Summer Camp, by Lewis

[Foreword:  Some of you may remember my story of June 17th on the topic One Summer Afternoon, wherein I described my frantic and futile attempt to qualify for the camp lake beach reserved for youngsters who could demonstrate their ability to swim.  Had I succeeded in drowning myself in that attempt, I would not have been able to write a second essay on the much-overrated "joys" of summer camp experiences that continued to plague me throughout my tender years.  I submit this in the hope that we can dispense with any and all topics related to camping for the foreseeable future.]

During the summers of my 9th through 13th years, going to camp became a sacrificial ritual imposed upon me by parents who must have been desperate to get me out of a chair in front of the television or out of BB gun range of sparrows unfortunate enough to inhabit the branches of elm trees within three blocks of our house.  The only condition was that I had to be home before the Bermuda grass needed cutting again--a span of between 7 and 10 days.  I felt that I was being punished for being an only child.  They could hardly to afford to send any additional children to camp so there was always a chance, as their hypothetical first-born, I could have had the option of staying home.

My introductory stay at camp was also the longest--10 days.  It was the camp with the lake that I wrote about before.  We slept in cabins with, as I recall, five bunk beds each--two along each side and one across the back wall.  After about four days, I was struck with the worst case of home-sickness I can recall having.  I had made no friends, the food sucked, and I had just the day before almost drowned.  I remember writing a letter to my parents in which I said, word-for-word, "If you love me, you'll come and get me".  I think I might have left a tear stain or two on the paper, as well.

Oh, there were happy experiences at camp, especially as I became more accustomed to being away from home.  I can remember sitting around a big campfire at Boy Scout camp after dark, surrounded by woods while the adults told us ghost stories.  I have seldom been afraid of the dark or ghosts and enjoyed watching a few of the other boys who appeared to squirm uncomfortably or glance over their shoulders apprehensively.  That gave me a sadistic sense of satisfaction.  I can remember a time when a few boys came across what they described as a copperhead in the woods--a sight which sent them running back to the safety of camp.  I fancied snakes and wished wholeheartedly that I had been with them, as I would have tried to capture the snake so I could study it.

One memory lies halfway between those which were painful and those which gave me pleasure.  It occurred during my last Boy Scout camping experience.  I, being one who has always believed that the safest place to be after 10 PM is at home, was resting on my cot in my tent when I heard a commotion outside.  It seems that some of the more brazen boys had pinned another Scout down, removed his pants, and run them up the flagpole--activity for which I knew of no connection to being awarded a merit badge. 

I remember thanking my lucky stars that I was not the unfortunate boy who fell victim to such silliness, as I was precisely where I was supposed to be--safely ensconced in my bunk.  Still, I began to wonder what it would be like to have been among the perpetrators.  It gave me a kind of warm thrill to think about it, but only briefly, for within a few minutes, I heard the breathless giggles of 12-year-old ne'er-do-wells approaching my tent.  They threw back the tent flap and four rambunctious boys rushed in and crowded around my cot.  One was carrying a flashlight.  Two of them held my arms and legs while the third flung the cover back and pulled down my pajama bottoms. Although I could not see, I could almost feel the heat of the flashlight.  I was horrified and titillated at the same time, not knowing which reaction might be betrayed by my very stage-frighted anatomical barometer.  "Please, God," I thought, "don't let them laugh.  And where the hell are the adults?"

As you can probably tell, camp to me was that brief interlude in the middle of summer when I wished I were back in school...well, except for recess, of course.  But that's a subject for another day.

© 19 August 2013 

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.