Dispatch 25- Last Words.

Camp, Day 47

Friday, July 24

Last Words of Seven Weeks in the Summer

The road is calling to me. On a quiet day while I walk alone around camp, on the lazy kind of day when the clouds seem in no rush to get anywhere, I can hear the gentle whisper of cars on the distant highway, like the rustle of waves on a sun-soaked beach. Hearing it sets my heart faster, and my hands tingle to grip the wheel. Hearing it means adventure, coming home, the lure of the open road, and good times under a warm summer sky. As soon as I am done, I will take my hat and be off once again.

I would not attempt a complete recollection of my time here at the moment, as I find that memories need time to sit before you can gain insight from them. I will leave you with a few snapshots, and this production shall be concluded. First:

I walked to the movie from cabin this evening, the brisk twilight breeze whisking my curls as I strode along. The sun sulked low in the sky. The great gap in the trees beyond the Capture the Flag field framed the sunset perfectly. Not the slightest cover of a cloud disrupted the horizon, and the thinnest sliver of a crescent moon hung daintily in the heavens. My bags were half-packed back in the room, and the symphony of cicadas in the pines was my only company as the stage was set for a deep night of starry wonder above. Next:

My body aches from general fatigue and the kind of happy weariness that comes only from victory. Last night my team plunged forward to a glorious triumph in the inter-track Soccer Tournament. Fortunately, my cabin was not on the team. They’re a pack of hapless buzzards for the most part, this week. For the game, I was given about 15 or so players of varying skills to command on Defense. Three staff helped out as well, and under my direction, we played a flawless game. No one scored on our keepers. It seemed we shifted from side to side more often than we moved up or down the field. The crown jewel: not even Nick could breach our defense. Meanwhile:

I refrained from testing the Slip-n-Slide, as is my custom, on Friday. It may be (fairly) smooth until dirt and pine needles get piled up on it, but I don’t trust the black pool at the bottom. Nick, however, and a lot of the other staff go down on it like they’re punch-drunk. The slapping of the knees on the initial takeoff makes a sickening sound against the slide. Christian came up with a bloody shoulder once from hitting a sandbag. They used so many sandbags in the overall design of the slide I reckon they could’ve held back the Mississippi with it. I heard Kansas was pissed.

Since I don’t risk it myself, I sit off to the side during the Slip-n-Slide hour, and watch the turn, blasting the occasional camper with my water gun. At the bottom of the slide is a barrier of sandbags, and a pipe that runs through a mountain of sand that empties water into the bog. As I tiptoed across the small delta one day, I surprised a lizard that had been snapping at yellow butterflies as he skittered around in the sand. He scrammed once I showed up, but as he vanished into the grass, I noted what a peculiar lizard it was. I’m used to seeing brown city lizards living in cracks under my porch, not a blue and gray reptile hanging out in a hole in the sand like a crab at the beach. Seeing something in it’s natural environment gives me a comforting reassurance that order still prevails. Like my reptilian friend, I fit into my setting. Being at camp has been one of the finest experiences of my life, and I’m glad for all the friends I’ve made and the people I’ve met. Although I’m leaving it now, I’ll never forget it.

Dispatch 24- Foot-Eye Coordination

Camp, Day 39
Thursday, July 16

We played some horseshoe golf (also known as ladderball) before lunch today. I think I would be better at it if I were a ninja. The way the game is set up reminds me of shuffleboard. I wish we had shuffleboard instead. I get to be more violent with shuffleboard, plus I trust the campers more with a shuffleboard disc than I do with golf balls strung together. When they get into the swing of things, these deweaponized Batarangs go zipping and zinging all over the place, making retrieval of them a trifle unnerving for someone of my height. I creep through the grass to avoid the crossfire.

Thursday evening was the guy’s soccer tournament. We have several staff here who religiously follow the World Cup qualifiers, even though we’re about 87 rounds away from the 2010 Cup. Although they may know the players on Canada’s second string, or have poster of the league from Trinidad and Tobago, the inter-track tourney leaves them slightly crestfallen every week. The chants are usually verboten, because the vast majority of them say nasty things about the other team’s mommies. Instead of a massive stadium and a painstakingly-cut field, we have a field that is one parts field, two parts bog, (most days), ant-infested mostly, and so crooked that one leg must be longer than the other to stand up straight. Onto this cramped field, which is bordered by a rusted fence and a row of tender saplings, we toss about 60 campers and staff per game during the tourney. The saplings get the worst of it, as it seems everyone is always crashing or careening into them.

The game, from the start to the final whistle, is utter chaos. An annoyed roving mob follows the ball on its irregular course round the field, and happens to kick the ball now and then, but the general result is that is that everybody’s shins get properly bruised. Because of the rabble surrounding the ball, strategy is tossed out the window. Every so often, it happens to bounce out of the horde, which gives opportunity for a cross shot in front of the goal. At this point, everyone acts as if they’ve only got left feet. I’ve seen campers swing and miss with such furious concentration, it seems they have all the athleticism of a bronze paperweight. It’s enough to make a man weep.

Tag isn’t too great at it, but he is enthusiastic. Watching him play soccer is like watching a Ewok try to ride a speeder bike. He swims like a duck, but he hasn't got his land legs back yet. Too many years of swimming, I figure.

Dispatch 23- The One-Man Wonder.

Camp, Day 36

Monday, July 13

We have made it into the home stretch. Most of the core that was brought together at the beginning of the summer still remains. Nikki was terminated in the third week for being overly meddlesome, according to reports from the General Government. Another expendable CIT got sacked the other day. One female counselor quit, but all the other staff shortage problems are because of illness and injury. Still, the ominous cloud of termination hangs over all of us, and lurks in every shadow. As to my own chances, I think I’ll cheat the hangman yet.

However, in order to achieve that, I may have to stop eating so much of the cafeteria food. Tag might swear by the corned beef and hash, but as long as they’re serving it out of an ice cream scoop, I swear I’ll never eat it.

