The Newman's house was pretty much off limits to campers and it wasn't until I was an adult, returning camp staff, that I got to see much of the inner world. I was thinking of Irv the other day, sitting in his chair, smoking a pipe and cracking nuts in an old screw-driven nutcracker. A bowl of nuts was always on the coffee table, and the nutcracker had a large threaded shaft that protruded into a bowl just large enough to hold a walnut--very effective and made a satisfying crack.
He would sit and puff on this pipe and talk. He talked about a lot of things, about camp, his upbringing, his hopes and vision for creating an environment for youth that did something different, not really clearly described in the positive as much as in terms of what it would not be--academic, awards, a sense that he had too many camp experiences with other settings and circumstances driven by values to which he did not adhere.
I remember a fairly animated conversation about an activity called, Nature hikes. Someone proposed to make them more instructive--they were often lead by staff with little or no science background and the point was made that they were opportunities to teach some science. Irv's response was pretty pointed and the gist was no teaching, campers see this enough in other settings. I've tried this on myself a number of times as I've thought about the explanation for this response. In part because we obviously taught some things, swimming, riding, and yet in this case he was adamant. I can see that putting on your creekwalk shoes and heading down to the Navarro was intrinsically fun, engaging and definitely not sciency. Even staff with fairly strong science backgrounds left this be. I can honestly say that in the camper life I experienced a lot but learned very little memorized content.
So what was the genesis of this? I have some inkling that the experiential learning philosophy was in part the foundation--I did become a scientist/teacher. The focus was on doing, on being, on activities, on responsibility, not on adults teaching in a direct sense an academic content. Know that I have the background and interest to ask why, I can no longer ask.
I also had a similar discussion with him about why he had me teaching arts and crafts as well.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Beatles, Music and Dances
I credit Marshall, and the old Bogen amp and turntable, for much of my social prowess at camp. I love, still do, music, still play almost all the record from my younger camp years. Learned about and still enjoy old Hot Tuna from Marshall's reference to their performance on the "Last Days at the Fillmore" Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning (and this was a memory from staff days he has informed me, not camper.). And music was much of the soul of the times. I'm seeing a new generation Beatles fans through "new" releases of really old music (it really should be in the public domain by now). I do wish there was a better sense of the context for this music within it's time. Camp was Bob Dylan and Peter, Paul and Mary and Dylan gave many song writers license to write wonderful and strange songs.
And the thoughts of campfire and actually signing. And singing around the campfire was, at least to me, a more meaningful sense of morality than more purported moral systems. Blow'n in the Wind has had more impact than almost any single piece of writing I can imagine. If I had a Hammer, Dona, Taps...
Of course the silly and fun song, singing loud and badly in the dining hall. It's Irving Newman (Colbert Davis) time imparted a tradition in song--it's silly, sweet, a sense of the place, of the culture. As was ShowBoat teaching Love Potion Number Nine. And Bob and Colbert's strange dirge birthday song--which showed up at my camp last year. Camps are a continua not well understood by physists.
And who was ShowBoat really--sort of like PaHoo--he was camp, made camp what it was.
I know I was a different too. I was terrified to get up and speak in the dining hall--not just nervous, terrified! This was a trait that I carried well into adulthood. But I did get up and do a couple of PSA's and I also gave the infamous "Toilet Paper" speech once.
But it was music that opened doors, made me feel things, see things. Setting up--I can still pictures the stage when they completed dramuda (Drama, Music and Dance) and hanging the speakers along the back wall. And albums, the turntable. Playing records on the turntable. Picking meaningful songs--almost all Marshall's records whcih I'm guessing he still has. Although I do wonder about his sanity when disco came along...
And girls and dancing...
And the thoughts of campfire and actually signing. And singing around the campfire was, at least to me, a more meaningful sense of morality than more purported moral systems. Blow'n in the Wind has had more impact than almost any single piece of writing I can imagine. If I had a Hammer, Dona, Taps...
Of course the silly and fun song, singing loud and badly in the dining hall. It's Irving Newman (Colbert Davis) time imparted a tradition in song--it's silly, sweet, a sense of the place, of the culture. As was ShowBoat teaching Love Potion Number Nine. And Bob and Colbert's strange dirge birthday song--which showed up at my camp last year. Camps are a continua not well understood by physists.
