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)

THEN AND NOW

    My granddaughter Violet Pearl "graduated from Kindergarten today.  She's six years old and to my surprise she read to me from the story book gift I gave her - "First Grade Here I Come!"  The past quickly and I'm still amazed that she has finished her first year of public school!  She was a bundle in my arms a blink ago.

    What a difference in primary education between then and now.  She only had  trouble with several words in here new book but sounded them out and quickly got them right.  Like Violet I had to wait a whole year until I was six to got to public school because my fifth birthday like hers in December missed the admission age by a couple of weeks.  Finally, I got to go - half a day.  Violet goes from 9:15 AM until 4:45 PM.  In my early days I guess the educators believed a full day was too much for our delicate state of growth. The kindergarten was isolated from the rest of the Bacon School I guess for our protection form wild first graders who like to beat up toddlers.  We had our own entrance up a long flight of stairs that I climbed the first day like a convicted man walking his last mile.  And our own fenced in playground with the proverbial "monkey bars" and shinny sliding board.  Our day started with a flag salute, the singing of "My country Tis of Thee" and a bible paragraph read by our teacher.  None of us could read that weighty tome.   But even with a short-day Mrs. Garton gave us a half hour to nap.   We had a bunch of rugs that we hauled out of the cloakroom (a room filled with hooks even though none of us had a "cloak" - or knew what one was.  We also got a snack during our brief day of first year of "public education" - and some kids brought there own.  We munch of cookies and milk at round tables rather than typical elementary school desks. Four to a table which had short legs and a set of miniature chairs so our feets could reach the floor.   The only real schoolwork I remember is copying my name from a paper which was printed by our teacher - printing was the only means of writing as the Pearson Cursive writing was no introduced to us until we were in third grade.  We also learned to count to 10 and our colors which didn't include tan or magenta.

     Speaking of colors, I especially like the days when our art teacher would drag her cart of supplies into our room and we got to do another refrigerator masterpiece.  I hated finger painting much too messy.  I'll never forget my introduction to the art world - the day we drew our family portrait.  Every kid at my table did the universal kid-drawing - stick figures standing on a strip of brown at the bottom of the page, a cabin with smoke coming out of a chimney and a blue strip representing the sky across the top of the page - except me.  I colored the blue sky all the way down to the brown ground.  The art teacher looked and my drawing and declared that maybe I would like to try again as the sky was up at the top.  I retorted, "Why skies come all the way down to the ground and there is no white inbetween!"  She look confused but I wasn't and from that moment on I was considered "artistic" by my peers around the formica covered table.

    Violet can read big words that took me and my cohorts to second grade to master.  Mrs. Gillian’s classroom down the mysterous marble hallway we kindergarteners never got to roam - we also had our own bathroom in our classroom which most of us, especially me were to embarassed to use until we couldn't hold it any longer.  Hanging on the blackboards (which were black BTW) were three foot long vertical cards with the magic words of reading on them - when we mastered one list we moved on to the next.  I can still recite the first card - Cah - Can - Candy.  Sa-San-Sandy.  We droned sounding out words every day first few months until we graduated to the famous Dick & Jane reading book.  The characters of the historic fictions are still embedded in my brain.  Spot the dog.  Puff the cat.  Sally the baby sister.  However,  Dad and Mother had no names, nor did the milkman or any others participants in our daily introcution to the wonderful world of literature.  

 However, I have no recollection of actually learning to read but do remember I liked "puzzle time".  When Mrs. G would choose a person from each table to go to the large rack and select one of the wooden puzzles.  I always looked for the blue one which was my favorite color.  AFter the first 20 times of doing the group exercise most of us lost interest in the actual puzzle that we did.

 My school days memory evaporated when Violet finished her book.  I praised her skill and asked what her favorite subject in school was.  She replied, " I really like science.  We studying "vibrations" right now!"  She then proceeded to explain the mechanics of air and sound waves.  

  Then and now - Wow.