Keeping the kitchen staff in line and the food (mostly) edible is the job of our head chef, Hugh. All of the guys agree he’s a marvel. All the lifeguards agree that they’re tired of getting press-ganged into helping serve during meals. His uniform is a stained and splattered apron and the kind of pinstriped pants that you’d find on (and never off, most likely) a circus ringleader, minus the top hat. Whenever he’s not making food for four hundred people, he’s often seen zipping around on a Zamboni while cleaning the pavilion floors. If he weren’t a chef, my guess is that he’d be a mad scientist.

I’ve never had the courage to venture back there myself, but the kitchen certainly appears to have the makings of a fine mad dabbler’s laboratory. I can imagine Hugh feverishly stirring a pot atop a massive stove, his hair gone crazy with the electricity in the air, and a strange glow reflected in his glasses as he cackles madly and orders his minions hither and thither with various errands. I can’t see the lifeguards being very happy about it.

In real life, though, Hugh is a pretty cool guy. Back in the day, according to word around camp, he was quite the rocker. His band once opened for Jimmy Buffet, which is just the sort of concert I would want to play in. with tropical music, a beachfront venue (most likely), and enough margaritas to feed the five thousand (very likely), everyone would be relaxed and sizzled to the point where they’d sway to anything. By my judgment, Hugh played bass guitar. Possibly also tambourine. It was Jimmy Buffet, after all.

This week’s campers are a bunch of lightweight smart-alecks, mostly from the Englewood area. Ironically, Keith has been out sick since Sunday. Chad and Luke are at sometimes my favorites, but at other times cause me the most trouble. They remind me of Tom and Huck, come to think of it. Shane and Casey are the quiet ones. Shane is so absent-minded, sometimes I think that if we didn’t tuck him in at night, he wouldn’t remember where he was when he woke up. The balance is Wesley, Corbin, and CJ. Together, they’re a good bunch, but at night it’s a holy terror getting them to quiet down. Last week, I read all the way through the Hound of the Baskervilles. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle may tell a good story, but his diction is enough to put any 13-year-old to sleep. It’s useful.

Dispatch 22- A Sorry, Soggy Day.

Camp, Day 31
Wednesday, July 8

I must begin my narrative with the kind of dreariness that is so seldom found in my chronicles. The day has brought nothing but rain. It has rained this morning, it has rained this afternoon, and it will most likely be raining this afternoon, and it will most likely be raining this evening. I’ll be wearing my Wellingtons and a rain slicker to kickball, I wager.

The rain depresses the soul and dampens the spirit after a time. Usually we only get the terrific thunderstorms in Florida: loud, boisterous storms that are large, in charge, and in a hurry to get somewhere. Today’s storm, however, was the type of storm that you see in the Carolinas: the type that, once it gets to where it’s going, stays put all day long. My mind cannot escape the traumatic events of last night. It was the day our walkie-talkie died, you see. I hate writing obituaries, but today I find I must.

It was blue and used to have a friendly hood ornament that all the kids tried to steal. It was taken last week with a strange disease, which I have narrowed down to the early stages of rheumatism, or possibly aggressive demon possession. It glowed with a diabolical light from time to time, and before long it crackled and spluttered with unusual noises, which I mistakenly took to be the omens of an imminent invasion by a foreign power. Instead of grasping for antibiotics or a cleric, I consulted my North Korean dictionary. Alas, the tragedy could have been averted.

It was taken with a high fever on Tuesday night. I sat by the deathbed all night, but it finally succumbed to a hacking, spluttering demise that ended with a staticky gurgle. I mourned as I spread the ashes somewhere deep in the ropes course.

The rain has also thrown our schedule for the day into chaos. We slogged our way to the soccer field from the sodden Frisbee golf course, which was as damp as the Scottish highland moors. The lonesome drizzle muffles the sounds of the earth, the buzzing of the cicadas in the pines is gone, and everyone talks quietly. Except for Aaron, of course.

I find that the smallest kid in each cabin is the loudest, and never was this truer than for Aaron. (“I’m Tharteen fixin’ to be firteen,” he says in his Georgia accent) By Thursday his cabin nickname was “Squints,” both because of his bronze-frame glasses and because he keeps chasing after all the lifeguards. Camyrn seems to know what he’s up to though. “Don’t worry, we have masks,” she confided to me. I only wish he was a bit taller, as it’s difficult telling him apart from the Track 4 boys sometimes.

Speaking of which, Track 4 gatecrashed our game of football, which, had we played as we were meant to, would’ve been the muddiest game of football in recent memory. Instead, we played the muddiest game of soccer in recent memory—we arrived at dinner grinning, soaking wet, and tracked an entire bog in behind us. I think that I may say with authority that modern man has ne’er collected such a grand assembly of muck. The girls were appropriately icked out. I allowed myself a grin of satisfaction.

The Janitor’s Union balked when they saw the wrecked state of the pavilion. Facing a strike, a game on the kickball fields, now a heavily submerged quagmire was out of the question. A Track 4 camper wandered out there on accident and made it as far as halfway to second before he was sucked under. Don had to grab a tractor and heavy towing cable before we could haul him back out. He emerged up to his ears in mud, but was none worse the wear, regardless.

Somebody had promised a masquerade that night, and I arrived as a pirate. My fiendish whiskers are long enough to pass for a sea-thief, after all, even if they are too light to see most times. I was disappointed to find that we were watching a movie instead.

As we awoke the next day to more rain clouds, I heard Tag muttering about building an ark. I’ll start dismantling the ropes course as soon as I can find my axes.

Dispatch 21- An Independence Day Special.

Camp, Day 27

Saturday, July 4

From my history, Fourth of July is never a big holiday. It rains a lot. This situation usually left me, during my delicate childhood years, with a small damp flag and sodden fireworks. But this year, things were different. This year, things took a turn for the unexpected. But the unexpected, for me, is not always unwelcome.

