Blending of Time And Space
One of the most profound aspects of camp for me was the sense that camp-time linked to camp-time, one summer to the next, and the outside world didn’t really intrude in the sequence (parallel universes). On the rational side there was the fact that I didn’t interact with campers outside of summer—I’m sure campers in the SF Jewish community saw each other in other settings. For me campers were just at camp.
I also worked at spring work camp, went to reunions in SF and as a staff member so I spent a great deal of time at camp, often with former campers—I would avail myself of Irv’s invite to work for half a day and then get to stay at camp. I particularly enjoyed spending my long winter breaks at camp. But the emotional experience of the “camp connectivity” was very visceral and completely real. Camp each summer connected to camps and people from the past. And coming home at the end of the summer was intensely heart wrenching! Easily the most intense, confusing and unfathomable emotional experience of my childhood.
Part of it was the sense that camp made meaning, like the ultimate good book you want to reread immediately upon finishing. Like the sense that there was something more “real” more tangible in the fantasy of camp. I wasn’t that I didn’t understand that camp was a for-profit endeavor, a business and a career. That Irv and Edna, and their children, had lives outside of ERN. I got to the end of the “book” and felt a real and profound loss. Then I’d pass the time till the next summer...and there was no one I could explain this to outside of ERN folks.
I have accepted the emotional thread that blended each person, the culture, the rules, and the experience one into another, year after year, and I’ve always pondered what made it so. As I’ve said before, I’m sure other campers at other camps have the similar feelings, and that some campers at ERN didn’t have this intense visceral connection to camp.
I know part of it was that camp made sense whereas the real world didn’t, profoundly, catastrophically didn’t. It was the sixties and the turmoil felt by many adults hit me even harder as I was clueless and anchorless to understand and resist the changes. Maybe I didn’t fully understand the social significance as much as adults but I also had fewer resources to understand and appreciate, to make sense of what was happening. And many of these social changes resulted in that dismantling of the support system children need to be okay, to be sure of their own worlds, to grow and mature. I sure felt this and in many ways it both stunted by emotional growth and made me grow up too fast.
From the more diffuse family structure, divorce, disconnections, to the destruction of cultural icons, to drugs and sex, things were changing, amorphous, ragged. For many adults it was fun and games, a social free for all from which some recovered, few were changed and some recoiled. For older adults it was undermining the expectations and structure upon which they rested their sense of place and purpose. The generation gap, the hippies vs the hardhats. For me, suddenly music mattered too much, art that ripped into the viscera, dead people on the evening news, sexual exploitation, and the so-called sexual revolution. Race and gender changed, for the good, forever. The rebound has since re-hardened too many of the lessons back into the molds of sexism and racism, of the disconnected individualism and conservatism. This is a sad reflection of the extreme fear many felt.
As a child in the midst of all this I experienced it at once as normal and at the same time as traumatic. It was great to be cut lose, to have schools that couldn’t figure out what to do with our thoughts, our youth, our hair and our music. To have adults that were at the same time railing against the authority they were supposed to represent. Parents who had grown up in the depression, well named, and were trying to discover what this all meant for them, rather than seeing themselves as part of a greater whole. Their intense introspection also became intense egotism. And as a child there was little left to lean on to find a coherent and healing safe support. What could be curative after I practiced drills to get under my desk in the event of a nuclear explosion!
I know I paint a bleak picture but I can’t stress enough what my experience of these times was like and then to spend summers in the curious surroundings of camp. And certainly camp was not immune to all these same forces but metaphorically the setting and the world created a blend of fantasy and freedom, it weathered the social forces somewhat better. Staff seemed to find a home for their own healing spirits and campers found a place where you could develop, grow, and that made sense. The perfect utopian fantasy but one that fosters a genuine sense that made sense, linked together in a chain of experience separate from the outside world.
One thread that links this together in my mind was my love of Tolkien’s Trilogy. I read and re-read these books throughout my young life and, while not as obsessed as some; I found a solace in a world both whole and torn apart. I found meaning in both in the horrible strife of the ultimate battle for good and evil and the moral where the most simple life and pleasures won out. That good and evil live in all of us. That it’s the choices we make that matter.
Have fun! and thanks always. Ryan
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Educational Communities
Educational Influences around Learning Communities
Much of my work involves learning in the setting of social relationships, of the social nature of teaching and learning, and the related view that we create, foster, a “community” that supports both practitioners and participants. I have a number of experiences that support this philosophy of education both from my own childhood as well as working with a variety of programs, working in classrooms, working to create environments that promote all levels of participants to become engaged. For me it’s about finding meaning, supporting a sense of purpose and participation, a sense of place, creating all those things so that each participant understands their many roles and takes their own responsibility to co-create a supportive community seriously.
Their are lots of versions of this but my current favorite, as we look at our program and what makes it work, is “Communities of Practice” (C of P), defined and then modified from Etienne Wenger. http://www.ewenger.com/theory/index.htm
I have borrowed these ideas as I have tried to reflect on my own experiences, particularly as I try to make sense of ERN as both a camper and a staff member. Foundational to C of P is the sense of a place, both physical places such as camp but also one’s own sense of place within this domain. Camp created in its own history, stories and experiences a sense of both physicality as well as fostering a sense for campers that they belonged. “And you belong to El Rancho Navarro and El Rancho Navarro belongs to you” the song goes. And so an intentional community was created. But belonging is in reality just the first step.
The next crucial element is that you both belong and create the C of P. There is a sense of understanding of the purpose, the point of it all, and common mission. And this is true for adults, staff, directors, as well as children at ERN. Each has a purposeful sense of participation. Structures, rules, expectations, a developmental sequence for participation. And from this then comes leadership. You know the places, the purpose and mission, and then you each, regardless of level, step up as leaders.
The combination of place, purpose, an understanding of one’s roles, the opportunity to matter, to create, to be held accountable, responsible, to be integral rather than just ancillary, then all moves towards creating something for which perhaps no one person has the complete vision but each can understand. Reflective practice, part of something greater than one’s self, spirituality...
So how do we programmatically define this? If it is our goals to create this sense, of purpose, mission, direction, reflection, how do we create and instill this in others? This is the real conundrum for me. Part of the answer comes from a basic understanding of right and wrong as defined by the place.
The idea as I’ve tried to apply it is to clearly and strongly convey a direction and a process for reflection. To work to develop a participatory process by which the team defines and refines their understanding their role and their options. Because the key is options. Rather than define each element, we define what each must deliver. Rather than restricting the how we refine the why. And then we let each person find their own methods, reflect on their own experience and bring this to the experience. And we reinvest time and energy in this process. In this way the efforts bloom beyond the experience of the person in charge. Camp was greater than Irv and Edna’s experience because they didn’t instruct in such a way to restrict. Sure there was a clarity of direction and clearly defined boundaries, but within the realm of each person, they had a great freedom to both fail and succeed.
But the key element for me was that it free from definition. It in fact it was highly defined, both in terms of history and experience. And that many people defined this: Judy, Cole, Cheryl, Hal, Ray, Randy, Marshall, Ruth, and Carol, and many more...each contributed to an ever greater whole. And the newcomers, Michelle, myself, Paula, Bernie, and many more added their version.
Thanks again, Ryan
Much of my work involves learning in the setting of social relationships, of the social nature of teaching and learning, and the related view that we create, foster, a “community” that supports both practitioners and participants. I have a number of experiences that support this philosophy of education both from my own childhood as well as working with a variety of programs, working in classrooms, working to create environments that promote all levels of participants to become engaged. For me it’s about finding meaning, supporting a sense of purpose and participation, a sense of place, creating all those things so that each participant understands their many roles and takes their own responsibility to co-create a supportive community seriously.
Their are lots of versions of this but my current favorite, as we look at our program and what makes it work, is “Communities of Practice” (C of P), defined and then modified from Etienne Wenger. http://www.ewenger.com/theory/index.htm
I have borrowed these ideas as I have tried to reflect on my own experiences, particularly as I try to make sense of ERN as both a camper and a staff member. Foundational to C of P is the sense of a place, both physical places such as camp but also one’s own sense of place within this domain. Camp created in its own history, stories and experiences a sense of both physicality as well as fostering a sense for campers that they belonged. “And you belong to El Rancho Navarro and El Rancho Navarro belongs to you” the song goes. And so an intentional community was created. But belonging is in reality just the first step.
The next crucial element is that you both belong and create the C of P. There is a sense of understanding of the purpose, the point of it all, and common mission. And this is true for adults, staff, directors, as well as children at ERN. Each has a purposeful sense of participation. Structures, rules, expectations, a developmental sequence for participation. And from this then comes leadership. You know the places, the purpose and mission, and then you each, regardless of level, step up as leaders.
The combination of place, purpose, an understanding of one’s roles, the opportunity to matter, to create, to be held accountable, responsible, to be integral rather than just ancillary, then all moves towards creating something for which perhaps no one person has the complete vision but each can understand. Reflective practice, part of something greater than one’s self, spirituality...
So how do we programmatically define this? If it is our goals to create this sense, of purpose, mission, direction, reflection, how do we create and instill this in others? This is the real conundrum for me. Part of the answer comes from a basic understanding of right and wrong as defined by the place.
The idea as I’ve tried to apply it is to clearly and strongly convey a direction and a process for reflection. To work to develop a participatory process by which the team defines and refines their understanding their role and their options. Because the key is options. Rather than define each element, we define what each must deliver. Rather than restricting the how we refine the why. And then we let each person find their own methods, reflect on their own experience and bring this to the experience. And we reinvest time and energy in this process. In this way the efforts bloom beyond the experience of the person in charge. Camp was greater than Irv and Edna’s experience because they didn’t instruct in such a way to restrict. Sure there was a clarity of direction and clearly defined boundaries, but within the realm of each person, they had a great freedom to both fail and succeed.
But the key element for me was that it free from definition. It in fact it was highly defined, both in terms of history and experience. And that many people defined this: Judy, Cole, Cheryl, Hal, Ray, Randy, Marshall, Ruth, and Carol, and many more...each contributed to an ever greater whole. And the newcomers, Michelle, myself, Paula, Bernie, and many more added their version.
Thanks again, Ryan
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Developmental Psychology
Camp Sociology
I guess if you put a couple that are Jewish, trained as Social Workers, in charge of creating their own personal camp vision, you get something on the liberal perspective. But I’m sure that that liberal label really describes anything about camp. I’m also sure that many of the families were affluent liberals, doctors, and professionals. And the camp staff clearly colored the experiences as well. But the social structure of camp, the developmental ideal for children, of playing and exploring, and engaging in items of their own choices, was central to camp’s social system.
