ARTS & CRAFTS (Camp HollyBrook Summer 3 of 5)

    We marched to our daily Arts and Crafts session with Miss Pat.  Miss Pat was to become years later the famous Pat Witt, one of the best female painters of our time and iconic master, who has taught thousands of would-be artists at her Barn Studio in Millville.   We took our seats on the picnic tables under an umbrella of cooling trees.  “Today, let’s make a lanyard”, she said in her merry artist voice - as the excited Cherokee warriors hushed for the first time in hours.   (Editor’s Note:  Being basically culturally deprived – I had never heard the term lanyard before.)  Miss Pat held one up as an example of our camp crafts project.  Aha! Now I recognized this useful item as what I called my whistle cord.  Live and learn.

    Now a major decision point came for my tribe.  What two colors to choose for one’s lanyard?  Heads were scratched and one could almost hear the whirring of little brains.  Pat had over 496 colors of plastic string-like stuff.  Choosing the colors took most of our allotted time.  After the choices were studiously made, Miss Pat taught the intricate art of braiding three strands into an arty woven rope.  I started one for myself after a couple of false starts. I worked diligently along with my charges determine to replace my plain black whistle holder with an orange and blue handmade personal crafted lanyard –  in Millville High School colors.   

Most of my guys were getting the job done too with workman-like dispatch – except you know who?

                            Rodger!

    With tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth he was attacking a large ball of plastic that compared to the legendary Gordian knot.  He tugged, pulled, twisted and puffed at it.  He obviously was never going to be known for his patience – he started to bang his head on the picnic table accompanied by moans of frustration.  This bothered me a little, but not much  – perhaps a slight concussion might slow him down a bit.  I re-thought the urge to let him go and rushed over to him. “Hey Cherokee Brother Rodger, what’s the problem here?”  He looked up from his mess and whined, “This is a stupid...I could make one if I wanted to but I don’t want too... I don't need one…I made 12 of these last summer…this is really stupid.”  “I get it, but guess what you are going to make another one – OK?”  And then I got in his face and gave him my best soul piercing evil eye. At that moment Miss Pat wisely stepped in and took over.  She kindly straighten out Rodger's tangle.  He brightened up and began his 13^th Hollybrook lanyard along with the others.  His color choices were interesting – red and pink.  One rarely sees that combination.  Miss Pat then announced that we would continue our lanyard labors tomorrow.  She gathered them up and reminded all "remember your colors" and the session was done.

    As we marched away Chief Cal realized he had learned two lessons from Miss Pat.  The craft of braiding plastic strands - but more important, a lesson about the craft of being a teacher from one of the best there is. I realized than and there that teaching is more than being an authority and towering over one's minions - it about choosing beyond the colors, the right way to motivate success rather than demand it.

    The Cherokees, then went to lunch.  (To Be Continued)

THE HIKE (Camp HollyBrook 2 of 5)

    My Cherokees marched in single file  to the Chapel for opening day ceremonies – which I cajoled them to do in an orderly fashion by describing that this was the accepted “Indian” way of hiking dating back to the dawn of time.  The Chapel at this camp was a hill with log “pews” dug into the ground leading down to a log podium which had a log cross on it.  (This was a Young Men’s Christian Association camp remember). 

    The Big Chief, (whose gender and name is now lost in the shadows of my memory) led us in a prayer of thanksgiving for this wonderful day and the opportunity to commune with God’s handiwork and welcomed each of the 8 tribes – girls and boys from infants to young teens.  He/she outlined the many reasons that each young camper should come to all three sessions because each had a special theme.  This first session would be highlighted by a “carnival” on the overnight experience – whatever that was?  And I heard for the first time “overnight” as a part of this day camp; I felt a small anxiety attack coming from the pit of my stomach.  The session ended with a hymn.  The B.I.B.L.E. now that’s the book for me…dah, dah, and dah.  And my adventure in camping began in earnest.

    On my schedule was a small hike.  I led our mighty band of 10 plus one (me) across the small bridge over the “lake” which was actually a creek that had been dammed into forming a proverbial “swimming hole” with a small imported sandy beach and cedar water literally blacker than midnight.  The night before I had read through my old Boy Scout Manual and so I was prepared to point out the flora and fauna of the piney primeval.  The camp was located on a mined-out sand mine donated to the Y by the Wolf family after it had served its business purpose.  Beyond the main building and the cabins it was crisscrossed by gravel roads cut into the pines and oaks going to nowhere in particular.