I had planned to drive towards who knows where with the rest of the UF crew, at first. Atlantic side, Gulf side, didn’t matter. I was either chasing the sunrise or the sunset, but I was sure I would catch whichever it then Kevin got sick. His cabin was under Quarantine by the end of the week; one kid was sick, and another was a gremlin disguised as a camper. Last week he got put with a kid who had the nickname “Sméagol” by the third day. Not a good draw.

Regardless, I needed a new plan. I consulted my road map of Central and Eastern Florida, but couldn’t find a way to St. Petersburg that didn’t route me through Miami, because I didn’t have that part of the map. Dimly vexed, I pondered my options. It was only a few hours or so to Savannah, but couldn’t find a way to convince Keith to come without whacking him on the head with a shovel and stuffing him in my trunk.

My sights were turning toward Disney when I got the call from home. Joe and Jp were headed up to the mountains to meet up with the rest of the crew, and on the whim of the moment, I plotted a side route for Orlando.

On the way to Orlando, I noticed a curious thing. U.S. 441 leads down through Mt. Dora and Eustis. Turn right, and any side street will have a sign that proclaims: “Welcome to the City of Mt. Dora!” Any turn to the left, and a sign shouts out to passerby: “Official Eustis City Limits. Welcome to Eustis (Which everyone knows is better than Mt. Dora)” I sense a confrontation brewing here. Every time I go out along that way, it seems there are more signs.

On the Fourth, the general public of both communities collected on the sidelines of the road for a shouting match. This completely throws off traffic, as some overzealous citizens started trying to cross the highway to carry weight to their threats. There were all done out in the most fantastic patriotic garb. Most motorists seemed to mistake that they were in the middle of a very poorly coordinated parade, and voiced their discomfort by blaring their horns at the skirmishers. I knew the truth though, and would’ve joined the picketers if I had more time. But the road led southwards.

As I got toward Orlando, the stoplights became intolerable. I was viewing entirely too much of the scenery and not making nearly enough miles. I hopped onto I-4, and was quickly headed into the airport. I parked the car in a berth on level one, and strolled about the terminal for a while. In the large concourse I was forced to duck to avoid the chickadees that zipped all over the place. It reminded me of the bats.

I perused the small books selection available, but couldn’t find anything worth pursuing, so I set up shop near the US Air check-in counters and waited. Joe passed me a few minutes later and I amazed him as I appeared from behind my copy of USA Today. He was excited to see me, and then left to go find the bathroom.

So we had lunch together at the airport cafeteria, and then bade our farewells. Even though I wasn’t going with them, I was excited to see my family. Afterwards, we went on a few errands around Orlando. In this town, everything seems depressingly identical: there are shopping malls, strip malls, shopping outlets, and more variations of the same throughout the city. The expressways and interstates course and stream through the metropolis, and overlook the more interesting parts of the town below.

Imagine my surprise when I found that the off-ramp of U.S. 408 exits down into a place forgotten, almost lost in time. It leads down right into the main drive of the oldest building in Orlando, now a Bed and Breakfast. Perhaps I’m wrong in saying that it has been forgotten. To those who it is important to, to those who know it, it is remembered. For others who are content with the bland commercialism of the host of shopping malls, they lead a colorless life.

We rested in the inn for a time, watching a History Channel show on the Revolution in a room with wallpaper that reminded me of Alice in Wonderland. I thought to myself as I washed my face and listened to the wind rustle the leaves outside that stormy weather was headed our way. I was right, but for the moment, sunny skies graced us as we went to dinner.

We drove around on the tree-lined boulevards of a neighborhood that passes its time thoughtfully, concealed in a blissful slowness compared to the rushing city around it. On the edge of the neighborhood, on a corner with brick crosswalks, was Wildside, a bar and grill. The sun shone down between the chinks in the skyline. A girl on a beach bike with a basket and white wall tires passed by on the cobbled corner. Her long hair seemed to taunt the onlooking rickshaw jockeys as it flowed in the wind. Life was lived on that corner, on that day, if you noticed it. I ordered a beer (War of 1812 Amber Ale) for the first time without being carded.

For the last errand of the day, I was off to buy a bucket. Suddenly it began to rain as I tried to get everything transferred to the Buick. As the downpour beat down upon the earth, we absconded to a disused gas station, where we tried to install the air conditioner coolant that we had found at Target earlier. Flipping through the owner’s manual, I concluded that most of the pages had better use as a nest for rats than for any useful information, and outside Dad wasn’t faring much better.

We had tried just about every way of getting coolant out of the can. We shook it, banged it, thumped it, whacked it, cussed at it, and threw it against the wall, but nothing worked. Instead of depositing its contents into the A/C port, pressure continued to build up inside the can. At a loss, I asked my Dad’s advice. “Toss it in that trash can over there, and get the heck outta here,” was his reply. A moment after I had tossed it in, the trash can suddenly blew up. Coolant rocketed out the top in a grand conflagration, spreading the contents in a spectacular mess all over the place. As I picked shrapnel out of my teeth after the explosion, I remarked that although it wasn’t really a firework, at least we blew something up on Independence Day.

I rode homeward again. Above in the dampened skies the blazing sun was wreathed in clouds. Fireworks and lightning lined the roads home as I kept the windows down. The smell of warm earth after a light summer night’s rain filled the air. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it nearly as much if the combustible coolant had worked. Sometimes things don’t work the way you expect them to. But sometimes that’s okay anyway.

Dispatch 20- A Scene without an End.

Camp, Day 25
Thursday, July 2

We started the day off in the pool. The sun hadn’t heated it up much yet, but I always find the pool relaxing. I find it relaxing to throw delicate children from one side of it to the other. I can’t remember why we’re allowed to bodyslam, manhandle, and otherwise drown the campers half to death. They seem to enjoy it, somehow, although the campers always scream when I come after them. They fear me.

