Page 23 - the NOISE July 2013

I didn’t know that I had been living in a slum, but then again how many 9 year-olds do? I first learned it when I was getting ready to go to summer camp for the first
time. CampSebago,located“Upstate”intheBearMountains was organized and operated by a benevolent organization headquartered in Manhattan. I lived across the East River, in Astoria, and to me, anywhere north and west was “Terra In- cognito.”
Sometime in late April or early May, my mother received a postcard in the mail confirming my eligibility to attend sum- mer camp. My eldest sister took me to Manhattan for the re- quired first step, a physical exam, which was conducted in a large nearly empty room at the organizations’ offices. There we were, about fifty boys, all shapes, sizes, and colors from all over the city. Boys stripped down to skivvies, lining the walls of the room, traumatized by the unknown, and shivering in spite of the early heat waves shimmering up from the super- heated streets of the West Side of Manhattan.
The examination was brief, just a look into the ears and throat, and a quick chest and heart survey. I think the doctors also checked our balance and need for eyeglasses. I received a clean bill of health and Sis and I returned home. The big day was still weeks away and seemingly fast approaching. I was so excited, Bear Mountain here I come! But then I thought what if I had to go to the latrine at night and ran into a hungry bear? It was, after all Bear Mountain! What would I do? My imagina- tion went wild: I know I’d just shine a flashlight in the beasts’ eyes and blind ‘im. That would give me precious seconds to make a beeline outta there. I was a skinny kid, and pretty fast in those days, but what if the bear reared up and clawed me?
Well I just had to have a flashlight and a First-Aid Kit! I saw the perfect one at the local Army and Navy surplus store. You know the store, all olive drab stuff and smelling of preserved canvas tents, ammo belts and Heaven Forbid! GARRISON belts that the real wise guys wore — the heavy black ones that Sis-
ter Regina Gracia forbade any of us to even think about! The real tough guys had ‘em, but me and my friend Ron were just content to spend hours on Saturday mornings looking over the stuff which was probably of no use to anyone, except for that First-Aid Kit! It was marked
US Army
Mod 16
Mk III
1952DS-HF3A1Z2
and it was complete. It had adhesive tape, compresses and
iodine swabs and even contained Halozone water purification tablets. No telling just how bad that unknown water from Upstate was; it might even kill you if you forgot to add those all-important tablets to your canteen.
Ron, who lived across the courtyard in another project building, convinced his father to spring for a Johnson & John- son Kit. But that rig, in its plastic clamshell case, contained some bandages similar to mine, didn’t have Iodine, but had first aid cream (which was white and gooey like library paste and didn’t sting in the least like my manly Iodine). And to top it all off, his kit contained nary a single, valued tablet of Halozone! I mean, what was to become of him if he got stuck somewhere in the wilds and took a swig of water from some pond or stream. Well, I might have to find another friend in the neighborhood to pal around with!
And of course, I had to have a flashlight for my expedition. I had my mind set on a cute little eveready pocket light. Nosir- reebob! would I have one of our old household flashlights. I had to have that shiny one penlight battery model, made and marketed by National Carbon & Co., type-950. I even talked dad out of 25¢ for a spare battery. Oh, that lovely flashlight with its tiny red cowl and functional slide switch! You could even send Morse code with it.
So my suitcase, neatly packed now, the First-Aid Kit nestled
into a corner, held in place by a few polo shirts, a sweater and a half dozen pairs of socks and underwear. I had my own towel, a washcloth, soap dish, toothpaste, toothbrush and, of course, a comb. I had brand new chinos, my favorite Wran- glers and my year-old Keds. The bathing suit awaited my first real swimming lesson. I don’t recall having PJ’s.
Mom and I took the Q102 bus to Queens Plaza, where we picked up the “E” train bound for Manhattan. We got off at 34th Street and walked several blocks west to the Hudson River to pick up the camp bus, taking me north on a journey of about 90 miles.