    As we marched along I delivered a running commentary of points of interest for my “braves” – “There’s a pine tree know as conifer something over there…look a deer footprint, or perhaps a dog, whatever…Rodger I think that's poison ivy you are walking through…yes you can collect pine cones for arts and crafts….you’ve been here before, well now you are here again…phew it’s really hot.”

Ten minutes out from camp was enough – ten minutes back and we would be right on time for Arts n’ Crafts with Miss Pat.  I barked, “About face” and no one moved.  I explain that meant turn around in army talk and everyone spun around.  Everyone except Rodger.

    Rodger was gone?

“Yea Gods, my first day and I have lost one already”, echoed in my head.  I started to yell his name and the tribe followed suit.  We bellowed“Rodgeeeeeeeeer WHERE ARE YOU????”  I started having visions of being fired.  Sued by his parents.   A legion of firemen and cops and bloodhounds combing the wilderness.  Helicopters buzzing up and down the minature beach front. I told the crew that we must stay put and he would find us – remembering my days of getting this instruction from my mom when I was 9.  Anxious minutes dragged by.  And then as we waited in silence – we heard a low giggle.  “Who’s laughing?” I shouted.  “No one,” the tribe replied in unison.  We heard another giggle.  Where was this coming from?  Then I looked up and in a tree about 27 feet up was Rodger precariously perched on a limb and with a smile on his face that I would learn to hate as the summer progressed.  I shouted up to him, “Rodger, ##^&* damn it – you get down here immediately and if you fall and hurt yourself…I will break every bone in your body!”  He scampered down like a red assed monkey (as Grandmother Ethel was wont to say).  I wondered to myself if one whack on his bony butt would also get me fired?  I rejected the idea – for the time being at least.  We marched back to camp – it was at least 104 degrees and getting hotter.  The Jersey mosquitoes had found us and were actually flying in formation and taking turns diving at our ankles.  And to make matters worse my sneakers were filled with sand (which I learned that evening was filled with sand fleas).  

    That night I wrote a Note to self – get some hiking boots!

                         (To Be Continued)

CHIEF OF THE CHEROKEES (Camp HollyBrook Summer 1 of 5)

I worked three summers as a packer at Millville's version of Dante’s Inferno – otherwise known as the Wheaton Glass factory.  But the year Bub Clark and I had our famous car crash I was not allowed to go to work for the month of June recovering from my wounds.  I was frantic to get a job – my college tuition and room and board were covered by scholarships but without a good summer job I would have very little “spending money” for the year which equated in no trips to CD’s bar near my dorm.  Gads.

But then I saw a want ad for a camp counselor at the YMCA Camp Hollybrook.  A day camp for young wholesome “Sunday school going” (for most of them), kids.   The hourly wage wasn’t near what I could make slaving in the factory – but it sure would beat a lot of other jobs available for me on my summer break.  I applied and got the job.

I would lead a “tribe” of 8 year old boys for 3, two week camping sessions.  I would instruct them in the ways of the forest and the rudiments of kickball in the blazing sun.  I, the guy who thought “roughing it” was a hotel without room service was going to camp. 

The day arrived for our first session and I reported to the Y’s parking lot along with at least 20,000 (it seemed that many, actually about 200) screaming, jumping excited kids.  I hadn’t been up this early in two years.  And we boarded the school buses for the trek to the wilderness a few miles from town.  The noise level on the bus came close to the decibel level made by a fighter jet on takeoff.  This was not a good omen for what was to come I feared.

 

We arrived and lined up by “tribes” and each age group was given an “Indian” name. (Editor’s Note: This was the 60’s folks, long before PC.  The names borrowed from our indigenous Native American tribal society would never be used today.   Today my group would be called the Green Gophers or something even more boring.)

We were the Cherokees – and I was to be called Chief!  

No war bonnet provided but I did get a silver whistle and the copy of The YMCA Campers Guide which outlined the rules and suggested activities for each day.

