Faded Pink and Green Midsummer Style. . .

 

Deep in the throes of summer here in the Grand Duchy. The faded Nantucket Red shorts have been in the rotation since at least 2011 if not 2010.  The shirt about three years by contrast. 

You'll pardon the pale, skipole legs I trust. 

The shirt's dark green color is very close to the t-shirts presented to campers every year at my summer camp alma mater, Camp Conrad Weiser -- "Keep the Fires Burning!" -- atop South Mountain outside of Reading, Pennsylvania, which I attended for five glorious summers from the mid-1970s into the early 80s when other interests took hold.  Among all of the boys and men in those days (the camp went co-ed in about 1982 or '83), we always had a large compliment of counselors and campers from various countries around the world, including Japan, South Korea, Germany, Denmark, France, Britain, Columbia, various sub-Saharan African countries, and India besides the U.S.

It was (and is) amazing how quickly you make friends at that age regardless of skin color, faith, or accent.  And there were several boys I saw each year and hung around with.  Tim, Chandra (aka 'Charlie'), Carlos, Luis, Tom, Mark, and his older brother Jack among others. The pleasure found in mutual activities like campfires, singalongs -- 'I've Got Six Pence' anyone? -- soccer, Frisbee soccer (Crosby), canoeing, archery, and scary stories (we thought) is almost universal I think. 

Those lengthy yarns were told in an attempt to freak out the youngest, newest campers in the cabin or tent after lights out.  Few of those boys, even the seven- and eight-year-olds to their credit, were gullible enough to buy the tales of slimy, tentacled woodland creatures, wailing ghosts, or demented escapees from a nearby (and totally fabricated) insane asylum however. For the two or three we actually managed to scare during my years at CCW, we later got in trouble once the counselors found out about it.  Usually added clean-up duties around the village the next day, like extra attention to the Kybo (look it up). 

Our counselors, for the most part, were college men from various ivy league schools as well as what are now termed 'public ivies' plus various foreign institutions of higher learning along with a smattering from local colleges and nearby smaller universities (I'm looking at you Kutztown!).  The camp administrators were typically older teachers or YMCA higher ups along with a few ex-military men and their families, who lived each summer in the staff village just off the Big A Field adjacent to the dining hall and camp offices.  Somehow, it was all highly supervised and very safe without robbing the campers of their sense of independence and self-determination each day.

That almost seems impossible to comprehend now, a decade or three into the era of helicopter parenting and the certainty that molesters of one kind or another lurk behind every tree.

Given the top-notch facilities and very reasonable rates for two-week periods with the option of an extra two weeks of specialized horseback riding and tennis camp at the end of the season each August, one might be forgiven for not noticing that this was in fact a YMCA camp.  My late mother always noted that the camp was more like something more exclusive in the Adirondack Mountains outside of New York City.

In any case, the experience was formative, huge fun, and something I looked forward to each year.  I have no idea what the camp is like now, but from visiting the website a few times during the last decade or so, I suspect things are very different half a century later for many reasons.  Sadly, I fear the baby has been thrown out with the bathwater in some cases. But time marches on and tastes change.  

Let's return to those heady days of the 1970s and early 80s for just a moment longer though.

While there were many of the usual and expected summer camp activities, I lived at the horse barn between breakfast and lunch -- following early morning swimming lessons -- either helping out, or taking riding lessons myself (English style) and spent almost every afternoon at the swimming pool.  On rainy, cooler days, there was plenty else going on to keep us entertained and (mostly) out of trouble.

And before you ask, the meals in the dining hall were amazingly good for institutional, cafeteria-style food. Once each week, each boy was responsible for turning up 30-minutes beforehand to set his routine table for the counselor and six or seven table mates with whom he dined. He then served the food on trays once announcements were concluded and the meals began. That same boy also stayed behind for another 30 minutes to clear tables, clean up surfaces and floors, and train the next boy in the waiter rotation when the time came for his turn.

That experience, too, was something I enjoyed each year strangely enough.  I can still hear the head counselor, who was in charge of the dining hall -- although not the kitchen itself, which was run by several no-nonsense middle-aged ladies -- announce via his 1950s-style microphone as a pronounced hush fell over the entire contingent. . .

"Waiters?  Serve!"

Happy times indeed.  And no technology or contact with your parents, barring the once-a-week mail call, for at least two, four, six, or eight weeks.  At all.  Imagine that in 2026.

-- Heinz-Ulrich