I took part in Buck’s only defeat on the football field today. Buck is a fanatic when it comes to our two-hand touch matches. I chose to play on his team because the last time I played against him, he stripped the winning touchdown out of my camper’s hands. If you can’t beat ‘em, you know. I was vaguely annoyed that we were playing our second game of the week, instead of chilling in the gym, like the other two tracks. While he was jogging around putting out cones, I laid down in the shade and watched clouds go by.

Buck is of middling height and a solid build. What started out as a five o’clock shadow on his face is somewhere around 10:45 by now. His hair bobs out the back of his hat as he scurries around getting the game ready. I think he looks like Forrest Gump running across the United States, and said so. He barked at me to quit playing the poet and help get things organized. His demeanor is more like Lt. Dan, I suppose.

I suspect that he goes to the University of Florida. I’ve not seen his wardrobe myself, but either it’s filled with UF-themed clothing, or he wears the same two shirts until laundry day. I haven’t paid well enough attention to know which it is, but either way, it’s impressive.

As the game started, the clattering and clanking of the ropes crew atop their riding lawnmowers distracted me. They were doing crazy loops around the trees, looking like hungry insects as they devoured the grass on the other side of the field. I don’t remember how this joke ends, but we lost, and I was going to arrange the blame against myself somehow. (*Flicks on applause button, waits for response*)

Dispatch 19- Must Smash Thermostat.

Camp, Day 23
Tuesday, June 30

Someone has kicked the thermostat in Purgatory up a bit. The trouble began the first night. There was so much giggling, talking, and general shenanigans loose in our cabin that the cacophony made it impossible to sleep, even with an extra pillow on my head. So with each outburst, the temperature in our room was kicked up a notch. I would have gladly used a sledgehammer as a sedative, but the rules around here are a bit too strict for that.

Our campers were chubby-cheeked angels come morning. Tag growled his good morning with a warning of consequences in the absence of better behavior. I was grumpy too, waking up with tousled hair and not enough sleep. In other news, I noted my razor was missing while rinsing my toothbrush in the sink. I’ll have a metal detector or two thrown in by this afternoon.

One of the big issues with the Miami crowds is always respect. Today, the kids can’t learn that in school, not like it was for me. I asked Tag about it, since I went to private school, and the response was enlightening. Public schools today are too crowded, understaffed, and under-budgeted. There are all sorts of things, Tag told me, that a kid can get away with in school that adds up to a shocking amount of disrespect. Coming to camp, he believes, was what straightened him out. Being in charge of seven campers changes a guy’s perspective.

The one hard case Tag can recall must have certainly been one of the worst campers to ever come here. He makes our current bunch of grinning barracudas look like a batch of grinning cherubs (still with pointy teeth though) by comparison. The Trouble, who remains nameless in this chronicle, gave Tag lip all week long. He gave Chad lip all week. But when the Trouble badmouthed a lady while at flag, Tag hauled his ass off to Krys. I love watching Krys demolish campers that have too much attitude. This kid did the unthinkable: he talked back to Krys. I would as soon defy God, or stand in the path of a hurricane, or fly a kite during a lightning storm, or stare down a rampaging rhinoceros. Krys sent him to Lynn with a smile on her face. To me, witnessing a kid get the full force of what’s coming to him is wonderful. I always have the hardest time keeping a straight face.

Tag remembers passing people on the way to the office, their faces lighting up as they saw the pair and put two and two together. And as they sat down, the fiery torments opened up. No one else may have been able to straighten this kid out, but Lynn could. This kid may have mouthed off to everyone else, but not to Lynn. He acts as a father for the campers, true, but Mr. Lynn Warburton also protects his staff from insolent campers. When he talks sternly, it is unnerving. His facial expression doesn’t match the words coming out of his mouth. Tag said he could see the kid shrinking in the chair. It felt like being in the principal’s office, though I doubt I would find such a scene in an American school. They have released themselves from the responsibility to discipline the youth of today.

The second night was worse. Once we had settled our pack of cackling jackals into silence for the evening, once the lights were down, once I was comfortable under my covers, suddenly pandemonium broke loose. In the written history of Cabin 42, it was known as “The Night of Many Pebbles.” I had not a moment’s peace to myself before a hail of rocks showered my bed. The clammering clattering cacophony startled everyone awake. The first time the lights went on, I let Tag deliver a mild warning. Once he was done smashing a couple bunks into matchwood, the lights went off again. This time I was granted a few moments of sweet serenity before the next barrage. Tag ransacked al the bunks in the room for the illegal munitions, while I paced and looked stern. The third time, the porch light went on as well. A burly chaperone appeared a moment later, and I sent for Nick.

In the heat of battle, Nick is a formidable man. When dragged out of bed to deal with unruly campers, he is deadly. He was still pulling on the green shirt when he got to the door. Nick lined them up and assured them that if he was called out to deal with this cabin again, “I will call up all of your parents, and each and every single one of you will be going home.” It wasn’t even the second full day, and I was in danger of losing the entire cabin. Right after Nick left, I had three campers develop a sudden urge to use the bathroom.

The cabin was somber in the morning. It was quiet, and it was early. Nick had left instruction for the cabin to be dressed and ready to report for duty at the Pavilion at 6:30 am. For the start of day, the swept and scraped the mess hall clean.

We had little trouble out of them after that. Some fool of a camper managed to clog up the toilet Wednesday night though. I went to war with a plunger grasped in my hand, water shoes on my feet, and fire in my heart. I sent the campers outside so they would not hear the thunderous oaths and fearsome splashes coming from the bathroom during the mighty battle. The enemy tussled like a demon. I emerged victorious later, but with sodden clothes and a few inches or so of gruel on the floor. It seemed proper to send for mop and bucket at that point, and so I let Tag attack it, for awhile, while I wrung the stink out of me.

The plain fact of it is that this group is mostly inner-city kids, with all the quirks and problems that come from living in the concrete jungle. Standing in the back of the crowd during the flag is to look upon a full field of cornrows. My cabin complains about our music, and asks for more Hip Hop, thinking that it is good music. Come to that, conversations around here are starting to resemble the lyrics of a Motown CD. I live with it.