I called each boy’s name from a list and had them to line up alphabetically – this took half an hour as a couple had problems staying in line.  I said, “Ok Cherokees, let’s march to our tepee.”  

Now our tepee was actually a screened cabin-like structure; one large room with a modesty partition in one corner for changing into swimsuits.  I directed my charges to stake out a spot and stow their gear.  Some had come with a single brown paper bag holding swim trunks and towel.  One, however, named Rodger had a military style duffle filled to the brim with flippers, goggles and other "official Boy Scouts of America" camping equipment.  Very interesting I thought?  And this, I didn't recognized until later was the second bad omen of the day.

“Here’s today's schedule - Cherokees...Boys…BOYS…BOYS!” 

I quickly learned shouting was the only way of getting undivided attention for at least 12 seconds at a time.  I continued, “We will start the day with a message at the chapel from our YMCA Big Chief, followed by a hike to get to know the lay of the land.  We will have a morning swim.  Snack time.  Arts and crafts today (I WAS INTERRUPTED HERE BY A LONG SHOUT OF JOY) followed by lunch (A LOUDER SHOUT).  A rest period in the shade.  (BOO’S)  A kickball game against the Apaches (the 10 year olds) and finally the afternoon swim.”   “That’s it? That’s all we going to do today???? - yelled Rodger.   I responded in a firm affirmative – and I was already tired just reading the schedule.     

And so my camping experience began – and thankfully my charges had no idea this was my first time – at least not yet.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

THEN AND NOW

    My granddaughter Violet Pearl "graduated from Kindergarten today.  She's six years old and to my surprise she read to me from the story book gift I gave her - "First Grade Here I Come!"  The past quickly and I'm still amazed that she has finished her first year of public school!  She was a bundle in my arms a blink ago.

    What a difference in primary education between then and now.  She only had  trouble with several words in here new book but sounded them out and quickly got them right.  Like Violet I had to wait a whole year until I was six to got to public school because my fifth birthday like hers in December missed the admission age by a couple of weeks.  Finally, I got to go - half a day.  Violet goes from 9:15 AM until 4:45 PM.  In my early days I guess the educators believed a full day was too much for our delicate state of growth. The kindergarten was isolated from the rest of the Bacon School I guess for our protection form wild first graders who like to beat up toddlers.  We had our own entrance up a long flight of stairs that I climbed the first day like a convicted man walking his last mile.  And our own fenced in playground with the proverbial "monkey bars" and shinny sliding board.  Our day started with a flag salute, the singing of "My country Tis of Thee" and a bible paragraph read by our teacher.  None of us could read that weighty tome.   But even with a short-day Mrs. Garton gave us a half hour to nap.   We had a bunch of rugs that we hauled out of the cloakroom (a room filled with hooks even though none of us had a "cloak" - or knew what one was.  We also got a snack during our brief day of first year of "public education" - and some kids brought there own.  We munch of cookies and milk at round tables rather than typical elementary school desks. Four to a table which had short legs and a set of miniature chairs so our feets could reach the floor.   The only real schoolwork I remember is copying my name from a paper which was printed by our teacher - printing was the only means of writing as the Pearson Cursive writing was no introduced to us until we were in third grade.  We also learned to count to 10 and our colors which didn't include tan or magenta.

     Speaking of colors, I especially like the days when our art teacher would drag her cart of supplies into our room and we got to do another refrigerator masterpiece.  I hated finger painting much too messy.  I'll never forget my introduction to the art world - the day we drew our family portrait.  Every kid at my table did the universal kid-drawing - stick figures standing on a strip of brown at the bottom of the page, a cabin with smoke coming out of a chimney and a blue strip representing the sky across the top of the page - except me.  I colored the blue sky all the way down to the brown ground.  The art teacher looked and my drawing and declared that maybe I would like to try again as the sky was up at the top.  I retorted, "Why skies come all the way down to the ground and there is no white inbetween!"  She look confused but I wasn't and from that moment on I was considered "artistic" by my peers around the formica covered table.