And who was ShowBoat really--sort of like PaHoo--he was camp, made camp what it was.
I know I was a different too. I was terrified to get up and speak in the dining hall--not just nervous, terrified! This was a trait that I carried well into adulthood. But I did get up and do a couple of PSA's and I also gave the infamous "Toilet Paper" speech once.
But it was music that opened doors, made me feel things, see things. Setting up--I can still pictures the stage when they completed dramuda (Drama, Music and Dance) and hanging the speakers along the back wall. And albums, the turntable. Playing records on the turntable. Picking meaningful songs--almost all Marshall's records whcih I'm guessing he still has. Although I do wonder about his sanity when disco came along...
And girls and dancing...
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
I see it's been quite awhile since I wrote an essay- this is due in part to saying much of what I wanted to include and also continuing the "chewing" process of making meaning, of finding thoughts and elements that occur through the long lens of now forty or more years. Snipettes arrive, swirl around and leave. The Harlem (Nancy) sisters, Paula Bachus, now a vet in Ashland, pamper campers and race relations, my career as a communitarian, ethics and the ethos of camp, field-stripping cigarettes, the Italian Joke tree, Uncle Ray-Ray, Walled-Off Hysteria, camper council, Look bars, ShowBoat, I love a parade, Junior wranglers.
And some times I find the sense of gentleness, the sense of meaningful-ness as I think not just about the hot summer days, or of the people and places that made this matter to me. Matter enough to still think about this 40 years later.
Where is Neal Rothman?
Ryan
And some times I find the sense of gentleness, the sense of meaningful-ness as I think not just about the hot summer days, or of the people and places that made this matter to me. Matter enough to still think about this 40 years later.
Where is Neal Rothman?
Ryan
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I'm very afraid of heights, or really I'm afraid of falling and hurting myself and I have a very vivid imagination so crossing the swinging bridge was a trial at best. I was most comfortable crossing at night--what you can't see can't hrut you. But one evening I remember stepping into one of the missing planks, falling forward, just catching myself--I about died! Here's a more modern pictures of the bridge--I don't really know where I got it from. It's viewing from the Indian creek/Philo side towards camp.
I'd guess its 40 feet from the bottom of the bridge to the river bank. I highest I saw the river was about 5 feet below the bridge but I hear it's been higher. The Navarro, like many rivers in California, is small in the summer but drains a fairly large area so when it really rains it comes up fast!
I'm also guessing it's about 150 feet long. In the old days there was a small parking lot because in the winter this was the access. I visited camp a lot in winter time, I worked for Irv and Edna during my breaks as a way to have a place to stay--they had an informal deal, if you worked in the mornings, cutting fire wood, whatever for the maintenance man, you could stay. This was perfect for me as I loved both the place and the work. But it did mean dealing with the swinging bridge.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Consequences and relationships
Friends and relationships
I have sort-of avoided talking too much about people except as they have created the place and personality of ERN. In particularly, Irv and Edna created the place, but by the time I came along, even as a camper and more as a staff member, the personality of camp was much more Judy and Hall, Colbert and Cheryl. As I reflect on their policy and philosophy I’m sure I don’t understand how this all got played out—I know there were conversations, maybe forma\l planning, but even as an adult involved some of it wasn’t transparent, and therefore, it’s a little difficult to write about. But it created camp, it created the environment whose elements I wish to explore and perhaps, in a variety of venues, create.
One window certainly came to me as I got kicked out at the age of 14, I think. It was really a stupid series of the kinds of events that played out over the next few years of my life. I was both a follower as well as the instigator of the events, but much like to experience of falling down, you often see it but have little control as it happens.
And the events really don’t matter, except for the fact that there were few rules at camp but if you violated them you were gone. I have to admit I don’t know of very many people violating the major rules but suffice to say, I did.
And the piece of the puzzle was the process and outcomes of the event. The day after I was pretty much isolated from the other campers but it was pretty much known that I was heading home—I had my one and only heart to heart contact with Nancy behind the A and C but little other conversations.