They are plainly not used to order. In a group, there are uncontrollable rabble. By themselves, they are used to very little or no authority in their lives. A few clearly believe they know better than I do. While they may be sullen or sulk, they must and will respect my authority. Until they submit to the authority that has been granted to me, I shall withhold my respect.

Dispatch 18- My Pack of Charming Piranhas.

Camp, Day 22

Monday, June 29

We have made it to Round 3. Yesterday was about the easiest check-in we’ve had yet, but that’s only because about 50 campers were dropped off by their parents. The balance of campers came in four busses, two from Miami, two from the Panhandle. Murmurs have been floating around about this group since last Wednesday. From what I’ve gathered, we’re getting tossed into Purgatory this week, if the stories are anything to go by. I’ve heard of inner-city kids fighting with other campers, or even counselors sometimes. They swear, cheat lie, steal, and are so obnoxious it makes hyenas look mild-mannered by comparison, if the stories are to be believed.

The first night, almost no one slept. Getting those jackals to quiet down is like asking a tornado to please mind the noise. I made an important observation about our campers that night: they don’t laugh as individuals. They laugh as a group. We have 4 ½ of them in our cabin this week, and when they laugh it starts as a deep guffaw, but often changes to a shrill shrieking giggle. It’s as if someone is bludgeoning Bryce about the armpits with an industrial-grade feather duster. It’s a little difficult to fall asleep with that kind of nonsense loose about the place, even with an extra pillow on top of your head. They aren’t fond of conversations, but they do have a liking for shouting contests. I’ll need a good bit of chloroform before I’ll get a good night’s sleep this week, I wager.

Though now that I’ve begun, it seems hardly fair to leave my camper classification codex incomplete. We’ve covered the Needlessly Obnoxious, which works better in groups. The one everyone knows is the Question Master, the kid who comes up with all kinds of questions like: “What’s for lunch?” “What’s the movie going to be?” “How many campers have been eaten by bears?”, or possibly even “What’s for lunch?”, just for originality’s sake. This kid has questions about everything, and frequently asks the same questions over again. Appropriate responses include: “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” “What do you think, I work here or something?”, and “You have five questions until dinner.”

The upgrade from the Question Master is the Crackpot Theorist. Unlike the former, which may have a shining career as a journalist on the livestock beat somebody, the theorist will be working for Weekly World News, and will probably write most of his best material from the desktop in his mother’s basement. But this guy is easier to deal with: instead of constantly asking questions, he comes up with his own material. Appropriate responses: “No, tomatoes do not grow on trees.” “Dinosaurs have been dead for millions of years. I’m pretty sure you didn’t find one in your backyard.” And: “I would like it if you would stop trying to imitate it at the dinner table.”

Very similar to the Crackpot Theorist is the Story Teller. Think the same kind of oral tales as Homer, only amped up on sugar. I’ve seen kids go for almost half a day as they spin a tale that only gets stranger as it goes along. There are two types: the one who tells only “true” stories, and the one who invents whatever nonsense comes to mind. The story builds in a stream-of-consciousness dreamscape, where more and more characters and plotlines are woven together. It eventually comes to the point where, in real life, it would resemble a poorly knitted tea cozy: something that ‘s fairly nice to look at, but you’re not entirely sure what to do with it.

The Ultra-Competitive Type is easy to identify. Who has the most napkins at the dinner table matters. Capture the Flag isn’t enough for this kid; he has to be first in the shower, the one to climb the tallest tree, or the one who can hold their breath the longest in the pool. It doesn’t even have to be a physical activity; if they lose an RPS match, you’d think they just fumbled the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Any loss isn’t just a loss. To the Ultra-Competitive Type, he has been deprived of something that was rightly his. Appropriate responses: there’s not many successful methods, but it is fun to invent a game he can’t win, and watch him get frustrated. It makes me giggle.

The Ultra-Competitive type is the reason they don’t call “seconds!” to the whole cafeteria anymore. The problem is that one competitive kid can influence others in droves. There’s been too many stampedes, too many crushed and broken bodies, and far too many trays that go ricocheting all over the place as campers trip over the unfortunates.

The one that pesters everybody to no end is the know-it-all. Fortunately this one does not require an in-depth explanation: but the results are usually amusing when paired with other campers. He’ll go on the stand for press conferences with the Question Master. He’ll violently refute anything the Crackpot Theorist comes up with, taking every wild story as a general insult to his intelligence. Do not mix with competitive types. This camper is so confused into believing their own intelligence is superior to everybody else’s, the may even challenge Counselors. The difficulty is that there is no true solution for this camper, other than to wait for a few years. Once you get them to the point where they can be hired as a CIT or Counselor, afflicting their arrogance upon other people becomes part of the job title. (As I have already noted is the case in some of our staff)

Dispatch 17- On Break with the Confederacy of Dunces.

Camp, Day 18

Thursday, June 25

Where has the week gone? I have not focused as I normally do, and the days have vanished in a whirl of Risk matches, battles in the pool, and a heated kickball game. (We would’ve beaten those smarmy Track 5 louts if only someone on our team didn’t have butter fingers)

Even the breaks seem shorter, but I suppose that’s because I’ve been spending them out at the break room. Every time I go there, I trade the solitude of an empty cabin for a small loud room. Although I troop down there at the start of break, I’m rarely the first one there, as many of my contemporaries are the type of slinking, sneaking curs that will stop at nothing to get to the Internet first. Because I am devoted to keeping my progress up on this blog, my pen has nothing but venom for the kind of skulking scoundrel that deserts his post twenty minutes early in order to claim-jump the rest of us. Concerning the type of malevolent muckrake who finds it necessary to squat on a computer for 30 minutes playing desktop pinball, I would gladly leave them hanging by their thumbs from the chain-link backstop on the softball field. Anyone caught blasting rap music in the concrete cage of a room will be hung from the flagpole coated in honey and birdseed, a special treat for the vicious cranes. Other than that, it’s a real picnic.

