Camp Then and Now

In writing this blog, I won’t guarantee my posts will always be chronological. This entry is one such case. Note, the photos here are screen grabs from a 16 mm film, in these cases circa 1957 or so. That is why they are a bit fuzzy. The full video, entitled Dad’s Home Movies can be found here:

https://vimeo.com/30914026

So here’s the story. This past weekend I went to Camp Herzl, a Jewish camp with a long history of its own. At the age of 71, it was a very different but still lovely experience. Thank you Rachel Orzoff for giving me this idea!

Camp was definitely a “thing” in my childhood. From around age 8 I went every summer. Initially I attended a day camp. Joe Demmer’s day camp was located on Lake Tyler where for several weeks each summer we would be picked up each morning by a counselor then brought home that afternoon. The journey itself was pretty amazing, and I still remember a place on the ride called thrill hill. The counselor would put the petal to floor going down, and at the bottom before heading up there would be a lift off the seat and a feeling in the stomach followed by laughter. At camp we learned many skills. We learned to handle guns safely and shoot them, archery, canoeing, and this was where I learned to swim. After age 11 I went to scout camp and indeed camping became something that would carry on for many years after entering adulthood. There were the camp customs as well, things like calling Kool-Aid, the drink of choice in those days “bug juice” and the outhouse was referred to as a KYBO, “keep your bowels open.” Yeah kind of gross, but for a bunch of kids, it worked. Campfires and talent shows were part of the experience.

Reflecting back, I believe the appeal was beyond just loving camping. It offered me ways to get away, to become grounded, and I had the skills to be competent in those environments. From starting a fire, creating a space that was both safe and comfortable, and always, making time to be one with the natural world around me. Outdoor living, in what was a difficult childhood, became a respite where I could go deeper to find myself.

In scouting, we often went to camp Tonkawa, but on occasion traveled to SE Oklahoma and SW Arkansas as well. In those journeys I found a love for mountainous terrain as well. I did pretty well in scouting, earning the Eagle Scout award, God and Country, and Order of the Arrow, an honor camping group. During these times, I was away from the bullies, and I found a certain closeness with others that evaded me in my school life. Memories include swimming in a river, doing a mile swim, the first half mile upstream and the other downstream. Or learning survival skills. Later I was a junior leader in a troop that attended the National Jamboree some years later (1964) at Valley Forge. All of this was put to use on camping journeys with family and on my own throughout most of my adult life.

This past weekend, I looked forward to going to camp once again. Located on Devil Lake in Western Wisconsin just over a hundred miles from Minneapolis, this period known as a Shabbaton was at once both spiritual and a place to truly rest. We arrived that Friday afternoon, gathering at the lake for Friday night Shabbat services. I was with people I know and love and sitting out there on that deck overlooking the lake was so peaceful.

But much had changed for me as I have entered old age. Back and leg issues leave me pretty much confined to a wheelchair. The congregant leader overseeing the trip and corralling the young folks gave me lifts to the service and back on a golf cart. Moving on the gravel road, much less on the uneven ground was difficult. We gathered in the hall for activities before going to bed.

Early the next morning we had services and Torah reading by the lake. Then back to the hall later for lunch, more opportunities etc. While I could not get around, I was surrounded by nature. My much-desired grounding was taking place. I struggled to get about in my chair, and the full realization that much of what I so loved over the decades simply was not possible. I started to head for my room, when I encountered the Rabbi. She stopped to talk with me, and picked up quickly on what was happening. She said, “You’re grieving aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I responded, knowing that like all grief it simply had to be felt in order to move on. I left, entered my room, and cried my eyes out. No more hikes into the deep woods, our mountain paths leading miles from civilization where the food had to be tied up in a tree to discourage bears. Truly I get a bit misty even typing it here.

After a good cry, I left the cabin, pushing myself in my wheelchair as if to exorcize my demons, and it seemed to work. By the end of the journey the pain of loss had subsided and a realization that at certain spaces, I can still commune. Some parks have paved trails and sometimes a piece of what I once knew can be retrieved. And at least so far, my memories remain intact. I joined Jen and Joel and Joel composed with some input from the two of us, a song about our journey to Camp Herzl for the talent show that evening. I captured footage of parts of the show on video, and a link will be attached later. Camping is not only about fun and friendship, but touching base with self as well. All in all, a very fulfilling journey, leaving me grateful to my Shir Tikvah congregation who were with me at every turn, a portrait of what real community can look like.

Age 5 and 6 Move to Tyler Texas

I was four years old. Daddy’s job has him transfer to help survey in the East Texas oil field area. Initially we moved to a rental home on West Sixth in Tyler, before at around age 6 moving to Wiley Street. That latter move took my life in a very different trajectory which I’ll talk about later. But the Sixth St address left me with fond memories. My best friend there was Becky Biggs who lived across the street. Her dad was a barber during the day, and he worked on bikes in his spare time. The two of us were known to create mischief on occasion. Like the day we threw rocks at passing cars. Who knew one would circle around, and as I headed for my house, he followed close behind to speak with my parents. One scolding, an apology, and a butt whipping later, I got the message. I hoped they didn’t call Becky’s parents as well. I suspect they did though. She never said.

One day we were playing out beside Becky’s house. The weeds were tall, and our imaginations were full. Suddenly I looked down, and there was an alligator staring at me! We both ran screaming to her Dad. He came around, hoe in hand to investigate. We stood at a safe distance, still shaken a bit. Carefully he entered the weed grown space…

Then…

He started laughing! I’m talking a deep full laugh. Uncontrollable belly laughter that seemed to never end and we looked at each other and wondered how he could laugh in the face of a treacherous gator! Then he explained… Kids, this is no gator. It’s a lizard. It won’t hurt you at all. It seems the imagination can magnify one’s vision considerably. A story that would live forever.

So did I mention he was a barber. My barber. For years after that, I’d enter the barbershop and quietly cringe as he replayed the story for everyone there in the shop that day. Oy.

Two other things come to mind from our time on Sixth Street. Going over to Joey Lowe’s place and I strangled on a tough piece of asparagus. To this day I can’t put it in my mouth without an instinctive gag reflex. The other event was, well, HUGE.

Word was spreading through the neighborhood. In those days you knew all the neighbors and they knew you. We’d get together for regular social events as a neighborhood. We all came together when the doctor living across the street came home missing a leg from the war in Korea. Not like now when I know the tenants downstairs and the woman who runs the daycare across the street, but no one else on my block. Anyhow, we all rushing to a neighbor’s home three houses up from us. Inside everyone was gathered in rapt amazement staring at a small screen maybe 12 inches or so, watching people on the screen talking as we stared in amazement. This was the very first tv any of us had ever seen. So okay, we had radios. My dad even had a record making machine with which he had recorded me singing Tennessee Waltz when I was three. But this was something we couldn’t have even imagined. In retrospect, I can see both the good and the bad. I wonder if our attention spans began to shorten around that time. In my lifetime between television written for immediate gratification rather than a slower character development and information bombardment without sufficient context, it seems for humanity to have become an issue. I recall many years ago, a speaker at a Dickens festival, his grandson actually, said his grandfather could not be published today. Short and concise is ever the demand, sacrificing delicious pages getting to really know the characters. Still, our eyes were opened to a larger world in our small provincial town of Tyler. Things would never be the same.

One other thing happened, and I would be remiss in not telling that story. Momma got pregnant, and soon enough after, she had a little boy named Marlowe. Self-disclosure here. I wanted a sister. But when he came it was just as well. I had a brother, and despite being his pain in the derriere throughout our childhood, I love him dearly. The stage was set for our move to a new home in Tyler’s south side. To be continued in another post.