The first twenty-four hours at camp were exactly the same year in and year out. After my many sessions I could predict within a few feet where I’d be and what’d I be doing. This formed the base, the welcoming, Irv’s Toilet Paper speech (a really great metaphor), visiting the nurse’s station to get your weight and temperature taken—waiting on the log in your swim suits, the riding and swimming tests, spending time with your cabin group. Bonding to camp, to the first circle, cabin mates and counselors. This structure was extreme, and hardly liberal in the free for all of some versions of liberalism. No choices, highly programmed schedule, invariant, consistent and supportive.
This was then followed by Cabin Choice where the whole group would program its day. Swimming and riding were prescheduled, if the group wanted, but it was a semi democratic process within the group—counselors had a lot of influence I’m sure. The idea was to bond your to camp, to the group, to have a place, a home away from home. For many campers homesickness kicked in about this time (no phone calls for the first three days.). I remember that we even did an overnight for the older boys. Campers got a sense of what camp was about—off course after something like 20 sessions at camp this part wasn’t as important. I wasn’t bored, that was interesting.
Then came free choice. For the next couple of weeks each campers scheduled their own world—there were riding and swimming groups but other than that you could choose what you wanted to do, or at least you could have a first, second or third choice. Maybe this was common but part of the developmental process at ERN was free choice. At each step you built up a competency, and you could begin widening the world as well. You could schedule with other cabin mates or not, your choice.
Then there was the Robsian, “Free/Free” choice. So after 10 days you didn’t have to schedule at all—except if you wanted to take swimming and riding, still grouped. As long as there was room, almost always was, you could wonder between archery, arts and crafts, lawn games or simple relax in your own way. By the end of the summer I think I spent much of the afternoon sleeping.
And it was through this developmental process that you gained control and competence. Irv used to talk about development stages.
Unconscious Incompetence
Conscious Incompetence
Conscious Competence
Unconscious Competence
Another element was the constancy and structure—that we create something solid, intelligent, supportive, and that this provides for children a sense of safety, of security. Children see these development boundaries as supportive, as a sign of our adult presence and caring, that they matter enough to set limits. To stay with them when they visit the edges, as they look for attentions and definition.
So much of camp was about preparing young people to become adults. Accepting their stages and then creating a sequence that supported their development. And this was the underlying liberal perspective—you weren’t training children, they were growing, and they were learning. I remember one of the arguments with Irv was about teaching—a staff member wanted to teach about nature, and wanted more materials to support this. Irv reinforced that the learning was about the experience, not about the knowledge. Take the children on a creek walk.
And somehow this really was enough.
I guess if you put a couple that are Jewish, trained as Social Workers, in charge of creating their own personal camp vision, you get something on the liberal perspective. But I’m sure that that liberal label really describes anything about camp. I’m also sure that many of the families were affluent liberals, doctors, and professionals. And the camp staff clearly colored the experiences as well. But the social structure of camp, the developmental ideal for children, of playing and exploring, and engaging in items of their own choices, was central to camp’s social system.
The first twenty-four hours at camp were exactly the same year in and year out. After my many sessions I could predict within a few feet where I’d be and what’d I be doing. This formed the base, the welcoming, Irv’s Toilet Paper speech (a really great metaphor), visiting the nurse’s station to get your weight and temperature taken—waiting on the log in your swim suits, the riding and swimming tests, spending time with your cabin group. Bonding to camp, to the first circle, cabin mates and counselors. This structure was extreme, and hardly liberal in the free for all of some versions of liberalism. No choices, highly programmed schedule, invariant, consistent and supportive.
This was then followed by Cabin Choice where the whole group would program its day. Swimming and riding were prescheduled, if the group wanted, but it was a semi democratic process within the group—counselors had a lot of influence I’m sure. The idea was to bond your to camp, to the group, to have a place, a home away from home. For many campers homesickness kicked in about this time (no phone calls for the first three days.). I remember that we even did an overnight for the older boys. Campers got a sense of what camp was about—off course after something like 20 sessions at camp this part wasn’t as important. I wasn’t bored, that was interesting.
Then came free choice. For the next couple of weeks each campers scheduled their own world—there were riding and swimming groups but other than that you could choose what you wanted to do, or at least you could have a first, second or third choice. Maybe this was common but part of the developmental process at ERN was free choice. At each step you built up a competency, and you could begin widening the world as well. You could schedule with other cabin mates or not, your choice.
Then there was the Robsian, “Free/Free” choice. So after 10 days you didn’t have to schedule at all—except if you wanted to take swimming and riding, still grouped. As long as there was room, almost always was, you could wonder between archery, arts and crafts, lawn games or simple relax in your own way. By the end of the summer I think I spent much of the afternoon sleeping.
And it was through this developmental process that you gained control and competence. Irv used to talk about development stages.
Unconscious Incompetence
Conscious Incompetence
Conscious Competence
Unconscious Competence
Another element was the constancy and structure—that we create something solid, intelligent, supportive, and that this provides for children a sense of safety, of security. Children see these development boundaries as supportive, as a sign of our adult presence and caring, that they matter enough to set limits. To stay with them when they visit the edges, as they look for attentions and definition.
So much of camp was about preparing young people to become adults. Accepting their stages and then creating a sequence that supported their development. And this was the underlying liberal perspective—you weren’t training children, they were growing, and they were learning. I remember one of the arguments with Irv was about teaching—a staff member wanted to teach about nature, and wanted more materials to support this. Irv reinforced that the learning was about the experience, not about the knowledge. Take the children on a creek walk.
And somehow this really was enough.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Place names
Places Names
There are so many names- people, history, and purposes, some long gone. (Who named that funky staff shack Walled Off, for example, or made up the name Papoose?)
Mary Crick’s, Steve Shane’s, Papoose, The Canteen, Irv’s tree (Usually not a great place to spend the afternoon), Irv’s outside office, Walled Off (Walled-Off Hysteria, one corner of it’s foundation turned out to be an old buggy), The Spring, The Cooks Shack, Staff Shack, Nurse’s Station, Archery, The Haunted Cabin (shack), Storytelling Tree, Benny-Ray’s, Highland Loop and Highland Ranch, Hendy Woods (not really part of camp), the Swimming Hole, the Barbeque Pit, the Italian Joke Tree, the Bullpen, Maintenance shack (lots of shacks), Maintenance Man’s House, the front gate, the Newman’s house, Dining Hall, Horseshoe pits, Ohcanarle (Elrancho?), 1’s through 8’s and then Zero cabin, The laundry and darkroom, Pahoo’s corner (when the teepee was up, The Tennis courts (first in Booneville and then up the hill), Dramuda, The downstaris bathroom (famous for it’s mirror and rare privacy), the swinging bridge, Arts and Crafts shack, the Flag circle (getting hands inspected, flag ceremony, Irv’s underwear), ...
Then there are lost of places that had less specific names but were non-the-less important to the camp geography. The baseball field, home of many a Camper-Counselor game (did we really make the counselors’ have eggs in their pockets?), the pastures full of irrigation pipes to pull, the campfire circle, the barn (one of the great building at camp from resort days), the dining hall, the pantry below the kitchen (a really cool place on a summer day), the parking lot, the orchard, the cow barn, chicken shack (yes another shack), the hill by the canteen (where I was first married), the Runway between the two main pasture, the Water Tanks, Navarro-by-the-Sea...
There are more I’m sure—each evokes memories, events, specific to the place and specific to ERN. This picture of the dining hall is courtesy of Greta's website
http://home.comcast.net/~gretadorfman/elrancho.html
Thanks again. Ryan
There are so many names- people, history, and purposes, some long gone. (Who named that funky staff shack Walled Off, for example, or made up the name Papoose?)
Mary Crick’s, Steve Shane’s, Papoose, The Canteen, Irv’s tree (Usually not a great place to spend the afternoon), Irv’s outside office, Walled Off (Walled-Off Hysteria, one corner of it’s foundation turned out to be an old buggy), The Spring, The Cooks Shack, Staff Shack, Nurse’s Station, Archery, The Haunted Cabin (shack), Storytelling Tree, Benny-Ray’s, Highland Loop and Highland Ranch, Hendy Woods (not really part of camp), the Swimming Hole, the Barbeque Pit, the Italian Joke Tree, the Bullpen, Maintenance shack (lots of shacks), Maintenance Man’s House, the front gate, the Newman’s house, Dining Hall, Horseshoe pits, Ohcanarle (Elrancho?), 1’s through 8’s and then Zero cabin, The laundry and darkroom, Pahoo’s corner (when the teepee was up, The Tennis courts (first in Booneville and then up the hill), Dramuda, The downstaris bathroom (famous for it’s mirror and rare privacy), the swinging bridge, Arts and Crafts shack, the Flag circle (getting hands inspected, flag ceremony, Irv’s underwear), ...
Then there are lost of places that had less specific names but were non-the-less important to the camp geography. The baseball field, home of many a Camper-Counselor game (did we really make the counselors’ have eggs in their pockets?), the pastures full of irrigation pipes to pull, the campfire circle, the barn (one of the great building at camp from resort days), the dining hall, the pantry below the kitchen (a really cool place on a summer day), the parking lot, the orchard, the cow barn, chicken shack (yes another shack), the hill by the canteen (where I was first married), the Runway between the two main pasture, the Water Tanks, Navarro-by-the-Sea...
There are more I’m sure—each evokes memories, events, specific to the place and specific to ERN. This picture of the dining hall is courtesy of Greta's website
http://home.comcast.net/~gretadorfman/elrancho.html
Thanks again. Ryan
Monday, November 27, 2006
Swimming pool
Swimming
I love to swim, always have. Growing up in California, pools were the summer play area. I’ll head to the pool this afternoon to get some post Thanksgiving exercise. The pool at camp, and swimming in the river, was the best of times. Not really much swimming during the afternoon, but the morning swims, instructional swims, were great. Edna was the swimming instructor who could give out the Red Cross cards. It was another interesting Edna facet that she was very highly regarded in Red Cross circles—I had a swimming instructor at Chico State who, when she found out I knew Edna, extolled her virtues. I never really understood the details but I think this woman was even more special than I realized. She was a WSIT, a Water Safety Instructor Trainer. She could teach WSI’s who were otherwise the highest rated safety people in the Red Cross system (they could, in turn, teach junior and senior lifesaving.)
And each year I worked on another card. As I’ve said before, the only awards at camp were 5 Hershey Bars for falling off a horse and Red Cross Cards for swimming. This differs greatly from many camps that have intricate and elaborate awards at the ends of session. In most camps you could get an archery award, at many levels, maybe compete in riding or even swim meets. Not at ERN.
The other swimming person of note was Cheryl. What can I say? Cheryl is funny, tolerant and beautiful. And it’s pronounced like it’s spelled, “Ch” like Cherry.) There was a story, must have been an interesting and thoughtful family. I also remember Dorbi Cook (nor sure of the spelling) who was at camp as well.
