Page 30 - the NOISE July 2013

I was elected to be a “Mohawk,” and was a little bit disap- pointed to be in a log cabin instead of one of the Tee-Pees that I’d seen on the way into camp. But my disappointment was soon lessened by the appearance of an Indian Chief who announced to us that he was to be our counselor. Gary was a college student, as were some of the counselors, making a little money to help with tuition. He was about as old as my brother, but didn’t sound like a “city boy” like Hank or his friends from our neighborhood. He was, I think, from a wealthy Upstate family, based on his polite manner and ac- cent-free speech. I believe that he was medical student, or possibly wanting to become one.
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In front of me was a chubby, redheaded boy, crying for all he was worth. “What’s the matter?” I asked. He turned to me and sniveled, “I’m going away for two weeks. I’m scared. What’s gon- na happen in camp? The day camp I went to last year was awful. Who’s gonna tuck me in at night?” he wailed.
“Hey, you’ll be OK. You’re gonna have a good time Upstate. My brother says you’ll make all kinds of crafts, go on hikes, and they’ll teach you to swim!” Another boy, who heard the redhead sniveling, decided to add to the lads’ discomfort. Herman stood in front of the boy, making faces and various snorting and gut- tural sounds. He soon tired of his bullying and returned to his place behind me.
Each of the boys held a white cardboard form, provided by the organization. Herman’s was rolled tightly by his constant, ner- vous, sweaty hand-wringing, but his outwardly calm demeanor did not reveal his inner turmoil. Bullies are like that. My form list- ed my address and telephone number, grammar school, height, weight and I think religion. The section for neighborhood read:
“Congested, Industrial.”
I turned to the boy standing behind me, the very one who had just given the chubby kid the business: “Hey, what does it say for
‘Neighborhood’ on your card?”
“Read it yourself.” I unrolled his form. It read: “residential, tra-
ditional.”
“What does Congested, Industrial mean?”
Herman’s wise-ass reply: “You live in a slum, like those East
Side kids you see on TV. My father is an optician; he makes eye- glasses for 4-eyes like you.” “What does your father do?” He asked. I told him that my father was a bartender. Herman sneered and turned away.
His words stabbed. The rest of the morning was a blur, and I was glad to be out of the examination center and back home later that morning.
Gary edged closer and asked me to tell him about Astoria. My Astoria had its share of factories, like the Pearlwick ham- per factory my brother worked in. Or, the plastics molding factory next to Krasdale’s grocery. Down the block was the Astoria athletic field, on the point of the East River with the swirling currents of Hells Gate where many a ship approach- ing met that natural hazard only to navigate an untimely end. A block or two away from the field was the gas purification materials plant with huge piles of wood shavings, and on the docks sat equally large piles of what looked to be the same stuff, in different hues of brown, with an unusual, but not unpleasant smell. I told Gary about going to the Astoria pool and the Boys Club.
Gary nodded, “Your neighborhood sounds okay to me, Ste- phen. You’ll make your own way in life, and your neighbor- hood is just a stepping stone. It’s not important. Sometimes you’ll face disappointments, but you’ll be okay. I know you are feeling bad right now, and you were also disappointed you didn’t get to sleep in a Teepee with the Cherokees, but being a Mohawk is still just fine.”
“Let me tell you about the Teepees. I either froze at night or got soaked nearly every time it rained. And I did sleep on the bare ground in a sleeping bag. The Teepees aren’t that great, Stephen. Your Mohawk cabin kept you dry and perhaps next year you’ll be in a tent or even one of the Navajo Hogan’s. You’ll remember the good times. Don’t let that spoiled kid Herman make you feel bad.”
Gary pointed overhead. “Look past the top of that pine. Do you see those 3 bright stars?”
“Uh huh.”
“They’re Deneb, Altair and Vega. They’re billions of miles away and someday we may go there, Stephen, just like in that movie Forbidden Planet that your brother took you to see. You’ll leave the confines of your neighborhood and I think you’ll be an explorer.”
I think it was my conversation with Gary that piqued my early interest in Astronomy, an interest I have to this day, over 40 years since those days at summer camp. Gary was our
“Chief” and he was kind and caring, and helped me through my introduction to real summer camp.
I soon forgot about Herman, his childish taunts and his as- sessment of my neighborhood.
| stephen imms is a Cornvillian who enjoys hiking, Geocaching and repairing vintage radios, not necessarily
None of us kids could sleep that first night in the cabin, but we wished we had slept when awakened by a loud bu- gle call followed by a blaring PA: “Come and get your beans, boys, come and get...” We got out of our warm bunks, making a beeline for the latrine for a quick cleanup before breakfast. After breakfast, we were treated to the blaring PA system play- ing “Rock around the clock”. I asked one of the senior camp- ers about the music. He told me that was the signal for us to gather in front of the recreation center. The “rec” center was another very large rustic log cabin like the mess hall. Coun- selors appeared holding signs announcing the various activi- ties available. The bookworms among us could even spend a day or so perusing the large collection of Tom Swift novels lined up in the well-stocked shelves of the library. Numerous Boys Life magazines were also available. The few “bookworms” were gently persuaded to partake of the various physical and craft making activities. There were activities for every inter- est and experience level. Counselors were adept at creating activities to suit the desires and needs of the kids who were not attracted to the usual offerings.
The days were filled with swimming lessons, short nature hikes and friendly physical competition. Many nights were also spent in front of roaring campfires, toasting grilled cheese sandwiches, marshmallows and even making pop- corn in open mesh contraptions held over the open flames. Rainy days weren’t a washout, as the counselors organized inside games, talent contests and sing-a-longs.
The time flew by so quickly and yet the best was yet to come: We were going on an overnight hike, and we were go- ing to sleep on the ground in sleeping bags! The 5 or 6-mile hike took a good part of the afternoon and we set up our camp just a couple hundred feet from what we learned was Cranberry Pond, but us city boys saw in it an attractive small mountain lake. We quickly donned our bathing suits and jumped in. The rest of the afternoon was spent gathering bits of fallen tree limbs for our campfire. The counselors built up a nice roaring campfire and cooked our hot dogs, hamburgers and beans for us. Supper was filling, but we weren’t just going to sit around with full bellies.
We had chores to do, like cleaning the enameled plates, pots and frying pans. We scrubbed the dinner remnants off into the shallow end of the pond, food for the frogs and tiny fish that lived there. Some of us, myself included, were tasked with finding the ever-needed bits of fallen trees for the camp- fire that was to be kept alive all night.
One of us I can’t remember suddenly turned away and yelled, “Fire! Fire!” as he scampered back to the campsite. We all followed him, our flashlight beams dancing to and fro on our way back to camp. Gary, our counselor, seemed quite calm in spite of our potential immolation from the wild fire we saw, indeed just taking a casual look at his watch, of all things.
“Now campers, just calm down and sit here and wait a min- ute,” he said in a calm voice. “We’re OK, and I’ll tell you why in just a minute.”
And sure enough, we witnessed the rising of the full moon, all orangey and red, looking like a distant fire. Gary knew, somehow that the full moon rises just about at the same time as sunset. His quick peek at his wristwatch just confirmed the timing of this ordinary celestial event. After that bit of excite- ment, I suddenly felt homesick.
I leaned against a tree, away from the campfire and the rest of the boys.
Gary noticed and asked: “What’s the matter, Steve?”
“Oh, I’m gonna go back home to the slum and I just wish I
could stay here,” I sobbed.
“Who told you that you live in a slum?” Gary asked.
“It started the day I went to get my physical exam for camp.”
I related the incident with Herman.
in that order. steveimms@cableone.
30 • JULY 2013 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us