At eh end of the long day, late that night I was called into the programming office off the dining hall and Colbert, Cheryl, Irv and Edna were all there. I remember of sort of calm resignation to the whole experience—I know what had happened, I new the consequences, what I wasn’t prepared for the reaction of the adults in the room.
I guess I hadn’t had very many people care about me at that point in my life. I lived in an emotionally isolated world for the most part and wasn’t connected to many adults, few relatives, few role models, and no mentors. And they were more torn up about the events and the consequences than I was. I have this whole exchange, till after 34 years, emblazoned on my brain.
Of course Irv simply stated that they couldn’t trust me any more than therefore I had to go home. And I knew this, no surprise. But Edna had tears in her eyes, and Colbert was standing quickly. The fact that they cared, well beyond the business of running a camp, cared about me should not have been shocking but it was. And then Irv said, if you can prove to us you are trustworthy, then you will be welcomed back. And In the summer of 1976 I met with Irv and was welcomed back as a maintenance assistant working with Reynaldo at camp. And it was like I’d never left.
I have sort-of avoided talking too much about people except as they have created the place and personality of ERN. In particularly, Irv and Edna created the place, but by the time I came along, even as a camper and more as a staff member, the personality of camp was much more Judy and Hall, Colbert and Cheryl. As I reflect on their policy and philosophy I’m sure I don’t understand how this all got played out—I know there were conversations, maybe forma\l planning, but even as an adult involved some of it wasn’t transparent, and therefore, it’s a little difficult to write about. But it created camp, it created the environment whose elements I wish to explore and perhaps, in a variety of venues, create.
One window certainly came to me as I got kicked out at the age of 14, I think. It was really a stupid series of the kinds of events that played out over the next few years of my life. I was both a follower as well as the instigator of the events, but much like to experience of falling down, you often see it but have little control as it happens.
And the events really don’t matter, except for the fact that there were few rules at camp but if you violated them you were gone. I have to admit I don’t know of very many people violating the major rules but suffice to say, I did.
And the piece of the puzzle was the process and outcomes of the event. The day after I was pretty much isolated from the other campers but it was pretty much known that I was heading home—I had my one and only heart to heart contact with Nancy behind the A and C but little other conversations.
At eh end of the long day, late that night I was called into the programming office off the dining hall and Colbert, Cheryl, Irv and Edna were all there. I remember of sort of calm resignation to the whole experience—I know what had happened, I new the consequences, what I wasn’t prepared for the reaction of the adults in the room.
I guess I hadn’t had very many people care about me at that point in my life. I lived in an emotionally isolated world for the most part and wasn’t connected to many adults, few relatives, few role models, and no mentors. And they were more torn up about the events and the consequences than I was. I have this whole exchange, till after 34 years, emblazoned on my brain.
Of course Irv simply stated that they couldn’t trust me any more than therefore I had to go home. And I knew this, no surprise. But Edna had tears in her eyes, and Colbert was standing quickly. The fact that they cared, well beyond the business of running a camp, cared about me should not have been shocking but it was. And then Irv said, if you can prove to us you are trustworthy, then you will be welcomed back. And In the summer of 1976 I met with Irv and was welcomed back as a maintenance assistant working with Reynaldo at camp. And it was like I’d never left.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Camp coffee
Coffee percolator
I can’t make percolator coffee without thinking of Edna. We just came back from a coast camping trip, Labor Day tradition, and we have an old Colman stove and a Corning coffee percolator. The stove is a cantankerous beast and getting up each morning, getting the stove to work properly and making coffee is a camping tradition. Because I’m the only one who can make the stove work, I get up early.
And I make percolator coffee—I don’t do this at home. Percolator if strong, hot and very dark coffee compared to the drip systems. The only similar styles would be boiled or cowboy coffee and staying in the Newman’s house at camp we made percolator coffee. Edna made good strong, get up in the morning coffee. I think it was a Faberware plug in coffee maker. All stainless steel, automatic. Your only choices would be how much coffee and how much water. In later year we bought coffee in Fort Bragg to use, one of the first coffee roasters, a hot air system, I forget the name, good coffee.
But Edna used canned coffee—don’t remember a brand.