An then there was the river...the Navarro, while wild in the winter, reverted to a series of warm pools, swimming holes, during the summer. A river of creek walks, barely enough water to get really wet. In my very early years the ranch across the way would dam a section of the river, near the Spring, to create a 3-4 foot deep area where we would swim as well. Even had an overnight or two here—don’t remember a name for the place. I do remember a raft made form old aircraft fuel tanks—the disposable tanks a long-range plane might carry and then drop when empty. Narrow torpedoes about 10-12 feet long with a deck.
Of course swimming meant boys and girls—I really don’t want to embarrass anyone, including myself, so I’ll stay tangential. It was just a great time to admire, wonder, ponder, joke about the differences, Viva la Difference. Paula, Nancy, others come to mind. It was part of camp- summer innocence. Dances, holding hands, swimming, cabin raids, all part of growing up.
On a personal note—I also love mechanical things, machines, systems, and the sand filters and pumps, chemicals and test kits fascinated me. As did the old shower near the Badminton court, sort-of solar heated. For a while we would line up on the concrete and then briefly shower. And the old valve, hidden in the blackberries, that brought up the river water to fill the pool. Skimming the pool, waiting by the gate till everyone was there. Swimming groups, free choice. All these little memories.
I love to swim, always have. Growing up in California, pools were the summer play area. I’ll head to the pool this afternoon to get some post Thanksgiving exercise. The pool at camp, and swimming in the river, was the best of times. Not really much swimming during the afternoon, but the morning swims, instructional swims, were great. Edna was the swimming instructor who could give out the Red Cross cards. It was another interesting Edna facet that she was very highly regarded in Red Cross circles—I had a swimming instructor at Chico State who, when she found out I knew Edna, extolled her virtues. I never really understood the details but I think this woman was even more special than I realized. She was a WSIT, a Water Safety Instructor Trainer. She could teach WSI’s who were otherwise the highest rated safety people in the Red Cross system (they could, in turn, teach junior and senior lifesaving.)
And each year I worked on another card. As I’ve said before, the only awards at camp were 5 Hershey Bars for falling off a horse and Red Cross Cards for swimming. This differs greatly from many camps that have intricate and elaborate awards at the ends of session. In most camps you could get an archery award, at many levels, maybe compete in riding or even swim meets. Not at ERN.
The other swimming person of note was Cheryl. What can I say? Cheryl is funny, tolerant and beautiful. And it’s pronounced like it’s spelled, “Ch” like Cherry.) There was a story, must have been an interesting and thoughtful family. I also remember Dorbi Cook (nor sure of the spelling) who was at camp as well.
An then there was the river...the Navarro, while wild in the winter, reverted to a series of warm pools, swimming holes, during the summer. A river of creek walks, barely enough water to get really wet. In my very early years the ranch across the way would dam a section of the river, near the Spring, to create a 3-4 foot deep area where we would swim as well. Even had an overnight or two here—don’t remember a name for the place. I do remember a raft made form old aircraft fuel tanks—the disposable tanks a long-range plane might carry and then drop when empty. Narrow torpedoes about 10-12 feet long with a deck.
Of course swimming meant boys and girls—I really don’t want to embarrass anyone, including myself, so I’ll stay tangential. It was just a great time to admire, wonder, ponder, joke about the differences, Viva la Difference. Paula, Nancy, others come to mind. It was part of camp- summer innocence. Dances, holding hands, swimming, cabin raids, all part of growing up.
On a personal note—I also love mechanical things, machines, systems, and the sand filters and pumps, chemicals and test kits fascinated me. As did the old shower near the Badminton court, sort-of solar heated. For a while we would line up on the concrete and then briefly shower. And the old valve, hidden in the blackberries, that brought up the river water to fill the pool. Skimming the pool, waiting by the gate till everyone was there. Swimming groups, free choice. All these little memories.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Dining Hall
Dining Hall
The Dining hall at camp was the hub. Nine long tables and two square tables--the Staff Table was pretty exclusively for Irv and Edna and other staff/quests/family, the rest were free setting, staff at the heads and campers along the sides. The food can out the kitchen window and KP folks, cabin groups who had set tables, brought the food to the tables.
One of the ideas of camp was to have campers involved in the work that made camp happen, KP, Chores (pulling irrigation pipes was my favorite), even scheduling your day was part of the roles for campers.
Food at camp was simple and substantial. I really liked the water glasses—metal holders for conical paper cups--I’ve never seen anything like this before or since. Some of the tableware, western-style plates and bowls, was clearly from previous resort days; other was more utilitarian. Camp was family style with the staff member at the head of the table taking the role of “head”. I was obvious how your staff skills were perceived as the more distance you were form the staff table, the more you were a “control counselor.” Each to their own strengths.
The dining hall itself was a beautiful building with great expansive views of the Anderson Valley, of the pastures below, and on to the river. In the early days there was a porch off the dining hall towards the downhill side—later enclosed as the program office (Cole’s retreat.) The end of the room away from the kitchen was dominated by an amazing river-stone fireplace with an early version of a “heat-a-lator” arrangement designed to extract more heat from the flue and send it into the room. Also on either side of the fireplace were books and two large fans—it could get warm on summer days although not bad. The building was somewhat shaded and had great cross ventilation. There was also a “Swamp cooler” near the kitchen that, when working, cooled the building some. (There were great philosophical debates about the best building management strategy around cooling.)
As the meal wound down there were PSA’s (Public Service Announcements), songs, serious announcements (Irving Newman and or Colbert Davis Time and/or preceded along with:
“Announcements, announcements, announcements.
The worst is yet to come; the worst is yet to come.
It’s a horrible thing to be talked to death, the worst is yet to come...
Announcements, Pronouncements, Denouncements!”
And then songs—silly songs, serious songs (I’m still working on the Dona, Dona story...this is a really depressing song) and skits. Oh and the birthday song, which I still sing. There were a couple of adults males whose voices had a unique quality and they a dirge version of Happy Birthday...slow and really dreary
“Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday,
Tears and sorrow fill the air,
People crying/dying with/of despair,
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday”
One of my personal favorites was “Peanut Butter and Jelly”, a really silly song- there are lots of versions, ours was best. And Showboat’s version of “Love Potion Number Nine”—one of the few songs I can sing all the way through.
In another life I would like to study the flow of songs and traditions at camps, youth groups over time. I would love to know who wrote and how Three Chartreuse Buzzards changed to three sharp-toothed buzzards and the great oral and aural traditions. I wish I had kept my camp songbook from many years ago and could embark on an anthology degree in campfire songs—best PhD in the world!
Thanks
The Dining hall at camp was the hub. Nine long tables and two square tables--the Staff Table was pretty exclusively for Irv and Edna and other staff/quests/family, the rest were free setting, staff at the heads and campers along the sides. The food can out the kitchen window and KP folks, cabin groups who had set tables, brought the food to the tables.
One of the ideas of camp was to have campers involved in the work that made camp happen, KP, Chores (pulling irrigation pipes was my favorite), even scheduling your day was part of the roles for campers.
Food at camp was simple and substantial. I really liked the water glasses—metal holders for conical paper cups--I’ve never seen anything like this before or since. Some of the tableware, western-style plates and bowls, was clearly from previous resort days; other was more utilitarian. Camp was family style with the staff member at the head of the table taking the role of “head”. I was obvious how your staff skills were perceived as the more distance you were form the staff table, the more you were a “control counselor.” Each to their own strengths.
The dining hall itself was a beautiful building with great expansive views of the Anderson Valley, of the pastures below, and on to the river. In the early days there was a porch off the dining hall towards the downhill side—later enclosed as the program office (Cole’s retreat.) The end of the room away from the kitchen was dominated by an amazing river-stone fireplace with an early version of a “heat-a-lator” arrangement designed to extract more heat from the flue and send it into the room. Also on either side of the fireplace were books and two large fans—it could get warm on summer days although not bad. The building was somewhat shaded and had great cross ventilation. There was also a “Swamp cooler” near the kitchen that, when working, cooled the building some. (There were great philosophical debates about the best building management strategy around cooling.)
As the meal wound down there were PSA’s (Public Service Announcements), songs, serious announcements (Irving Newman and or Colbert Davis Time and/or preceded along with:
“Announcements, announcements, announcements.
The worst is yet to come; the worst is yet to come.
It’s a horrible thing to be talked to death, the worst is yet to come...
Announcements, Pronouncements, Denouncements!”
And then songs—silly songs, serious songs (I’m still working on the Dona, Dona story...this is a really depressing song) and skits. Oh and the birthday song, which I still sing. There were a couple of adults males whose voices had a unique quality and they a dirge version of Happy Birthday...slow and really dreary
“Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday,
Tears and sorrow fill the air,
People crying/dying with/of despair,
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday”
One of my personal favorites was “Peanut Butter and Jelly”, a really silly song- there are lots of versions, ours was best. And Showboat’s version of “Love Potion Number Nine”—one of the few songs I can sing all the way through.
In another life I would like to study the flow of songs and traditions at camps, youth groups over time. I would love to know who wrote and how Three Chartreuse Buzzards changed to three sharp-toothed buzzards and the great oral and aural traditions. I wish I had kept my camp songbook from many years ago and could embark on an anthology degree in campfire songs—best PhD in the world!
Thanks
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Gentleness
Gentleness
There are a variety of things I have struggled with in my life. I have always been to close, too distant from others and I have too often placed a filter between the world and myself. At ERN, both as a camper and then as staff, I continued this struggle. Even after almost fifty years I still wonder at this level of insecurity. Playing a part rather than just being who I was. More concerned with perceptions rather than trusting that I could be okay for who I was. There have been a few, very few, times in my life when this has disappeared and many of them were at camp. I think about what they meant to me at the time and how they have formed who I have become.
The first is a simple story. I don’t remember all the people but during my first years as a staff member, during work camp perhaps, I walked up to Edna, who was talking to another woman. The other woman asked, “Is he one of yours?” and Edna replied, “No but I’d take him.” At this time of my life all I could do was blush, I rarely blush, almost never in my entire life, but then I really did. They both laughed and I smiled
. Very few people would have given me the time of day at eighteen. I was, let’s say, judiciously unacceptable. But she saw value in me and didn’t hesitate to give me a very nice compliment.
The second story is a very early camp memory. I arrived at camp without much camping stuff. My sleeping bag was a WW II Army mummy bag and I had no backpack. My counselor was Colbert and we were preparing for our first overnight—this was a big deal. To camp out and cook out overnight. This was certainly one of the first times I had ever done anything like this in my life—I was seven or eight. My family had camped but we were not really comfortable campers. Many of my fellow cabin mates had backpacks but me and maybe one other person. To this day, and we’re talking about more than forty years ago, Cole taught us how to make a horseshoe pack. We had meet under the story-telling tree in the afternoon sun and it was okay. I was okay. He demonstrated on my bag how to placed your gear and wrap the rope around the outside and then tie it at the bottom. I don’t know if he knew or how he knew how important this was to me at the time. I could still make a horseshoe pack-it mattered that much.
