By fromskilledhands (
July 31, 2009 at 9:40 am)
· Filed under Musings, summer camp
There is something about a rainy mid-summer’s morning that reminds me of the summer of my 10th year. The rain on our metal roof and the cool air invite me to stay in bed just a little longer. The birds’ singing, a promise of the rain’s ending and the heat and humidity to come.
When I was 10, I spent 2 weeks at a summer camp. A rustic summer camp that was run by a man they called Doc. I remember a tall man who wore tan and olive drab T-shirts. A man who was never without his whistle which hung on a lanyard around his neck. A man who had spent many years in the Marines. As a drill sargeant. Running a summer camp for kids.
I remember musty cabins with rickety bunk beds and funky green blankets. I remember the craft cabin with it’s requisite stock of popsicle sticks, plastic lanyard material and little wooden beads; campfires, canoeing on the Cuyahoga River, and eating Turkish Taffy. I remember some of Doc’s staff: the guy who was a burned out Vietnam vet who liked to show us his knife; a another young man—his face blurry but his gentle and conscientious nature still in my mind. And then I remember Freddie. Freddie was a stout fellow; he was well liked because of his sense of humor. But Freddie liked to spank the girls. I thought he was creepy (he was!) so I kept my distance.
One night there was a rumor that the bikers in town were going to “attack camp.” After thoroughly scaring the campers, Doc rounded up the girls and younger boys and locked us in the craft cabin—with a padlock — on the outside of the door. Then he positioned the male counselors and older boys in trees with BB guns. I don’t remember the bikers coming but I have never forgotten the crazed look in the camp director’s eyes. What a strange place it was!
I’m not sure how my usually over-cautious father ever found this place, or why my parents thought this was “the place.” For my 10 year old self, it was a million miles from home.
I recently found the camp’s website and discovered that it is now a canoe livery along the Cuyahoga River. I emailed the contact person and was told that much of the camp has degraded into the woods. The mess hall and the craft cabin are still standing. Not much demand for a rustic camp any more, I guess. I’m half inclined to take a drive out there to see if the driveway into the place is as long and dusty as I remember, to see the remnants of the cabins and the buildings that are still standing. I wonder if I’d hear the faint voices of other 10 year olds singing Kumbaya…. I wonder…
Wow – I think I’ve been there. We have twice gone to a canoe livery up there on the Cuyahoga River. I’ll have to look more carefully next time I’m there. And I agree on the novel.
I remember musty cabins with rickety bunk beds and funky green blankets. I remember the craft cabin with it’s requisite stock of popsicle sticks, plastic lanyard material and little wooden beads; campfires, canoeing on the Cuyahoga River, and eating Turkish Taffy. I remember some of Doc’s staff: the guy who was a burned out Vietnam vet who liked to show us his knife; a another young man—his face blurry but his gentle and conscientious nature still in my mind. And then I remember Freddie. Freddie was a stout fellow; he was well liked because of his sense of humor. But Freddie liked to spank the girls. I thought he was creepy (he was!) so I kept my distance.
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Eryl said,
July 31, 2009 @ 1:37 pm
There’s a novel in this memory Debra, get your pen out!
Mary said,
July 31, 2009 @ 9:14 pm
Do you recall telling your parents later about the possible biker attack?
I actually used to have a dream, well a nightmare really about a similar event, but I agree that there is a novel in there waiting to come out.
fromskilledhands said,
August 3, 2009 @ 9:03 am
I remember writing letters home. I think, though, that at that time, people tended to think that summer camps were “safe” places.
Cathy Alger said,
August 14, 2009 @ 7:49 am
Wow – I think I’ve been there. We have twice gone to a canoe livery up there on the Cuyahoga River. I’ll have to look more carefully next time I’m there. And I agree on the novel.