    Violet can read big words that took me and my cohorts to second grade to master.  Mrs. Gillian’s classroom down the mysterous marble hallway we kindergarteners never got to roam - we also had our own bathroom in our classroom which most of us, especially me were to embarassed to use until we couldn't hold it any longer.  Hanging on the blackboards (which were black BTW) were three foot long vertical cards with the magic words of reading on them - when we mastered one list we moved on to the next.  I can still recite the first card - Cah - Can - Candy.  Sa-San-Sandy.  We droned sounding out words every day first few months until we graduated to the famous Dick & Jane reading book.  The characters of the historic fictions are still embedded in my brain.  Spot the dog.  Puff the cat.  Sally the baby sister.  However,  Dad and Mother had no names, nor did the milkman or any others participants in our daily introcution to the wonderful world of literature.  

 However, I have no recollection of actually learning to read but do remember I liked "puzzle time".  When Mrs. G would choose a person from each table to go to the large rack and select one of the wooden puzzles.  I always looked for the blue one which was my favorite color.  AFter the first 20 times of doing the group exercise most of us lost interest in the actual puzzle that we did.

 My school days memory evaporated when Violet finished her book.  I praised her skill and asked what her favorite subject in school was.  She replied, " I really like science.  We studying "vibrations" right now!"  She then proceeded to explain the mechanics of air and sound waves.  

  Then and now - Wow.  

 

THE WASHINGTON TRIP

I saw a post on Facebook about a senior high school class trip to Disney World and I thought in my day the senior trip was to Washington DC – in what was loosely justified as an “educational” trip to compliment our required senior year  “civics” class…and then remembered standing by the cannon in front of the high school…

…I had on a new sports shirt which mom bought at Jules Men & Boys and a pair of “comfortable” shoes as prescribed by the handout “ How to Prepare” that was sent home a few weeks before our big trip.  I was more than set for the trip that I had waited four years to make – the one we had heard so many legendary tales about from our upper class pals as we rose through the ranks at MHS.  And now it was here.

A chilly 6 AM, as the girls clustered a few yards away from us guys who were pretending that we weren’t cold too – only “My Boy David” as he was known – the math shark was warm.  His mom made him wear a jacket until at least the 4th of July.  Always on guard against a wayward infectious bug, he stood apart from us reading a  paperback  copy of Catcher in the Rye.  Only Dave woul bring an assignment by Happy Easter, the demonic English 4 teacher who delighted in giving homework on holiday and other event-filled weekends – David never missed a chance to study.  His hard work would earn him the “Salutatorian” spech at our graduation which was only a month away.  He missed being the Valedictorian by one point.

We piled on three chartered Public Service buses – finding a box lunch on each seat - prepared from the required food groups by our ever health conscious cafeteria ladies.   And off we went leaving a trail of diesel exhaust behind.  The trip took forever – especially since our class adviser, Ole Rile regaled us with his famous joke a minute routine over the bus PA system and once again I was his target.  “Hey Cal, did you hear the one about the monkey who walked into a bar and said…”   This went on for hours until one of the other teacher chaperones had it – she started singing  “100 bottles of beer on the wall” and as all joined her as the algebra II joke man was drowned out by the rounds.  After we got to 38 bottles I wanted the jokes back.

In 1962 I-95 was just a dream for the Federal Army Engineers as we trudged through big towns and small burgs.  And then we saw it looming on the horizon. 

The Capitol building of the United States of America.  Most of us were seeing the great edifice for the first time – I marveled how big it was standing tall at the top of the great mall of monuments and museums.  And that day we were literally to them all – the Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson Memorial; a FBI Tommy gun demonstrations; Mount Vernon; Lee’s Mansion.  We passed the White House at 40 miles and hour rushing to our next stop,  After dragging ourselves on and off the buses all day and seeing lots of antiquity that was behind maroon velvet ropes.  It was dinnertime at the hotel which had to have been built by one of our forefathers.  Chicken, mashed, buttered carrots and a ball of vanilla ice cream (which most of us ate first) was the the only choice on our one-size fits all menu.  My best friend Bub and I settled into our lavish suite – ok,  our economy double room overlooking a brick wall view.   Now here, I wished we had done a third night of the Variety Show fundraiser for this trip.  In minutes our room started to fill up with our guys.  The plan close of our first day away was about to begin - we, the real men of the class, were going to have some adult fun if we kept our voices down.  Bub broke out the White Owl cigars;  David had smuggled a bottle of sloe-gin out of his house.  Rob had somehow managed a six-pack of Bud at the hotel shop - we dared not ask  ask how. Long into the wee hours we “partied” and played poker for pennies.  Of course we each only downed a half a can of beer but at our age that was enough - the fear of getting caught was the actual intoxication. 