The third story really is about being a stupid adolescent and embarrassment. Another camper and I were bunking in the back half of the 3’s, I think, and were supposed to be asleep. Our counselor had long ago headed out and the only folks were the siesta patrol. We were being really gross, progressively ruder and grosser as only adolescent boys can be, telling horrid jokes, saying foul things. Campers in the front of cabin had tried at various times to shush us up—to no avail. After a particularly potent round of filth a voice came from the darkness (we had not noticed his arrival. He was standing in the doorway between the sections of the cabin.) “Are you both quite done,” his voice nothing subtle in the tone. It was a deep intense voice, not angry, just on the edge of disgusted, but very, very clear. We shut up! But there was something about the lack of anger, of easy retribution—we felt stupid but not small. We knew it was wrong but still had the capacity to make it right. Embarrassed but with a capacity to be okay as we matured. An acceptance not of the action but of the person.
The fourth story I’ve already told—getting caught smoking and getting sent home. I had picked up this nasty habit in a futile attempt to prove I was cool—so important at the time,-- still I suppose. I was on the cusp of being able to be a camper at the time—too many hormones, too far out of bounds. We stole cigarettes from the counselor’s shack, Hal’s, and were walking around at 11 or so—god knows what we thought we were doing! We walked past Anne and Paula who were witting up talking on the side porch of the 2’s. We didn’t see them until it was well too late.
But the culmination of the story was the common thread of all the above—a sense of gentleness, of firmness (solidity), a sense of sureness (I would call it grounded in faith although at the time it may not have been exactly that) that permeated so much about the experience. Sure ERN was silly, Sadie Hawkins, Topsy-Turvy Day but there was something else that made so much sense at the time and I’m still struggling to refine this for myself, for my family and for my professional life as well.
Thanks to all who have helped!
There are a variety of things I have struggled with in my life. I have always been to close, too distant from others and I have too often placed a filter between the world and myself. At ERN, both as a camper and then as staff, I continued this struggle. Even after almost fifty years I still wonder at this level of insecurity. Playing a part rather than just being who I was. More concerned with perceptions rather than trusting that I could be okay for who I was. There have been a few, very few, times in my life when this has disappeared and many of them were at camp. I think about what they meant to me at the time and how they have formed who I have become.
The first is a simple story. I don’t remember all the people but during my first years as a staff member, during work camp perhaps, I walked up to Edna, who was talking to another woman. The other woman asked, “Is he one of yours?” and Edna replied, “No but I’d take him.” At this time of my life all I could do was blush, I rarely blush, almost never in my entire life, but then I really did. They both laughed and I smiled
. Very few people would have given me the time of day at eighteen. I was, let’s say, judiciously unacceptable. But she saw value in me and didn’t hesitate to give me a very nice compliment. The second story is a very early camp memory. I arrived at camp without much camping stuff. My sleeping bag was a WW II Army mummy bag and I had no backpack. My counselor was Colbert and we were preparing for our first overnight—this was a big deal. To camp out and cook out overnight. This was certainly one of the first times I had ever done anything like this in my life—I was seven or eight. My family had camped but we were not really comfortable campers. Many of my fellow cabin mates had backpacks but me and maybe one other person. To this day, and we’re talking about more than forty years ago, Cole taught us how to make a horseshoe pack. We had meet under the story-telling tree in the afternoon sun and it was okay. I was okay. He demonstrated on my bag how to placed your gear and wrap the rope around the outside and then tie it at the bottom. I don’t know if he knew or how he knew how important this was to me at the time. I could still make a horseshoe pack-it mattered that much.
The third story really is about being a stupid adolescent and embarrassment. Another camper and I were bunking in the back half of the 3’s, I think, and were supposed to be asleep. Our counselor had long ago headed out and the only folks were the siesta patrol. We were being really gross, progressively ruder and grosser as only adolescent boys can be, telling horrid jokes, saying foul things. Campers in the front of cabin had tried at various times to shush us up—to no avail. After a particularly potent round of filth a voice came from the darkness (we had not noticed his arrival. He was standing in the doorway between the sections of the cabin.) “Are you both quite done,” his voice nothing subtle in the tone. It was a deep intense voice, not angry, just on the edge of disgusted, but very, very clear. We shut up! But there was something about the lack of anger, of easy retribution—we felt stupid but not small. We knew it was wrong but still had the capacity to make it right. Embarrassed but with a capacity to be okay as we matured. An acceptance not of the action but of the person.
The fourth story I’ve already told—getting caught smoking and getting sent home. I had picked up this nasty habit in a futile attempt to prove I was cool—so important at the time,-- still I suppose. I was on the cusp of being able to be a camper at the time—too many hormones, too far out of bounds. We stole cigarettes from the counselor’s shack, Hal’s, and were walking around at 11 or so—god knows what we thought we were doing! We walked past Anne and Paula who were witting up talking on the side porch of the 2’s. We didn’t see them until it was well too late.
But the culmination of the story was the common thread of all the above—a sense of gentleness, of firmness (solidity), a sense of sureness (I would call it grounded in faith although at the time it may not have been exactly that) that permeated so much about the experience. Sure ERN was silly, Sadie Hawkins, Topsy-Turvy Day but there was something else that made so much sense at the time and I’m still struggling to refine this for myself, for my family and for my professional life as well.
Thanks to all who have helped!
Monday, November 13, 2006
Good Funky
Good Funky
So much of camp was sort of funky—and I use this term as positive—worn jeans and converse creekwalk shoes are funky. This was not a fancy place. This was homespun, regular, interesting, and thoughtful. The people were a mixture of ideals and ideas; there might be a head of riding who was a pretty conservative ag. major from Davis, and a staff member who was drawing posters for Bill Graham. The place was overgrown and funky too. I look at the old pictures of the pool when it was new and then compare this to my memories—I remember a work party, “chores”, that discovered an old concrete patio next to the pool fence that was overgrown with blackberries, the Badminton court was pretty typical funky too. Each building had it’s own real character as well.
It was pre-organic, nature intruding, old worn paths, and old roads; people scaled lanes, and lichen-covered fences. The history, opportunity to discover stuff, that helped make it make sense. Arts and crafts was an open work shed, the beams covered in campers names, and old tables where we make stuff-nothing fancy here too. I did learn to use a kick wheel, made a few things, tried to fire them down at the campfire circle in a fire of redwood bark—the theory was that if we could get the bark to burn we might have a fire of 2500-3000 degrees—good theory.
The pool was filled with river water and at times looked pretty green—counting heads in the pool was an interesting task as a lifeguard. One year I taught riding and swimming—my eyes got so bleached out I was really having trouble even with dark glasses. Carol got me a great funky straw hat to wear and the shade was enough that I could stand out in the big ring. Great hat! I think she got it at Jack’s.
Maybe it was a chance to be who we were-all a little funny, interesting odd. Part of this was very sixties, emerging thoughts on how to “be” in the world. Camp was a hub for many strands: music, people, being outdoors, philosophy from Irv and Eda, creating a safe place, allowing people to be who they were (mostly) and n the process threading together much of what would profoundly take place in the next ten years. Not the media sixties but the sort of funky stuff that really mattered-Birkenstocks before they were hip (they were never cool.)
Thanks and take care
So much of camp was sort of funky—and I use this term as positive—worn jeans and converse creekwalk shoes are funky. This was not a fancy place. This was homespun, regular, interesting, and thoughtful. The people were a mixture of ideals and ideas; there might be a head of riding who was a pretty conservative ag. major from Davis, and a staff member who was drawing posters for Bill Graham. The place was overgrown and funky too. I look at the old pictures of the pool when it was new and then compare this to my memories—I remember a work party, “chores”, that discovered an old concrete patio next to the pool fence that was overgrown with blackberries, the Badminton court was pretty typical funky too. Each building had it’s own real character as well.
It was pre-organic, nature intruding, old worn paths, and old roads; people scaled lanes, and lichen-covered fences. The history, opportunity to discover stuff, that helped make it make sense. Arts and crafts was an open work shed, the beams covered in campers names, and old tables where we make stuff-nothing fancy here too. I did learn to use a kick wheel, made a few things, tried to fire them down at the campfire circle in a fire of redwood bark—the theory was that if we could get the bark to burn we might have a fire of 2500-3000 degrees—good theory.
The pool was filled with river water and at times looked pretty green—counting heads in the pool was an interesting task as a lifeguard. One year I taught riding and swimming—my eyes got so bleached out I was really having trouble even with dark glasses. Carol got me a great funky straw hat to wear and the shade was enough that I could stand out in the big ring. Great hat! I think she got it at Jack’s.
Maybe it was a chance to be who we were-all a little funny, interesting odd. Part of this was very sixties, emerging thoughts on how to “be” in the world. Camp was a hub for many strands: music, people, being outdoors, philosophy from Irv and Eda, creating a safe place, allowing people to be who they were (mostly) and n the process threading together much of what would profoundly take place in the next ten years. Not the media sixties but the sort of funky stuff that really mattered-Birkenstocks before they were hip (they were never cool.)
Thanks and take care
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
More music
More Music
Music played such as large role in my life as a camper and staff member. I remembers on of the best things about tennis was the fact you got to ride in a car to Booneville’s High School—next to the runway—and listen to KFRC, “The Big 610” and hear songs, top 40 of course, but music none-the-less. We had quiet time in the canteen, one of my favorite evening activities, listening to records and talking. Nothing too complicated. Just music. Music defined and formed the times: The Doors, “Light My Fire”, Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love”, the Rolling Stones, “Well we all need someone we can dream on...” The Airplane, Bob Dylan, The Association, New Christy Minstrels, there was a long list of albums. Marshall bought most of the dance albums and his musical taste had a strong influence for sure.
One of my roles at camp was to play the records at dances, an early DJ. I really liked the music, loved the role, and appreciated the pace and themes of dances and of the last dance, the only one I would actually dance myself. Put on a really long song, the album version, 5-6 minutes of musical ecstasy and dance.
My early memories, pre-Dramuda, were dances in the Canteen. But these are details that fade. Dramuda appeared as the venue for plays (Drama, Music and Dance) and had a wonderful large floor, logs along the hillside for those who just wanted to sit, and power for the old record player/PA. My love of music blossomed at camp—it’s still there I might add. I wasn’t then a players of anything and showed no talent (I still can’t remember the words to songs, didn’t then pay guitar, could barely carry a tune, and was afraid of getting up in front of audiences.)
But if you went through my CD’s today you’d see these times well presented. Not so much the folk but all the 60”s and early 70’s rock and funk. Paula introduced me to Tower of Power, the good East Bay girl she was, and War. Took me awhile to warm to horns and the funky sound, Sly Stone, it’s so East Bay Grease now in my mind, and a camper whose name I don’t remember (Germanic name, I think) brought to camp some early Pink Floyd, almost scarily unlistenable. And then there was the radio in the canteen—this could barley pull in anything if memory serves.