The break room is good for camp gossip though. There’s more gabbing and gum-flapping in there than a ladies hair salon. Most everyone, especially the younger CITs, uses the opportunity to vent excess salvos of profanity that, in a more just world, might’ve been aimed at the campers. The round camera at front watches. I go in there most often to update this, and to go to meetings of the half-movie club. Since most of my DVD collection is over two hours, we never get the chance to finish anything.

In the old days, I’m told, the break room was a steamhouse of passion. Situation: the guys are on break. The girls are on break. Scandal ensues. It may not have a rusted tin roof, and hardly anybody brings jukebox money anymore, but it was a Love Shack, once.

As far as the other area of camp that are now only ghosts of the past, I offer the Nature Trail as the counterbalance. Tag was just back there on Saturday (June 27), and came back with grass stains on his shorts. He said he was fishing, but I have yet to see any evidence other than the pond scum under his toenails. If Tag really had been fishing though, I expect most of the line would be hopelessly tangled around a cactus or possibly hooked on somebody’s clothing. I inspected Clay’s shirts for puncture wounds, but didn’t find anything Suspicious.

The nature trail, which starts over by the baseball field, doesn’t stack up well against the competition. This isn’t the Appalachian Trail. It’s maybe a five-minute walk of overgrown undergrowth that has gone wild after a year of neglect. It has memories of its own though. Crazy Tom was convinced he was in the Marines, but everybody else was convinced his was crazy, especially when he headed off to the trail to stalk “targets” wearing a full gillie suit. Creeping through the long grass isn’t my idea of recreation time, but I’m sure the shrieks of startlement were worth it.

Dispatch 16- Get me combat boots from the cleaners.

Camp, Day 16

Tuesday, June 23

The cabin has transformed into a war zone. I invested in a Risk set last weekend. Mason, Brandon, Logan, Tag and I are locked in an epic struggle for world domination, and Nick snipes with snarky comments from the sidelines every so often. Playing Risk with the campers is about as cordial as a wolverine wrestling match. Pieces and epithets are hurled all about the board with wild abandon, the colors as speckled as a pack of Skittles. “Tactics,” they sneer, “we don’t need no stinking tactics.” I’m amazed how quickly they’ve picked it up. Controversies over cards and alliance negotiations mingle in with fervent prayers for a six, which adds up to more noise and general haggling than the Marrakech bazaar. We have quite the colorful crowd this week.

Playing as green last game was Nick, a kid with sheer blonde hair and a round face that’s as pale as the moon. During the last bit of the game last night, he was commuting to the board from his bed in the corner of the room. After I knocked him out of Africa, he’s been all but picketing against me as he tries to thwart my ambitions for world domination.

Brandon is red again this game, and has a good chance of kicking me out of Europe, but I wager that I can buy him off with a treaty, for a while. He needed the largest harness we could give him this morning at the ropes course, but still made it all the way through.

He and Mason were the only ones out of our cabin who completed the ropes course. Mason keeps his curly hair trimmed short like a satyr. He’s one parts athletic, one parts clumsy, and one parts stand-up comedian.

Logan was here last week, in Cabin 41. I took him out early on for his cards, but we’re still on friendly terms. He helps the counselors in the pool during the Counselor/Camper dunking contests. I call him “the Kraken.” Anything he grabs hold of is going under.

Joshua is pretty scrappy in the pool too, but there’s nobody he shies away from tangling with. Short, thin, and athletic, he has intelligent eyes and is even-tempered, mostly. He spent most of our game dead asleep.

The other Nick is also an athletic type. He’s tall, and just about as skinny as I was at 13. I just wish he would quit encouraging the other players to take me out from his spot on the sidelines.

The last camper is Kevin. He’s a decent player, but he is also the clumsiest. His dice rolls bowl through the other pieces more than anybody else’s. He has a younger brother in Track 4.

But, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been attacked by Tag in my Fortress Europa, and I’m gearing up for the counter-assault. When I launch my invasion from Greenland, I should be able to knock him right out of Australia. To War!

Dispatch 12- Note to self: Get Commando Clothing from Dry Cleaners.

Camp, Day 13

Saturday, June 20

The road back to camp from the Umatilla threads its way between the many lakes that dot the area like windows to the sky that have accidentally fallen to earth. The setting sun burned the road with brilliance as I drove farther west. Over time, the extreme heat causes the asphalt to crack, but the country highway is so remote the can only patch the fissures with tar. From above, the road takes a creased and cracked serpentine path through the woods. I take the turns like I’m on a closed course. Cutting the inside close and skimming to the outside as I pull her through. The local cops usually post a man outside the camp, but they’d expect to see cars speeding away from camp, not back toward it.

Lauren came up to visit after the children left, both of which were welcome. (Though I know that the rest of the staff were ready to strangle some of their kids by comparison) During her visit, we logged more miles than I had the week before, and I also managed to spend most of last week’s paycheck to boot. Words cannot describe the joy I felt in my time with her. She filled me with such a desire to see the rest of the home folk; I believe I will return next weekend for a short visit. It was not a day of extraordinary proportions, but it was made so, because of her. Any man would be blessed for the love of such a girl.

Called home on the way back to camp. Got to talk to both Mom and Dad. I was glad to hear from them. It had been awhile. I used the opportunity to wish Dad a happy Father’s Day Eve, and also to warn them that I would come crashing home next weekend, and expected to find a grand feast awaiting me. They took the news well.

I had planned to spend my evening in rest, relaxation, and recuperation, but there was a game of manhunt in the works. I hastily stumbled my way back to the cabin, arms laden down with packages. I redressed faster than a whirlwind into black clothing and my skullcap, shortened my laces and headed back into the gym. I didn’t have my warpaint on, but I wouldn’t need that or my tomahawk that night. We were playing against the girls.