The next day we were hung-over more from smoking cheapies and the bus fumes didn't help as we journey to Williamsburg VA where we learned it was a place where nothing had actually happened.  And then on to Roanoke VA where we toured a place where nothing was actually left to see.  We ended up at a harbor on the Cheaspeak Bay and stayed on a boat that was converted into a small hotel.  We had the place to ourselves but we were all too bushed to get into trouble trying a panty raid which we told was a “last night” tradition (the tale was handed down every year but never actually happened).  Early the next morning in a soupy for we started back to the Holly City after a Ho-JO breakfast special at Howard’s famed place with the orange roofs and 57 varieties of ice cream.  

Our long awaited senior frolic was rolling north to an end.  Nobody sang on the way home.  Ole' Rile didn't tell a signle joke. Everyone slept - except the bus driver and David who worked on a calculus worksheet.

THE PROM

Today I read an article about some high school kids rented a tank to drive them to a prom and it arrived with Darth Vadar playing bagpipes, A photo showed the boys in pastel tuxes that matched their date’s gowns (who all seemed a bit underdressed to be riding in a tank in my opinion).  I groused, “Kids today…they surely don’t…” then I caught myself sounding like my mother again and I cut the thought off but then my mind flowed back to Millville once again...and my Prom.

The Spring of 1960 filled with me thinking about The Junior Prom.  And the question, who should I ask?  (Translated = who would actually say yes if I asked them!)  This decision vexed me for days.  Who I wanted to ask vs. who I would have the courage to ask?  But I knew I had to ask someone soon – this was a must in high school life and it had to be faced sooner or at least later.  Much like the Navajo boy I read about and his trial by fire.  Mine would be trial by dancing in a rented tux.  I had many false starts and finally asked Sue Q. to the Junior Prom.  She was a freshman and a much better bet to say “yes” than if I had asked a junior girl I liked who I feared would not be all that excited about going with me or that mysterious sexy senior I constantly watched at her locker on the way to math - definitely out of my league for sure.

Once the asking hurdle was jumped,  I surveyed my savings account kept in a Prince Albert tobacco can in my sock drawer.  $6 Bucks!  Yikes that wouldn’t even cover the flowers even if Mrs. Schick, the florist, gave me a discount.  I totaled my needs: Corsage @ $5; Tux rental @ $10  (Franks’ Men & Boys);Post prom dining @ $10.00  (The Vineland White Sparrow  or The Franklinville Log Cabin?); Shared gasoline @$1.00.  This came to a fortune in the teenager financial world.  I was at least $20 bucks short.  I saw a BOM loan negotiation in my future.  (Bank of Mom).  I could always count on her.  And it all worked out.

 I rented a white sport coat and I did indeed wear a red carnation in the label.  Sue and I danced (well she danced and I sort of walked around with her and occassionally stepping on her feet) the night away to a very loud band in the high school gym with the lingering scent of sweat socks mixed with Old Spice. (Today’s kids get a rented country club.) Sue looked like she was about to pop out of her lavender dress, worn over a mysterious array of  snaps, zippers and other stuff. Finally the band played the last dance.  My pal Bub drove us to the very dimly lit Log Cabin, a mecca for romantic liaisons. We dined on their prom night special,  deluxe cheese burgers and cokes. And I had Sue home by the appointed time – and seeing her dad waiting by the door meant no kiss goodnight. (He was a cop!)

 And just like that – another milestone in my life’s long parade was quickly over.  The tux went back and the crepe paper came down in the gym.  But the memory of the first night of being a gentleman in formal dress... the thrill of finally feeling grown up would last with me forever.

THE PROVERBIAL PLAGUE

As the chronavirus fades and “social distancing” recedes...I wander in the corners of my mind....and I remember another epidemic...and like most kids at the Bacon elementary school I caught the bug.  I caught everything it seemed growing up - but I wasn’t a pale sickly kid...in my days measles and mumps were easier to catch I guess... There weren't even doctors yet called pediatricians in my town.