The one none music sonic memory was, however, another camper and I asking permission to listen on Irv’s radio in the outer office to the landing on the moon in the summer of ’69 during siesta.
Music played such as large role in my life as a camper and staff member. I remembers on of the best things about tennis was the fact you got to ride in a car to Booneville’s High School—next to the runway—and listen to KFRC, “The Big 610” and hear songs, top 40 of course, but music none-the-less. We had quiet time in the canteen, one of my favorite evening activities, listening to records and talking. Nothing too complicated. Just music. Music defined and formed the times: The Doors, “Light My Fire”, Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love”, the Rolling Stones, “Well we all need someone we can dream on...” The Airplane, Bob Dylan, The Association, New Christy Minstrels, there was a long list of albums. Marshall bought most of the dance albums and his musical taste had a strong influence for sure.
One of my roles at camp was to play the records at dances, an early DJ. I really liked the music, loved the role, and appreciated the pace and themes of dances and of the last dance, the only one I would actually dance myself. Put on a really long song, the album version, 5-6 minutes of musical ecstasy and dance.
My early memories, pre-Dramuda, were dances in the Canteen. But these are details that fade. Dramuda appeared as the venue for plays (Drama, Music and Dance) and had a wonderful large floor, logs along the hillside for those who just wanted to sit, and power for the old record player/PA. My love of music blossomed at camp—it’s still there I might add. I wasn’t then a players of anything and showed no talent (I still can’t remember the words to songs, didn’t then pay guitar, could barely carry a tune, and was afraid of getting up in front of audiences.)
But if you went through my CD’s today you’d see these times well presented. Not so much the folk but all the 60”s and early 70’s rock and funk. Paula introduced me to Tower of Power, the good East Bay girl she was, and War. Took me awhile to warm to horns and the funky sound, Sly Stone, it’s so East Bay Grease now in my mind, and a camper whose name I don’t remember (Germanic name, I think) brought to camp some early Pink Floyd, almost scarily unlistenable. And then there was the radio in the canteen—this could barley pull in anything if memory serves.
The one none music sonic memory was, however, another camper and I asking permission to listen on Irv’s radio in the outer office to the landing on the moon in the summer of ’69 during siesta.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Camp Thoughts
Camp Thoughts
As I’ve begun this collection of essays memories have rushed in but none so profound as the thoughts about one man, Colbert Davis. The key person at camp for me was Colbert Davis III. Colbert, Cole, was a camp icon even early on—he greeted my family and I my very first session at camp. From hikes to leadership, to camp vision, he was at the center of many stories and experiences.
One of the things I must mention early on was the fact that he was the first African American adult I spent any significant time with as a young person. I can say that this was a profound understanding that not only was he a “black” but smart, articulate, and an individual. Much of my later life, interest and focus modeled elements I got from him.
I greatly regret I’ve not been able to keep up these connections. And as a youth and young adult there have been many trying times in my life and I’m always a little embarrassed by the people who shared my youth. I wish I could share where this has all lead as well.
Images of Colbert—coffee cups supersaturated with sugar, campouts with the cabin group wide awake and trying our best to get him to wake up, smearing FelsNapha on the outside of the cooking pots, a navy watch cap and shorts, the year he lost the cap to his growing Afro, Trebloc Savid (courtesy of Zack), riding on the engine of the green Dodge van on the way to Yosemite, Fang (1-3?) with their aircraft landing lights, watching him build a radio controlled airplane in the Crafts Shack, too many cigarettes, Italian Joke Tree, him dressed for Catholic services, listening to him roll film in the darkroom and learning the print film, watching him riding on a washing machines in the new laundry room after the power was switched on, covered with redwood sawdust building shelving for the cabin from the 1 x 12 lumber from the storm, helping schedule free choice slips, the programming office and Dymo labels, and many others.
What I learned from him, and through him, also forms a long life’s list. I became a science teacher, I help run a camp as camp director, I love tools and building and like this from “First Principles”, I love hiking (and have a green Kelty pack) and the out of doors, I wear shorts at any and all opportunities (tough to do as an administrator at a university), I can fix almost anything on a VW, I still shot pictures (an 60’s era Nikon F) and wish I could have a darkroom. I have a large shop and love building things, working on systems, thinking about how things work and why. Colbert is not solely responsible for these things but he put me on a path—I think he has a sense about people and my guess is that he does this for many of his students as well.
I have this “Board of Directors” in my mind and memory. People I admire but also who have offered me love, hope, ideas and a sense of caring (presence) that still buoys me in life. Many of the camp staff are part of this group, Edna and Colbert are centerpieces—and this is from almost forty years ago—scary really. I wasn’t just about “potential” or anything that indirect. I was about being okay. There are stories I may or may not share but at a very central part of my adolescence, I made a seriously stupid choice. The consequence of that was I was invited to leave camp my last summer. The meeting in the programming office was stunning to me then and still is now. I was in trouble, I could not be trusted to stay but there was still a chance, a cure. Irv said, "If you care to try, and I can be assured that I can trust you, you can return.” Five years later did meet with Irv, he was convinced and I did return.
This was a profound idea for me—it took me many years to fully grasp this lesson. Maybe I’m still working on it, as I have become this messenger of hope after failure as well. I’m still struggling with this and for Colbert, Cheryl, Carol, Irv and Edna this was both a considered choice and second nature.
And maybe this is the underlying lesson as well because Colbert path was not direct either—I’m guessing the his Dad wasn’t pleased with his career choice—at least at first. Camp changed people and then people changed more people. A ripple across wide waters.
As I’ve begun this collection of essays memories have rushed in but none so profound as the thoughts about one man, Colbert Davis. The key person at camp for me was Colbert Davis III. Colbert, Cole, was a camp icon even early on—he greeted my family and I my very first session at camp. From hikes to leadership, to camp vision, he was at the center of many stories and experiences.
One of the things I must mention early on was the fact that he was the first African American adult I spent any significant time with as a young person. I can say that this was a profound understanding that not only was he a “black” but smart, articulate, and an individual. Much of my later life, interest and focus modeled elements I got from him.
I greatly regret I’ve not been able to keep up these connections. And as a youth and young adult there have been many trying times in my life and I’m always a little embarrassed by the people who shared my youth. I wish I could share where this has all lead as well.
Images of Colbert—coffee cups supersaturated with sugar, campouts with the cabin group wide awake and trying our best to get him to wake up, smearing FelsNapha on the outside of the cooking pots, a navy watch cap and shorts, the year he lost the cap to his growing Afro, Trebloc Savid (courtesy of Zack), riding on the engine of the green Dodge van on the way to Yosemite, Fang (1-3?) with their aircraft landing lights, watching him build a radio controlled airplane in the Crafts Shack, too many cigarettes, Italian Joke Tree, him dressed for Catholic services, listening to him roll film in the darkroom and learning the print film, watching him riding on a washing machines in the new laundry room after the power was switched on, covered with redwood sawdust building shelving for the cabin from the 1 x 12 lumber from the storm, helping schedule free choice slips, the programming office and Dymo labels, and many others.
What I learned from him, and through him, also forms a long life’s list. I became a science teacher, I help run a camp as camp director, I love tools and building and like this from “First Principles”, I love hiking (and have a green Kelty pack) and the out of doors, I wear shorts at any and all opportunities (tough to do as an administrator at a university), I can fix almost anything on a VW, I still shot pictures (an 60’s era Nikon F) and wish I could have a darkroom. I have a large shop and love building things, working on systems, thinking about how things work and why. Colbert is not solely responsible for these things but he put me on a path—I think he has a sense about people and my guess is that he does this for many of his students as well.
I have this “Board of Directors” in my mind and memory. People I admire but also who have offered me love, hope, ideas and a sense of caring (presence) that still buoys me in life. Many of the camp staff are part of this group, Edna and Colbert are centerpieces—and this is from almost forty years ago—scary really. I wasn’t just about “potential” or anything that indirect. I was about being okay. There are stories I may or may not share but at a very central part of my adolescence, I made a seriously stupid choice. The consequence of that was I was invited to leave camp my last summer. The meeting in the programming office was stunning to me then and still is now. I was in trouble, I could not be trusted to stay but there was still a chance, a cure. Irv said, "If you care to try, and I can be assured that I can trust you, you can return.” Five years later did meet with Irv, he was convinced and I did return.
This was a profound idea for me—it took me many years to fully grasp this lesson. Maybe I’m still working on it, as I have become this messenger of hope after failure as well. I’m still struggling with this and for Colbert, Cheryl, Carol, Irv and Edna this was both a considered choice and second nature.
And maybe this is the underlying lesson as well because Colbert path was not direct either—I’m guessing the his Dad wasn’t pleased with his career choice—at least at first. Camp changed people and then people changed more people. A ripple across wide waters.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Names
There are so many people who made an impact on me and at camp. Some of the names I don't know how to spell, so I'll do my best. If you wish to add names let me know and please, any help with spelling or related stories would be wonderful--there were more than 5000 campers and I don't know how many staff.
Hal and Davida Brown--part of the admin of camp
Colbert Davis and Cheryl Cook Davis--also adminstation, and another camp couple
The Newman children: Aaron, Ruth, Marshall and Carol
Ray Lefevre--one tough guy
Randy Georgi--center of art and music
Rob and Nan Goldstein
"Pahoo", David Lincoln?
Showboat
Judy Carlson and her daughter Crissy- made camp more than a special place
Then there are people who faces I wish I could reproduce and share but whose names have left me. They each have a story.
Any number of nurses at camp--the nurse's shack was the best sleeping porch at camp, overlooking the hill above Papoose. I spent way too much time with the nurses as I was prone to "stomach aches" which were later diagnosed as gall stones.
One young female staffer whose father was a writer for the Cron., Baker maybe, who was also one of the few staff or campers from the South Bay.
The names of campers are too many to relate but there are a couple not in the Greta's Memorybook I would love to know where their story. I'll add to this list--please answer, add or amend.
Neil Rothman--my buddy in crime
Joanne Uhley--work camp friend
There are so many faces from camper and staff days. I wish we could scan in the session pictures with names and stories.
Here's a picture of me as a camp director!
Hal and Davida Brown--part of the admin of camp
Colbert Davis and Cheryl Cook Davis--also adminstation, and another camp couple
The Newman children: Aaron, Ruth, Marshall and Carol
Ray Lefevre--one tough guy
Randy Georgi--center of art and music
Rob and Nan Goldstein
"Pahoo", David Lincoln?
Showboat
Judy Carlson and her daughter Crissy- made camp more than a special place
Then there are people who faces I wish I could reproduce and share but whose names have left me. They each have a story.
