for their camp store purchases out of pocket, buying them dinner and ice cream to pick them up throughout the summer, sending thank-you notes and accolades when he is the one who is deserving. 

He constantly thinks—what can I do to make this a better place—and then just by being there, he somehow does. 

He stands a few paces away, a gentle smile on his face, seeing the whole picture of Camp in a way the rest of us are blind to. 

He patiently guides us through this summer and many others, and it is with pride and humility that I can say I have watched him for years. That I have stood beside him and listened to what he had to say, trying my very best to gather up every piece of advice.

He exhibits trust in all of us. Trusting our counselors to take care of our kids. Trusting our campers to do the right thing in our absence. Trusting me to do good, to keep the camp traditions, to make it better than it was. 

He checks in with his staff, walking over to the health center every day, to the kitchen every morning, to the office to meet with the head counselors every night. He is asking, “Is there anything I can do for you?” and then, he is listening. 

He takes over night watch shifts, dismissing staff from their post at three in the morning, and while he must be tired, too, he wants his counselors to get some sleep. A masterclass in humility. 

He dishes out cereal in the mess hall, happily pouring Cocoa Puffs and milk into little plastic bowls. No room for ego when the serving line is full and the kids are hungry. 

He pops up at the pool, the cabin circle, up top, the night activity. Showing up when he is needed, and watching from afar when he is not, but always there—always. 

He sticks out his fist at every kid who passes by. They know to give it a little bump and he knows they felt seen that day.

He finds joy in Camp’s little moments, the far-sounding laughter when everyone is at the pool, the Uncas Pond fish feeding off treats from the breadbox, the swish of a half-court shot at the end of Backbreaker. 

He stands firm and is clear, loosening up as the summer goes on, knowing there is a starting point he can always return to. 

He runs Camp like he owns it, because really, doesn’t it belong to each of us in some way?

He puts the balls back in the basketball bin—the ones that have rolled to the far fence—because, well, someone has got to do it and he cannot see why not him. 

He is showing us all what it is to be selfless, to put the needs of our campers before the wants of our own, to give back to the place that never stops giving, to lay down a foundation for a future we may not see, but know is somewhere there beyond the horizon. 

Because Camp is forever, and so, it seems, is Baron Pete.

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