The other tradition was making iced coffee. In the late afternoon she would take the cold coffee from the morning and create a great afternoon pick-me-up. To this day I like iced coffee—of course I was too much sugar, lots of milk, even ice cream. But the key is strong coffee. And every time I pull out the camping gear, head to somewhere with the family, and get up early to make the coffee, I think of Edna.
Funny where memories live and are reborn.
I can’t make percolator coffee without thinking of Edna. We just came back from a coast camping trip, Labor Day tradition, and we have an old Colman stove and a Corning coffee percolator. The stove is a cantankerous beast and getting up each morning, getting the stove to work properly and making coffee is a camping tradition. Because I’m the only one who can make the stove work, I get up early.
And I make percolator coffee—I don’t do this at home. Percolator if strong, hot and very dark coffee compared to the drip systems. The only similar styles would be boiled or cowboy coffee and staying in the Newman’s house at camp we made percolator coffee. Edna made good strong, get up in the morning coffee. I think it was a Faberware plug in coffee maker. All stainless steel, automatic. Your only choices would be how much coffee and how much water. In later year we bought coffee in Fort Bragg to use, one of the first coffee roasters, a hot air system, I forget the name, good coffee.
But Edna used canned coffee—don’t remember a brand.
The other tradition was making iced coffee. In the late afternoon she would take the cold coffee from the morning and create a great afternoon pick-me-up. To this day I like iced coffee—of course I was too much sugar, lots of milk, even ice cream. But the key is strong coffee. And every time I pull out the camping gear, head to somewhere with the family, and get up early to make the coffee, I think of Edna.
Funny where memories live and are reborn.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Rain birds of Summer
I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart about the sound of rain birds. Rain Birds are a brand of sprinkler once very common on irrigations systems, not your typical yard sprinkler, not the hyper plastic things that annoy summer lawns, rain birds are strong and debate. They slowly swing until the spring stops the motion and then fall towards the stream of water and in a perfect balancing act, they strike the water to force a slow incremental turn, a few degrees. The strike interrupts the strong stream to make a sideways spray and the stream, spray and the interruption make sure that each piece of ground receives its allotment of water. Large rain birds swing with a heartbeat, shtuck, shtuck. Small rain birds swing at a slightly faster rate, tucktucktuck...
All summer they water the lawns and irrigated the field of ERN. They worked, mostly, diligently until the pump sucked up a tadpole to set towards the tip of the spray and clog the spray or a small rock would lodge and I’d wander by and clean the orifice of the leftover froglet and the rain bird would return to work.
If the rain birds on the quad stopped that meant that something had gone wrong in the complex system to fed water from the Navarro, through the large pipes by the pastures and then up the hill. Blown pipe, very bad, blown irrigation line, not too bad. Water was and is life in fire rich California. The irrigated areas made a small fire break incase of a wildfire. To have the green surrounding you meant you didn’t have to fear as much.
Chores for me was pulling pipe—to think of a bunch of city kids pulling irrigation pipe. What a great resume comment this would make, BA, MS, PhD, Pipe-puller. I loved the huge balanced aluminum pipe, trying to not drag the rain bird and standpipe through the mud and grass, making sure the gaskets had stayed inside. Turning on the water and the thunk of each pipe seating along the line and then the slow pressure would build—rain birds before their first full spring-driven swing spin. Then the pressure reaches the point that they begin the work, hopefully.
I have Rain Birds around my yard—the blueberries and few other places. The solid brass reminds me of camp, of summer. It’s about time to open the value and return them to work.
All summer they water the lawns and irrigated the field of ERN. They worked, mostly, diligently until the pump sucked up a tadpole to set towards the tip of the spray and clog the spray or a small rock would lodge and I’d wander by and clean the orifice of the leftover froglet and the rain bird would return to work.
If the rain birds on the quad stopped that meant that something had gone wrong in the complex system to fed water from the Navarro, through the large pipes by the pastures and then up the hill. Blown pipe, very bad, blown irrigation line, not too bad. Water was and is life in fire rich California. The irrigated areas made a small fire break incase of a wildfire. To have the green surrounding you meant you didn’t have to fear as much.