Any number of nurses at camp--the nurse's shack was the best sleeping porch at camp, overlooking the hill above Papoose. I spent way too much time with the nurses as I was prone to "stomach aches" which were later diagnosed as gall stones.
One young female staffer whose father was a writer for the Cron., Baker maybe, who was also one of the few staff or campers from the South Bay.
The names of campers are too many to relate but there are a couple not in the Greta's Memorybook I would love to know where their story. I'll add to this list--please answer, add or amend.
Neil Rothman--my buddy in crime
Joanne Uhley--work camp friend
There are so many faces from camper and staff days. I wish we could scan in the session pictures with names and stories.
Here's a picture of me as a camp director!
Horses
Horses and other thoughts
I was not and am not a “horsy” person but at camp one of the best activities was horse back riding. Camp had a beautiful barn with standing stall, a storage room, feed room and the funkiest bathroom down one side. The other side was box stall and a tack room—the tack room had a crank telephone that reached the Newman’s house as well as the maintenance man’s house. I think Aaron made these or at least refurnished them.
When you had riding, you waited along the road, sitting on a log bench, for the counselor to come and get you. You could ride in the small ring, the big ring, or on a trail ride. Camp had almost 350 acres and lots of trails. They also shared adjoining land with the park, Hendy Woods and the ranch above, Highland Ranch.
The coolest rides were dinner rides. You’d pack a sack dinner and ride to somewhere like Hendy Grove, eat dinner and ride back—often pretty late. River rides were cool unless you were riding Rawhide, a Palomino pony who liked to roll in the water, or Brandy whose favorite trick was blotting and then releasing the saddle to slide to the side. I remember one ride where we got lost and were really late—Paula was on this ride.
I liked riding because of the skills and technology—I liked all the stuff, saddles, bridles, learning how to tie the special know so that you could release your horse even if they pulled back. I used to wake early to do junior wrangling, bringing in the horses, getting them brushed, and their feet cleaned. Fred would try to squash me against the wall of his stall when he wasn’t also trying to step on my feet. Horses in the early morning, the barn, manure, hay and feed, all bring back great memories.
As I mentioned, the only award at camp was for falling off a horse—didn’t happen often. At the last dinner Irv would share some thoughts and give out the award. I think the idea that doing something, even when not perfect, and persisting, was an underlying portion of camp. That and making choices.
In my later staff years I lived in the Wranglers shack, just about the most classic structure in camp. The first year the maintenance man, Renaldo, would come by with the milk pail and bang it along the walls yelling a variety of vile suggestions to wake Erik and I up. He was too cheery in the morning. He and his family had lived in, I believe, Ecuador on an agricultural exchange program—selling John Deere’s to the locals. He had four children; the only one I remember by name was Mickey- a tough little 2-year-old who could pull his father in a Radio Flyer Wagon.
Renaldo also had the habit of eating a gelatin capsule each morning with ground chilies and garlic—this made him quite odoriferous. Oh, and he smoked Ecuadorian cigarettes as well. Riding in the truck on a hundred degree day was exciting!
I loved hanging out by the barn—the surrounding oaks, the barn itself. One of the cooler areas on hot summers. Horses coming up from the pastures to drink at the water trough, huge old goldfish living on the algae, nibbling at the horses lips as they drank. Sweet memories.
Horse names- Rawhide, Tar Baby, Fred and Topman, Tawny, Tonka, Brandy, Gordon (a true inside joke), and so many more.
I was not and am not a “horsy” person but at camp one of the best activities was horse back riding. Camp had a beautiful barn with standing stall, a storage room, feed room and the funkiest bathroom down one side. The other side was box stall and a tack room—the tack room had a crank telephone that reached the Newman’s house as well as the maintenance man’s house. I think Aaron made these or at least refurnished them.
When you had riding, you waited along the road, sitting on a log bench, for the counselor to come and get you. You could ride in the small ring, the big ring, or on a trail ride. Camp had almost 350 acres and lots of trails. They also shared adjoining land with the park, Hendy Woods and the ranch above, Highland Ranch.
The coolest rides were dinner rides. You’d pack a sack dinner and ride to somewhere like Hendy Grove, eat dinner and ride back—often pretty late. River rides were cool unless you were riding Rawhide, a Palomino pony who liked to roll in the water, or Brandy whose favorite trick was blotting and then releasing the saddle to slide to the side. I remember one ride where we got lost and were really late—Paula was on this ride.
I liked riding because of the skills and technology—I liked all the stuff, saddles, bridles, learning how to tie the special know so that you could release your horse even if they pulled back. I used to wake early to do junior wrangling, bringing in the horses, getting them brushed, and their feet cleaned. Fred would try to squash me against the wall of his stall when he wasn’t also trying to step on my feet. Horses in the early morning, the barn, manure, hay and feed, all bring back great memories.
As I mentioned, the only award at camp was for falling off a horse—didn’t happen often. At the last dinner Irv would share some thoughts and give out the award. I think the idea that doing something, even when not perfect, and persisting, was an underlying portion of camp. That and making choices.
In my later staff years I lived in the Wranglers shack, just about the most classic structure in camp. The first year the maintenance man, Renaldo, would come by with the milk pail and bang it along the walls yelling a variety of vile suggestions to wake Erik and I up. He was too cheery in the morning. He and his family had lived in, I believe, Ecuador on an agricultural exchange program—selling John Deere’s to the locals. He had four children; the only one I remember by name was Mickey- a tough little 2-year-old who could pull his father in a Radio Flyer Wagon.
Renaldo also had the habit of eating a gelatin capsule each morning with ground chilies and garlic—this made him quite odoriferous. Oh, and he smoked Ecuadorian cigarettes as well. Riding in the truck on a hundred degree day was exciting!
I loved hanging out by the barn—the surrounding oaks, the barn itself. One of the cooler areas on hot summers. Horses coming up from the pastures to drink at the water trough, huge old goldfish living on the algae, nibbling at the horses lips as they drank. Sweet memories.
Horse names- Rawhide, Tar Baby, Fred and Topman, Tawny, Tonka, Brandy, Gordon (a true inside joke), and so many more.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Music
Music and Stories
Some of my fondest memories of camp revolve around music: playing recorder, singing songs, and just being immersed in the 60’s. The underlying politics of camp, the Jewishness, the joys and humor of staff played our in music. I loved singing in the dining hall after meals, funny songs, (Junior birdman), sad songs (Dona), and Irv songs (There’s a hole in my bucket and Vat is dis my Son). Colbert telling his saggy dog story about Sherry Ott (Swing low sweet Sherry Ott).r>
Campfire songs from the whole Bob Dylan songbook—via Peter, Paul and Mary. And songs in Hebrew, none of which I knew the meaning of but enjoyed the sound. Campfire circle was really important: stories about eh son whose father told him to build a house. The father sad, use the best materials, take you time and do it right. The son, wanted to save money so bought the cheaper stuff and cut corners. When the house was built the father said, “Son this house is my gift to you.” This is a short version and a sad tale, maybe a premonition of what life has become: to fast, planned obsolescence, and a throwaway culture.
Watching the sparks rise into the surrounding oaks, singing songs, sharing stories. There is something tribal, centered about fire, about telling stories. A sense of the continuing culture. And underlying this culture was a sense of the liberal nature of the promise of children—of being children. Irv wanted campers to do activities but not as lessons. I remember a discussion about “nature walks” and Irv telling a staff members that the point wasn’t to teach a lesson but to have the activity be what it was—although we learned things, riding, swimming, there was no test at the end, no competition.
One of the key aspects of camp was that lack of “awards” so common in other camps. The only award at camp was the 5 candy bars you’d get for falling off a horse—and Red Cross swimming cards. The purpose of camp was a different motivation, different as can be from our current focus on metrics and accountability. Something truly significant happened but it was not measurable without seeing that look, “Oh you went to camp” and tears would appear in their and my eyes.
Oh and I was reminded of Irv's Toilet Paper Speech--not really a story although I think there was a moral, about balance and consequences. I actually got to give the speech one year--I was not a public speaker was very embarrased and yet I could do a pretty good Irv non-the-less.
Thanks
Some of my fondest memories of camp revolve around music: playing recorder, singing songs, and just being immersed in the 60’s. The underlying politics of camp, the Jewishness, the joys and humor of staff played our in music. I loved singing in the dining hall after meals, funny songs, (Junior birdman), sad songs (Dona), and Irv songs (There’s a hole in my bucket and Vat is dis my Son). Colbert telling his saggy dog story about Sherry Ott (Swing low sweet Sherry Ott).r>
Campfire songs from the whole Bob Dylan songbook—via Peter, Paul and Mary. And songs in Hebrew, none of which I knew the meaning of but enjoyed the sound. Campfire circle was really important: stories about eh son whose father told him to build a house. The father sad, use the best materials, take you time and do it right. The son, wanted to save money so bought the cheaper stuff and cut corners. When the house was built the father said, “Son this house is my gift to you.” This is a short version and a sad tale, maybe a premonition of what life has become: to fast, planned obsolescence, and a throwaway culture.
Watching the sparks rise into the surrounding oaks, singing songs, sharing stories. There is something tribal, centered about fire, about telling stories. A sense of the continuing culture. And underlying this culture was a sense of the liberal nature of the promise of children—of being children. Irv wanted campers to do activities but not as lessons. I remember a discussion about “nature walks” and Irv telling a staff members that the point wasn’t to teach a lesson but to have the activity be what it was—although we learned things, riding, swimming, there was no test at the end, no competition.
One of the key aspects of camp was that lack of “awards” so common in other camps. The only award at camp was the 5 candy bars you’d get for falling off a horse—and Red Cross swimming cards. The purpose of camp was a different motivation, different as can be from our current focus on metrics and accountability. Something truly significant happened but it was not measurable without seeing that look, “Oh you went to camp” and tears would appear in their and my eyes.
Oh and I was reminded of Irv's Toilet Paper Speech--not really a story although I think there was a moral, about balance and consequences. I actually got to give the speech one year--I was not a public speaker was very embarrased and yet I could do a pretty good Irv non-the-less.
Thanks
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Strong Women
Strong Women
Obviously, people and places make camp. The center was Irv and Edna. As a camper I sort knew, absorbed, the philosophy of camp and, as an older camper, began to formulate a deeper understanding. I remember the experience and then tried to make sense of the why of the experience. I’m also aware that they found, recruited, a variety of other intense personalities that contributed to the experience as well. I didn’t really know how much Edna created camp until my adults involvement, I was a camp staff member for four years from ‘75-‘79.
Edna was, as Irv always said, “The Director’s Director.” In many ways Irv was in charge, up front, while Edna was the heart and soul. She was a quiet and yet forceful. I have so many instances where her presence was felt. Little things—for five years I spent all summer at camp, all three sessions, nine complete weeks. By the middle of second session my interest in some activities was lagging and Edna must have observed this because she would find me and schedule me into doing other things, little tasks, helping in the kitchen, working on a variety projects- mopping the dining hall with Marshall for example.
