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)