We finally came upon 3 or 4 busses lined up outside the terminal, their diesels running and making a contribution to the reek and sounds of the slaughterhouses west of Tenth Av- enue. At that time a few slaughterhouses were still very much in operation. Someone had to supply all of those fine New York strip steaks to the Broadway after-theatre crowd, after all.
We went up to the dispatcher, who told me to leave my suitcase on the sidewalk near my assigned bus. All fine and good, but I had to hold my little flashlight and my war sur- plus First-Aid Kit. The rest of my stuff would be fine, to be re- trieved Upstate. Mom pressed a couple of dollars into my palm, hugged me and told me to write.
The brave explorer jumped onto the first step and the jour- ney began. The bus was awfully hot inside, and we weren’t sure if the heat or the clouds of fumes from the city would be our doom, but we were on our way to Bear Mountain! The bus made a series of turns, lurching and wheezing as it made its way around the West Side. Towering walls of concrete gave way to total darkness, announcing our entrance into a tunnel!
And not just any tunnel, this was the Holland Tunnel, dug by brave men from years long ago. The bus curved for awhile, then straightened and leveled out. The tiled walls seemed to blur in the faint light. The soft rhythmic sounds of the tires were interrupted by a yell: “We’re in Joisy!” But we were still in the tunnel. Now how could anyone know that: It all seemed the same to me, but a couple years later I happened to spot the tiled boundary marking the center of the Hudson River, separating us from those in Jersey ... The bus continued along for endless minutes in the tube and then began the gentle climb, which progressed to a gentle curve. A few noisy expansion joints later and suddenly we were back into day- light! It didn’t look that much different from Manhattan. A few of the boys began singing “A hundred bottles of beer ...”
But then the scenery changed, from “Joisey” which was practically indistinguishable from Manhattan, to vistas of homes tucked away into the shallow hills. One of the Brook- lyn wise guys opened a window and I caught a whiff of new mown grass. The air! It was incredibly fresh! We were on the New York Thruway. UPSTATE! Trees and fields and farms. Terra Incognito no more! Towering pines unlike any we ever saw in the city, except for those in Central Park! But what kid no- tices the trees in Central Park when the next destination is the zoo or the Museum of Natural History or the nearby Hayden Planetarium?
From my window I read a sign ahead: Route 103, Seven Lakes Parkway. But this was no parkway, a parkway was to me the Grand Central Parkway in Queens, 6 lanes of rapidly moving traffic coming from and going to the Triborough Bridge. Yet this was a parkway, the sign informed. The driver slowed the bus to a crawl and made a sharp turn onto country lane. Slower now, and we could practically touch the trees on either side. Oh, the air smelled so sweet! Trees ever denser now and the road narrowed. Some kid spotted a sign: “Nudist camp — 5 miles” and asked, “What’s a nudist camp?” The red- faced counselor muttered something inaudible, the question soon forgotten.
The bus came to a screeching stop, brakes gasping! We were here, here in Bear Mountain. We piled out onto the hard packed dirt in front of a real log cabin! Imagine our surprise, a log cabin! And a friendly man came out and greeted us! “Wel- come to Camp Sebago, boys, he said, Lets all go into the mess hall and get a drink of Kool-Aid. You all must be real thirsty after that bus ride.” And did we scramble into that mess hall, which was yet another log cabin, only much, much bigger. Lined up on the rustic wood tables were pitchers of Kool-Aid, ice water and milk. And fruit piled to the rafters it seemed! Apples, bananas, peaches and pears. This was so cool. I just had to have one of those bananas! My Dad didn’t call me “Joe Bananas” because I liked grapes!
Having taken our fill of the refreshments, we went out and sat around in small groups, or perched on the convenient boulders nearby. Some of us, quick friends made on the bus ride, clustered near split rail fences, awaiting introduction to the counselors and our tent assignments. And of course the initiation to the tribes which we would be part of for the next two weeks.
>> Continued on 30 >>
thenoise.us • the NOISE arts & news • JULY 2013 • 23