I really valued this experience and it has profoundly colored my life and profession. I like doing things and understanding the behind the scenes nature of making things happen. The mundane is interesting. I learned how the sand pool filters worked from Aaron and Colbert, I helped plumb the new laundry room, I think I spent much of third session each year assisting the maintenance man in his chores-- I could relight a water heater and unplug a toilet. I knew, and still would know, how the water systems of camp worked—and spent time fixing leaks and cleaning tanks, or heading up the spring road to dig out the spring box. My brain liked as this stuff and in many cases Edna was the instigator. Her sense of what was happening outside her direct vision was amazing. The other person who also helped make camp special in this way was Judy Carlson (sp?).
Judy was an absolutely amazing person who came to camp to “Help get things started” along with her daughter Crissy, arriving for the staff training week and first session. She had the most amazing ability to know things through some extra sense about what was happening, particularly in the interpersonal relations at camp. I have this memory of sitting, as a staff member; on the front porch of maybe the fours cabin and having her come chat with me.
One of the intangibles of camp, and the experience, was the community. How people got along during intense times, through internals and external issues, was key. Judy was a teacher on the peninsula, special education I think, and had both a skill and a talent for brief focused, pithy conversations. This was not chatty counseling, it was a "kernel conversation": “this is what I see, this is what needs to happen,” but in a way that was very empowering because I trusted her insight, there was no hidden agenda, she spoke the truth.
Camp depended on a series of strong women- administration and camp staff. Women who provided an insight into how we make something like this and the programmatic skill to make this happen. I have stayed fond of this style, tried to understand and support this in my own life. It’s the mundane, the simple that’s significant. The insightful conversation, the easy action to solve a problem, without credit or even a visible role. So to the powerful sense of place we add strong women and there were many: Carol Newman, Cheryl Cook/Davis, Davida Brown, and Selina (whose last name I can’t remember). And at the head of the table was Edna Newman.
Obviously, people and places make camp. The center was Irv and Edna. As a camper I sort knew, absorbed, the philosophy of camp and, as an older camper, began to formulate a deeper understanding. I remember the experience and then tried to make sense of the why of the experience. I’m also aware that they found, recruited, a variety of other intense personalities that contributed to the experience as well. I didn’t really know how much Edna created camp until my adults involvement, I was a camp staff member for four years from ‘75-‘79.
Edna was, as Irv always said, “The Director’s Director.” In many ways Irv was in charge, up front, while Edna was the heart and soul. She was a quiet and yet forceful. I have so many instances where her presence was felt. Little things—for five years I spent all summer at camp, all three sessions, nine complete weeks. By the middle of second session my interest in some activities was lagging and Edna must have observed this because she would find me and schedule me into doing other things, little tasks, helping in the kitchen, working on a variety projects- mopping the dining hall with Marshall for example.
I really valued this experience and it has profoundly colored my life and profession. I like doing things and understanding the behind the scenes nature of making things happen. The mundane is interesting. I learned how the sand pool filters worked from Aaron and Colbert, I helped plumb the new laundry room, I think I spent much of third session each year assisting the maintenance man in his chores-- I could relight a water heater and unplug a toilet. I knew, and still would know, how the water systems of camp worked—and spent time fixing leaks and cleaning tanks, or heading up the spring road to dig out the spring box. My brain liked as this stuff and in many cases Edna was the instigator. Her sense of what was happening outside her direct vision was amazing. The other person who also helped make camp special in this way was Judy Carlson (sp?).
Judy was an absolutely amazing person who came to camp to “Help get things started” along with her daughter Crissy, arriving for the staff training week and first session. She had the most amazing ability to know things through some extra sense about what was happening, particularly in the interpersonal relations at camp. I have this memory of sitting, as a staff member; on the front porch of maybe the fours cabin and having her come chat with me.
One of the intangibles of camp, and the experience, was the community. How people got along during intense times, through internals and external issues, was key. Judy was a teacher on the peninsula, special education I think, and had both a skill and a talent for brief focused, pithy conversations. This was not chatty counseling, it was a "kernel conversation": “this is what I see, this is what needs to happen,” but in a way that was very empowering because I trusted her insight, there was no hidden agenda, she spoke the truth.
Camp depended on a series of strong women- administration and camp staff. Women who provided an insight into how we make something like this and the programmatic skill to make this happen. I have stayed fond of this style, tried to understand and support this in my own life. It’s the mundane, the simple that’s significant. The insightful conversation, the easy action to solve a problem, without credit or even a visible role. So to the powerful sense of place we add strong women and there were many: Carol Newman, Cheryl Cook/Davis, Davida Brown, and Selina (whose last name I can’t remember). And at the head of the table was Edna Newman.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Redwoods
Redwood Trees
I love the redwoods! Camp had a lot of redwoods and a couple of groves, one of the best small groves was just to the right of the road coming up to camp from the river. There was a couple of old stumps that would have made decent cabin foundations, each surrounded by a fairy ring of smaller trees. They say redwoods never really die as their root system can spring back up with lots of sprouts. Many of the trees cut with springboards had enough energy to sprout a ring of 10-20 trees around the periphery. These would grow to become large trees in there own right and, as the old stump didn’t decompose, the stump formed a platform you could walk around inside. A couple of people have build literal “treehouses” from these formations. One house I visited later in life used this feature to hold their water tank
There were also many large trees along the Hendy Woods trails—Edna had a favorite along the road, three trees fused together well over 200 feet tall and each tree about 3-4 feet in diameter. I have a nice picture in my mind of this walk. Redwood were also iconic of the area and the valley-so many trees were logged and hauled off but maybe because of the Anderson’s valley isolation, a few more were saved in both public and private lands.
Buildings at camp were mostly redwood—the dining hall was an amazing building built by a true craftsman of the time. The two-story building was set on a fairy step hillside overlooking the pasture below. The top floor—level with the main camp area—was large enough to set 120 people at long redwood tables. Each table made from three-inch thick planks, who knows how wide. The ceiling was an intricate intertwining weaving of wood to make the roof of the vaulted ceiling--King post trusses holding up the span of 35 or so feet. At the end was a river-rock fireplace, rarely used in summers. The bottom floor, reached by a stairs to the side, was the canteen. The canteen was the home of music, camper council, and had a couple of feature—beautiful fireplace, an ld bar with a great hunter-horse with the title, First Over the Bar” which took me a few years to understand, and little cubbies where the former resort tenants could keep their bottle. Casement windows opened to a patio overlooking a rail fence and the trail to the campfire circle.
I was a memory of Nancy sitting on or near the piano, arguing about the six-inch rule, or something akin, during a camper council.
The cabins were mostly redwood as well—well-worn cabins with red roll roofs, front porches and stairs that invited cabin group to sit out front. Different building had a different character. Some were
single cabins holding small group whereas some were longer and larger. They formed a ring half way around the quad. The dining hall, the story-telling tree (California Live oak) and the swimming pool forming the other side.
Along the entrance into camp was one of the best building, the Maintenance shed—my favorite handout as an older camper as well and as a staff member. Great old building, concrete fool, wooden door latch well worn with year of hands.
And here's another of my current camp pictures--modeling the emergency poncho.
I love the redwoods! Camp had a lot of redwoods and a couple of groves, one of the best small groves was just to the right of the road coming up to camp from the river. There was a couple of old stumps that would have made decent cabin foundations, each surrounded by a fairy ring of smaller trees. They say redwoods never really die as their root system can spring back up with lots of sprouts. Many of the trees cut with springboards had enough energy to sprout a ring of 10-20 trees around the periphery. These would grow to become large trees in there own right and, as the old stump didn’t decompose, the stump formed a platform you could walk around inside. A couple of people have build literal “treehouses” from these formations. One house I visited later in life used this feature to hold their water tank
There were also many large trees along the Hendy Woods trails—Edna had a favorite along the road, three trees fused together well over 200 feet tall and each tree about 3-4 feet in diameter. I have a nice picture in my mind of this walk. Redwood were also iconic of the area and the valley-so many trees were logged and hauled off but maybe because of the Anderson’s valley isolation, a few more were saved in both public and private lands.
Buildings at camp were mostly redwood—the dining hall was an amazing building built by a true craftsman of the time. The two-story building was set on a fairy step hillside overlooking the pasture below. The top floor—level with the main camp area—was large enough to set 120 people at long redwood tables. Each table made from three-inch thick planks, who knows how wide. The ceiling was an intricate intertwining weaving of wood to make the roof of the vaulted ceiling--King post trusses holding up the span of 35 or so feet. At the end was a river-rock fireplace, rarely used in summers. The bottom floor, reached by a stairs to the side, was the canteen. The canteen was the home of music, camper council, and had a couple of feature—beautiful fireplace, an ld bar with a great hunter-horse with the title, First Over the Bar” which took me a few years to understand, and little cubbies where the former resort tenants could keep their bottle. Casement windows opened to a patio overlooking a rail fence and the trail to the campfire circle.
I was a memory of Nancy sitting on or near the piano, arguing about the six-inch rule, or something akin, during a camper council.
The cabins were mostly redwood as well—well-worn cabins with red roll roofs, front porches and stairs that invited cabin group to sit out front. Different building had a different character. Some were
single cabins holding small group whereas some were longer and larger. They formed a ring half way around the quad. The dining hall, the story-telling tree (California Live oak) and the swimming pool forming the other side.Along the entrance into camp was one of the best building, the Maintenance shed—my favorite handout as an older camper as well and as a staff member. Great old building, concrete fool, wooden door latch well worn with year of hands.
And here's another of my current camp pictures--modeling the emergency poncho.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Buttslides
People, places and stories.
There are so many campers, staff and stories that flood my brain as I try to think of 'Iconic" pieces of camp-ness. Rob's Christian skit, "I love a parade, Showboats "love potion number nine", or Pahoos' Buttslides.
Pahoo, a parrot named DNA, his teepee by the laundry, lights powered by a car battery. He was a, I guess, typical camp character whose evening activity of choice included Buttslides. Each evening staff would stand up and announce what they would do for an activity, typical sing-along, nature walk, a mixture of quiet and active. Buttslides appealed to a few of us. Hike out the Hendy Woods road and look for a likely place, steep, and slide on your bottom down the hill.
In most places the hill was not steep enough to create a spontaneous, continuous slide. In a few places, under dark redwoods, near the river, the slop approached 75 degrees.
One night we slide down and the maybe a 200 foot drop overall and we reached a point where it was clear the what remained was vertical—just not clear as to how far. We couldn’t really hear the river but it was below, no moon and, of course, no flashlights. That would be cheating.
I was in the lead next to Pahoo (I think his name was David Lincoln, or something to that affect) and we discussed the next move. Crawling up hill was out, horizontal didn’t really seem to be an option either. So we dropped.