Chores for me was pulling pipe—to think of a bunch of city kids pulling irrigation pipe. What a great resume comment this would make, BA, MS, PhD, Pipe-puller. I loved the huge balanced aluminum pipe, trying to not drag the rain bird and standpipe through the mud and grass, making sure the gaskets had stayed inside. Turning on the water and the thunk of each pipe seating along the line and then the slow pressure would build—rain birds before their first full spring-driven swing spin. Then the pressure reaches the point that they begin the work, hopefully.
I have Rain Birds around my yard—the blueberries and few other places. The solid brass reminds me of camp, of summer. It’s about time to open the value and return them to work.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Highway 128 California
Driving Hwy 128
The Anderson valley is geologically isolated from the interior valleys of California. Two roads give access to the valley and neither is great. Highway 128 is one of the best road for driving a sports car fast in California—absolute speed is so important as is one’s ability to stay on the road, stay straight, and handle extreme comers-dropping turns, blind turns, close to double 180 degree hairpins—it is wonderful. As an eighteen year old I had my Sister’s Datsun (now Nissan) roadster, 1967, a 1600 cc, 2000 lbs, low to the ground, Dunlap tired fire engine red sports car. She had gotten the car from our Dad as a college students and then moved to Paris to I got to baby-sit the car, along with my 1969 International Travelall.
I often traveled from the Bay area, San Jose, to camp. A couple of elements of the drive gave different challenges. Driving 19th street through SF was fun to see if you could make it through the entire city, Golden Gate Bridge to 280, without stopping. I did pull this off twice going south and once going north, without cheating.
Another aspect was making the 200 miles drive in under three hours- not impossible. Two keys were making time on 280, where you could easily average 80 mph and then driving 128 as fast as possible.
The road starts off fairly reasonably and then blasts up a step hill of winding turns. As a camper, this was where you really began to wonder if the bus could make it up the hill in 100-degree heat. The it straightened out along a ridge line, fairly fast, some turns, never enough time to space out, particularly at night. I did my best driving at night.
I don’t remember how many miles it was from the 101 junction to Philo but it was possible to do it at an average of at least 60 mph. Of course I never had the experience of driving it in one of Colbert’s early “Fang”’ buses. Aircraft landing lights, perhaps a Porsche distributor, who knows what else. Certainly an engine not long for the world!
One of the best turns
More nice sweeping turns
Great roads make great memories. Never crashed, never got left by the side of the road.
The Anderson valley is geologically isolated from the interior valleys of California. Two roads give access to the valley and neither is great. Highway 128 is one of the best road for driving a sports car fast in California—absolute speed is so important as is one’s ability to stay on the road, stay straight, and handle extreme comers-dropping turns, blind turns, close to double 180 degree hairpins—it is wonderful. As an eighteen year old I had my Sister’s Datsun (now Nissan) roadster, 1967, a 1600 cc, 2000 lbs, low to the ground, Dunlap tired fire engine red sports car. She had gotten the car from our Dad as a college students and then moved to Paris to I got to baby-sit the car, along with my 1969 International Travelall.
I often traveled from the Bay area, San Jose, to camp. A couple of elements of the drive gave different challenges. Driving 19th street through SF was fun to see if you could make it through the entire city, Golden Gate Bridge to 280, without stopping. I did pull this off twice going south and once going north, without cheating.
Another aspect was making the 200 miles drive in under three hours- not impossible. Two keys were making time on 280, where you could easily average 80 mph and then driving 128 as fast as possible.
The road starts off fairly reasonably and then blasts up a step hill of winding turns. As a camper, this was where you really began to wonder if the bus could make it up the hill in 100-degree heat. The it straightened out along a ridge line, fairly fast, some turns, never enough time to space out, particularly at night. I did my best driving at night.
I don’t remember how many miles it was from the 101 junction to Philo but it was possible to do it at an average of at least 60 mph. Of course I never had the experience of driving it in one of Colbert’s early “Fang”’ buses. Aircraft landing lights, perhaps a Porsche distributor, who knows what else. Certainly an engine not long for the world!
One of the best turns
More nice sweeping turns
Great roads make great memories. Never crashed, never got left by the side of the road.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Camp and Tolkien
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
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
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.
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