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

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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!

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.