It was maybe 15-20 feet to the gravel of the river. To this day I have the clear impression that he couldn’t see at night and had never slide down this, or any other, area near where we were. This was the rule of Buttslides.
I have for years wondered what made this make sense to me, at the time or later. There was something scary and foolish, I get that, but there was also another level of competence and confidence that played in here as well.
And Pahoo, from the Potch-en-tocious tribe, lives on.
There are so many campers, staff and stories that flood my brain as I try to think of 'Iconic" pieces of camp-ness. Rob's Christian skit, "I love a parade, Showboats "love potion number nine", or Pahoos' Buttslides.
Pahoo, a parrot named DNA, his teepee by the laundry, lights powered by a car battery. He was a, I guess, typical camp character whose evening activity of choice included Buttslides. Each evening staff would stand up and announce what they would do for an activity, typical sing-along, nature walk, a mixture of quiet and active. Buttslides appealed to a few of us. Hike out the Hendy Woods road and look for a likely place, steep, and slide on your bottom down the hill.
In most places the hill was not steep enough to create a spontaneous, continuous slide. In a few places, under dark redwoods, near the river, the slop approached 75 degrees.
One night we slide down and the maybe a 200 foot drop overall and we reached a point where it was clear the what remained was vertical—just not clear as to how far. We couldn’t really hear the river but it was below, no moon and, of course, no flashlights. That would be cheating.
I was in the lead next to Pahoo (I think his name was David Lincoln, or something to that affect) and we discussed the next move. Crawling up hill was out, horizontal didn’t really seem to be an option either. So we dropped.
It was maybe 15-20 feet to the gravel of the river. To this day I have the clear impression that he couldn’t see at night and had never slide down this, or any other, area near where we were. This was the rule of Buttslides.
I have for years wondered what made this make sense to me, at the time or later. There was something scary and foolish, I get that, but there was also another level of competence and confidence that played in here as well.
And Pahoo, from the Potch-en-tocious tribe, lives on.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Geography
Camp's Geography
The geography of camp was one of the most important elements of camp culture. Papoose, Mary Crick's place, The Spring, the barbecue pit. Each place had a sense of place and history, Benny-Rays was named for real people although the story of the naming fades. Part of the sense of connection came from learning these names, these stories. ERN was located in an arm of the Navarro river on the North Coast of California, Mendocino Co., in the Anderson Valley. The valley had a few small towns, Philo (500), Booneville (750, counting sheep) and other smaller areas, Navarro. The river emptied into the ocean at Navarro by the Sea, very near the junction of Hwy 1 and 128.
Camp geography was the river, a floodplain shelf (maybe 60 acres), main building on a knoll overlooking the river and floodplain (another 40), and the uplands. To the North is one of a few isolated redwoods groves not on the coast, Hendy Woods. The land comprised about 320 acres in a rectangle with a smaller rectangle centered on top. Across the river was Ray's Resort, a great collection of funky cabins and building-this was a different aspect to California than most people think. Small rural towns, a lumber mill in Philo, blue-collar summer resorts along a small coastal river.
Anderson Valley had one claim to fame, Booneville was so isolated pre-WW II, that they developed a regional language, a way to talk about outsiders when they were around, another form of geography, "Boontling."
Isolation was a theme of the geography-no TV, very little radio, music was local and self-made or powered a dances on a Bogen amp through Jensen loudspeakers--not popular with the folks at Ray's who wanted to hear their frogs more than Cream or The Doors--I'll share more about dances I'm sure, later.
The small village of Mendocino is a little more difficult to explain--if you've watched "Murder She Wrote" you've seen the town, backwards to make it look like the East Coast. It was an artist colony, a collection of very weather-worn redwood houses, lichen encrusted fences, falling into decay, discovered as a great place to join eclectic forces. One great shop was in an old water tower-water being at a premium along the north coast.
Not Fort Bragg to the north, a conservative mill town, it had a coffee shop in the beat tradition, small cafes, art galleries, an art institute, a guy with the most incredible record, collection and an old Macintosh (when this was not a computer) playing music out his storefront on a rare fog-free sunny day.
One of the highlights of staying between session was the time after the campers left and those staying over went to Mendocino for the day. Edna was in charge (as she actually was anyway, the "Director's Director) with a few camp staff not off for the 24 hours. We were dropped off in town, had 25 cents to spend on soda, candy, whatever. One of my very good buddies and I thought we'd put our NiHi into paper bags and walk the streets as little kid drunks, we were pretty sophisticated in the ways of the world, and tried to impress the locals, none were more impressed that he and I. It was a time of silliness and somehow it also fit the humor of the camp (more on this as well) as well as the intellect of developing youth.
Summer access to camp was across an old flatcar placed by a local engineer and in the winter you parked in a small lot across the river and hiked in, a cross the "Swinging Bridge" no joke. Maybe 150 long and 45 feet up, built in the 40's after of the local, who at the time owned the land on both sides of the river, visited SF to see the amazing Golden Gate. He returned home, thought about it, may did some calculations and between to cliffs, built a model suspension bridge. I'm afraid of heights (really more afraid of falling but I quibble) and coming to camp in the winter as I did often as an adult was the subject of abject terror! One year a couple of the boards were missing near the center of the span...I digress. I did want to mention of couple of resources for those more interested in others' stories The ERN Memory Book is a great to start as well as link to a
collection of recent camp pictures. For a sense of old before camp, the digital library at UC has a collection of resort pictures, back and white of course, of camp and the area.One of the pictures is of the best swimming, natural, area along the river. As a kid swimming was so important and then as an adult as well.
Thanks ever so much. Ryan
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Starting the conversation
Greetings to all who find this. My purpose is to share thoughts, feelings, memories about one of the central (maybe the most central) aspect of my life: El Rancho Navarro. A camp near Philo CA, in the Anderson Valley along the Navarro River.
Let me first state that I know many others share, overlap, in my time and memories and that there are differences between what I experienced in the same time as others. Let me also state that I want this conversation to be thematic and positive. I'm really more interested in the network. If you have thoughts and wish to share, that would be wonderful!
I'm building on the shoulders of giants--Irv and Edna Newman, and a host of people who caught the vision, contributed their time, their ideas and energy to make this place "real" as something that mattered to many.
I also have a fading memory and hope that part of this conversation generates more thoughts and memories from others (names, experiences, traditions.)
I not the authority here- really the Newman's children have a greater perspective than I--but I spent something like two years of my youth, my life, at camp. I learned much of what matters to me at camp. To say I miss this world is so insufficient. Like a great book you wish would continue, you begin re-reading...so this is a reading.
And last I must say, I have the greatest respect for many living people I will mention as I go along. These are my memories, as accurate as 30-40 year- old memories can be--please add, correct, and augment! I'll make correction and add as ideas and information comes along. So here we go...
I first arrived at ERN, (camp, El Rancho Navarro) in the summer of '65 , I think (I was seven years old). I first attended for just third session, we were late in signing up, at the suggestion of my Dad's officemate, Ed Lewis, whose kids had attended camp. Ed and his family were Jewish and while camp was mostly Jewish kids, I was not and never felt this was an issue for the next 15 years.
I remember my parents pulling up the car, hot and dusty, in front of what I would learn was Irv's outside office. Colbert Davis greeted us, Irv was down in the city picking up the next load of kids from a parking lot near the Ferry Building, and we unloaded my luggage.
I have a picture I'll try to post of Cole: navy hat, white, shorts, always shorts I habit I still share, skinny, big smile and African American. He assured me things were okay (I wasn't all that sure, and we piled my luggage near the spot where the other kids luggage would land. That year I hat a funny straw hat, my Mom's idea, and an old Navy duffel from my Dad's collection. My folks left and the next things I remember was the sound of diesels coming up the road--how those buses made the trip was a bit of a miracle.
We all got organized, cabin piles and headed to lunch--sandwiches and soup--it held well in the heat and allowed for flexibility in timing. From that moment on I was immersed. I don't remember a lot from my first year (Rob Goldstein maybe) and being in the 8's. I must have been impressed and returned for 2 sessions the next year and 3 sessions for the next five.
So we begin. Oh and the explanation of this picture? I'm the one in the foreground, with the radio, as a camp director. Fun! We're outside the dining hall at the Oregon 4-H center singing a song by the name of "Super Lizard."
Let me first state that I know many others share, overlap, in my time and memories and that there are differences between what I experienced in the same time as others. Let me also state that I want this conversation to be thematic and positive. I'm really more interested in the network. If you have thoughts and wish to share, that would be wonderful!
I'm building on the shoulders of giants--Irv and Edna Newman, and a host of people who caught the vision, contributed their time, their ideas and energy to make this place "real" as something that mattered to many.
I also have a fading memory and hope that part of this conversation generates more thoughts and memories from others (names, experiences, traditions.)
I not the authority here- really the Newman's children have a greater perspective than I--but I spent something like two years of my youth, my life, at camp. I learned much of what matters to me at camp. To say I miss this world is so insufficient. Like a great book you wish would continue, you begin re-reading...so this is a reading.
And last I must say, I have the greatest respect for many living people I will mention as I go along. These are my memories, as accurate as 30-40 year- old memories can be--please add, correct, and augment! I'll make correction and add as ideas and information comes along. So here we go...
I first arrived at ERN, (camp, El Rancho Navarro) in the summer of '65 , I think (I was seven years old). I first attended for just third session, we were late in signing up, at the suggestion of my Dad's officemate, Ed Lewis, whose kids had attended camp. Ed and his family were Jewish and while camp was mostly Jewish kids, I was not and never felt this was an issue for the next 15 years.
I remember my parents pulling up the car, hot and dusty, in front of what I would learn was Irv's outside office. Colbert Davis greeted us, Irv was down in the city picking up the next load of kids from a parking lot near the Ferry Building, and we unloaded my luggage.
I have a picture I'll try to post of Cole: navy hat, white, shorts, always shorts I habit I still share, skinny, big smile and African American. He assured me things were okay (I wasn't all that sure, and we piled my luggage near the spot where the other kids luggage would land. That year I hat a funny straw hat, my Mom's idea, and an old Navy duffel from my Dad's collection. My folks left and the next things I remember was the sound of diesels coming up the road--how those buses made the trip was a bit of a miracle.
We all got organized, cabin piles and headed to lunch--sandwiches and soup--it held well in the heat and allowed for flexibility in timing. From that moment on I was immersed. I don't remember a lot from my first year (Rob Goldstein maybe) and being in the 8's. I must have been impressed and returned for 2 sessions the next year and 3 sessions for the next five.
So we begin. Oh and the explanation of this picture? I'm the one in the foreground, with the radio, as a camp director. Fun! We're outside the dining hall at the Oregon 4-H center singing a song by the name of "Super Lizard."
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