Our team fanned out on the All-Purpose Field as the game began. And by “fanning out,” I mean to say, “clumped up by a bunch of trees giggling and whispering as the enemy approached. The APF is stretched out before you get to the baseball diamonds and the break room. With the lights in the break room on, the field is difficult to hide in. It’s completely flat, and only has a few trees along the edge. I knew that if I stuck with these slaphappy stooges, there was little doubt I’d be caught. So I struck out for the bushes along the tennis courts, then hopscotched my way to a retention pond by the maintenance barn, and crawled to the large oak tree on the south side, where I ran smack into the guys I had left on the other side of the field. Then, as we’re sitting in a ditch figuring out what to do next, Nikki wanders onto the field with a cursed floodlight and gives away the other three. While they scarpered, I sat behind a tree and watched them get chased halfway across the field. Next thing I know, I saw a golf cart coming onto the field from the boy’s cabin area. That’s not even right, I thought.

What I failed to realize was that our game of manhunt was in the process of being gate-crashed by the chaperones, who took a dim view of the situation. They suggested we beat it, fast, in different directions. The party trooped glumly back to the gym.

At first, I didn’t understand why we were sent back in, but after we had sat around the gym for a while, I came to realize that sneaking out in the dark seems to be a bit of a tradition among the camp staff. Many of the guys claim to have made it to the girl’s cabins and back. One told me his tale that night. Nighttime operations like a daring incursion to the female area, he explained, take a proper amount of planning and precautions, if you want to dodge the guards. He and a friend suited up all in black, waited for the chaperones to make a circuit, and darted out into the night. Upon arriving at the forbidden area, they waited again for the chaperones to pass. They had completed their business and were on the return when they were very nearly caught. The chaperones were switching sides when one of the boys suddenly snapped a branch under his foot. Instantly, the golf carts swung round, lights blazing, and the race was on. They ran fast, faster than they ever thought they could, dodging trees and obstacles in the dark. The daring duo made it back in the nick of time, and sat inside the cabin gasping for air and peeking out the windows to see if they’d been caught. For them, it was their great escape.

Dispatch 11- While Avoiding the Deceitful Water Truck

Camp, Day 12

Friday, June 19

Friday is here. The war is on. The men needed no alarm to wake them this glorious morning, for every man is stirred to action by his sacred duty to soak the girls. Thursday was uneventful compared to Friday. The only item of consequence was the campfire, where Tag and I jammed out on the guitar and harmonica, respectively. But Friday was the Day of Days, the Water Day.

On my way to breakfast, I chanced to see Don chasing the rest of the ropes staff in the Water Truck. The behemoth of a vehicle is outfitted with all sorts of diabolical devices designed to soak people in short amounts of time. I nimbly dodged the rampaging truck, and joined the other off-duty men at break table, whom I recruited for my cause.

Twenty minutes later we were behind our cabin at the spigots, where I lugged an empty trunk so we could store the balloons. To our amazement, we found a bat fast asleep on the back wall of my cabin. I had mentioned this before, for the sake of my reader’s delicate dispositions, but our cabin is cursed with a foul odor, the likes of which cause visitors to crinkle their noses and express disgust. The source of the smell can be explained through research into our cabin’s history. Bats infiltrated the vents last year, I’m told, and, finding the accommodations to their liking, elected to die there.

By the time we went to the pool later, the men were gearing up for the water war. Half of them didn’t make it, as the water truck, which had been hiding inconspicuously behind the bushes, took them completely by surprise. I had prepared about 100 balloons that morning, and we took advantage of the pool time to exercise the great guns. I found that, when fired at the proper elevation, my artillery piece could fire halfway across the pool, which we used to ambush the lifeguards, on occasion.

At lunch, the whole mess hall was transformed into an armed camp. Water guns and balloons were stacked on the tables instead of food. My hardy warriors trundled in with our trunk, now a miniature armory. I could not eat; there was no time for that. I inhaled my food and skipped outside as soon as I could. As we filled up more water balloons, I could barely make out the water truck chasing the lifeguards across a field in the distance.

It had been awhile since I was mixed up in a good old-fashioned brouhaha, but this one takes them all. At the start, we had close to three hundred balloons, which were quickly shelled out. Several of those too poor to afford a Wal-Mart firearm hijacked the trash cans from the cabins to use in the absence of boiling oil. Our lines quickly collapsed into a general free-for-all, but through the rallying of small pockets of our troops, we carried the day with such élan as to send the enemy scuttling shamefaced from the field. The water truck chased off the survivors.

After our fearful conquest was complete, we snacked upon snow cones while the architects of our grand victory toured by to give speeches glorifying our triumph; the theme was pretty much the same: By the grace of God, we have won a strategic victory of arms, the likes of which the enemy could not hope to match, for our fight is just, and we shall not cease until we may claim total victory, etc.

In the distance, I could see the water truck soaking a flight of Sandhill Cranes on the way down to the lake. They were looking soggy and venomous, but I don’t mind ‘em. I went out for a short spin around the lifeguard’s boat and back, but then devoted myself to the shore for the rest of the hour, as I was on Tracker duty and didn’t want to go out of radio range. Cameron was also feeling land-locked, and joined me at my bench.

Cameron is one of the perpetually tanned lifeguards, most of whom live about 15 minutes away from camp. Both her siblings are more than seven years older than she is. She was the “oops” that was supposed to be a houseboat, according to family history. She also hates the part of Southern vernacular known as “ain’t,” for which I needle her endlessly. But while Cameron is skeptical over whether she’s appreciated in her own family, she’s part of a different family altogether at camp. The lifeguards are the rock stars of camp. They are vital to daily activity in camp, and at the same time have a different code than the rest of us. They’re a bit like the “Lost Boys” from Peter Pan. They’re allowed to go home at night, for one thing. I’ve only very seldom seen them wearing shoes; Cameron herself skips around like a limber-legged Tinkerbelle. And they have the coolest swimming trunks around.

Sadly, the rest of my notes on this topic were turned into a soggy ruin, for just as we were getting to a good part where Cameron was thrown off a speeding boat, the water truck, which had been stalking us stealthily, attacked. Alas.