I came home from school one day my grandmother Ethel said, “Calvin your face is red...are you Ok?” She put her hand to my forehead, a regular routine for as this was her usual diagnostic tool. She sighed and immediately gave me her universial core; half a Bayer’s aspirin….no need to take my temperature. Grandmother's don't seem to need thermometers. The oral thermometer many times was the bearer of good news for all kids if the red was a fraction above the universal “normal” line then we usually got to stay home from school for at least a day or two. Just to make certain Nanny got our ancient one and stuck it in my mouth. She told me to "keep it there" after a few minutes it read a blazing 99 and to my great dismay I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play.  Instead I watched our new 10” Admiral TV...but Cartoon Corner was for shut-ins and a poor substitute, at this time of day, for outside play was a must after sitting in an ancient desk at Bacon School - mostly still and silent for 5 or 6 hours.

At dinner I wasn’t very hungry. My mom watched me “like a hawk”! (I always wondered how hawk's watched...they must stare alot).  After dinner to confirm Nanny's diagnosis she touched my forehead and took my temperature.   She give me the other half of the afternoon aspirin.  The next morning I had a few red bumps on my belly - no school today for me she ordered.  Later that afternoon Dr. Rosen came to my house (doctors made house calls in those days) as well as having office hours.  A house call during the day, late at night or weekends cost $4.00 and $3 bucks if the doc didn't have to travel. What a difference a few decades makes...Today, I usually see my primary care’s certified nurse practitioner for 8 minutes after a 40 minute wait - it costs $180 bucks.

He took my temperature first too (I started to hate that glass rod).  Looked at my stomach and proclaimed - “Margaret sorry to report our boy here has the Chicken Pox.  (Note: Since Chickenpox has been almost entirely eradicated today almost every kid was destined to get it.

(I digress to give a brief Mayo Clinic description of this dreaded malady: “ Chicken pox is an infection caused by the varicella-zoster virus. It causes an itchy rash with small, fluid-filled blisters. Chickenpox is highly contagious to people who haven't had the disease or been vaccinated against it. Today, a vaccine is available that protects children against chickenpox. Routine vaccination is recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).” And for trivia lovers - Chicken Pox has been around for centuries but you can't catch it from chickens. The name is thought to come from the small bumps that form all over the body - the ancients said they looked like chickpeas.)

But back to my tale of woe.  Doc Rosen told us I had to stay home in bed for at least two weeks.  I couldn’t watch TV because the disease could seriously harm my eyes! (Today, research had proven this was not so.)  He recommended lot’s of rest in a darkened room and light meals.  “And Cal,” he said directly to me, “ no scratching especially on your face...  blisters will come soon from your bumps - if you scratch them they will leave scars.” 

The plus for this visit  - I didn’t get a shot.  The downside, NO TV.  This was much worse than a pox.  After three days I was covered with bumps - on my arms, my back, even between my toes and on my eyelids...they soon turned into blisters and itched like the dickens (one of grandmother’s favorite terms - I always wonder what a dickens was? I never found out) For the first time in my life I had itches I couldn't scratch even in the privacy of my own bedroom!  This was worse than missing Milton Berle Tuesday night.

I was now under constant surveillance by Nanny during the day and Mom at night - “No scratching,” they would command every time they came into my blacked out room of boredom and despair.  However, having a lot of time I came up with a plan as I idled away the hours.  I secretly scratched places that wouldn’t show a scar -  I desperately needed some relief - the only time I didn't itch was when I dozed. Scratching my belly saved my highly visible body parts from miniscule scars that would deface me forever.  These brief violations were moments of bliss.

Like everything in life, this plague passed, and the blisters stopped itching and turned into scabs.  Dr. Rosen returned for a follow up and declared me not contagious. I was finally whole again... free at last...and ready to return to school.  And most important, I could watch TV and go outside in the wonderful light of day. However in a few weeks the measles struck and I was home again for a week ...which was a cinch compared to the poultry pox. 

Just remember this childhood passage for most kids of my time makes me itch all over - but fortunately I can scratch anywhere I want to.