Dispatch 10- The Army Keeps Rolling Along

Camp, Day 10

Wednesday, June 17

Got to see Krys demolish a kid firsthand at archery on Wednesday. James from Cabin 33 got caught saying something mischievous, which reinforces the superstition that Krys has the ears of a hawk. I swear she was at least a dozen feet away from him. I merely stood there as a witness, as impassive as the reflection on my sunglasses. She has a stare that makes even the toughest kids tremble.

After lunch all of Track 6 gathered in the gym for DDR (Drug Demand Reduction, not Dance Dance Revolution) Two officers from the Florida National Guard came in and gave the presentation. Master Sgt. Yevtich and Sgt. First Class Shugart (“Sgt. Y” and “Woody” for the duration of the talk) had both been in the service for more than 20 years.

Yevtich, whose name I believe is Russian or Slavic origin, worked in the helicopter divisions (the old “AirCav,” but without the silly hats) and wore his hair close-cropped in the traditional military fashion. His eyes are intense and set deep into his skull. He has a hard nose that’s as flat as an anvil, and a piercing glare.

Woody looked a little friendlier than Sgt. Y, with straw-like tufts of hair and a sharp, tight smile. “Come on down, this ain’t no Baptist church!” he called to the stragglers sitting in the back. However, he had his own share of difficult campers: right off the bat, a camper who shall remain nameless asked him:

“Have you ever shot or killer anybody?”

An apprehensive silence fell upon the room as the Sergeant fixed his sights on the victim and let loose such a salvo that made him regret his thoughtless words.

He told us the story of a friend of his in Iraq. On a day patrol through a crowded village, the rebels targeted his convoy, and the soldier shot a suicide bomber as the enemy approached the cavalcade. Woody told us that the man wept openly after the skirmish had ended, for there in the dusty street before them, a crude bomb just underneath her long trench coat, laid an eight-year-old girl, dead. Her young blood turned the dirt the color of rust as she expired.

In my opinion, the Guard came well prepared. Our campers were well prepared with all kinds of questions, but every time they answered one of Y’s correctly, the men threw all kinds of rewards into the crowd: lanyards, bracelets, rubber chickens, etc. were only a meager part of their arsenal.

The lightning alarm went off halfway through dinner again. I’m beginning to suspect that someone is keeping it on a timer. However, I noted that the guys versus the girls tensions were higher than normal. Of course, upon sighting us in our manly activities around camp, the girls will never miss an opportunity to make some shameful spectacle of themselves. Our men reply in kind, but Wednesday night was the first mass demonstration leading up to the notorious water war. The enemy gathered on their side of the mess hall, and our men on the other, and suddenly the kind of shouting match most soccer fans worship broke out. Only this one was rated G.

As I watched the jeering, smirking faces from the enemy’s position, I discovered that I wished for nothing greater than a grand arsenal of banana crème pies at my disposal at that moment, to add a withering volley to the taunts we hurled in return. I recognize that in group activities, it seems the girls are better led than we are. This does not follow from better leadership, I deny that claim; no, it comes because our troops are reaching their famed phase of obstinance and angst. However, sensing they might cast aside this mulish behavior so as to humiliate the girls in the grand water battle royal, I drafted my plans.

They say Julius Caesar was a clever tactician, that Napoleon himself had a play or two in his book, and everyone knows that Jackson held his own for the South. However, as far as history knows, none of the vaunted generals and officers throughout the ages began their glorious careers with a water balloon fight. The glory and honor, as far as this summer camp is concerned, belongs to myself, and a man known as “Potter.”

Potter is gone from the camp these days (according to rumor, he’s off working as a stilt-walker at Universal), but his legacy remains. I never discovered his real name through my researches, but he was given the name “Potter” because he looked just like the Boy Who Lived. (He was even known to wear a cape on occasion) he was the vaunted inventor of water day, and the genius behind the chuck-and-duck strategy, which I also endeavored to teach my troops on the eve of battle. He would stand on a bench in the tie-dye area and give stirring speeches to whip his troops into a fighting frenzy just before the battle. For the piece de résistance, they called up water balloon slingshot crews to rocket their munitions across the field into the enemy lines. (Later banned by the Management)

My grand scheme involved using the tracks in synchronous formations, to overwhelm the girls with a cunning pincer movement. The 6th Regiment and my Stonewall Brigade would hold the front while the entire 5th Division moved left to flank the enemy. Meanwhile, the 4th Shock Infantry Battalion would envelope them on the right, and their experienced sappers would destroy the enemy’s ammunition supply. With the enemy’s utter humiliation complete, I could sleep easy. Planning a war takes some effort after all, I thought as I hung my camp on the bedpost. Dreams would soon take me.

Dispatch 9- The Zip Master

Camp, Day 9

Tuesday, June 16

I began Tuesday at the break table with Dan, Keith, and some of the others on my rotation. Afterwards though, we were off in the LVP for Arts & Crafts, where I tried my best to color a bandanna without all the colors running together.

We then trooped out to the lake, where there was a lot of pushing, shoving, and a general ruckus over who was going in which boat. Once we were out on the lake, Marcus confided that Mikey had been swearing foully at the other campers. From what I can see, he’s brought nothing but trouble to us so far. He argues with the other campers, is angsty and challenges authority, but worst of all, he thinks only of himself and never of anyone else in the cabin. He’ll take some work.

Being out on the lake was fun though. My steering has improved because I’ve learned to effectively back the canoe, and we even won a race to the lifeguard’s boat and back, with two in their boat and four in ours. I helped Tabby (short for Tabitha) the lifeguard stack canoes after we were done, and Jaimey and I showed off our feats of strength as we got the top two.

We had first lunch because we were headed out onto the ropes course first thing in the afternoon. Don assigned me to the upper level zipline station, with Greg. After clambering up the first cargo net, Greg crawled into the second netting, which I nicknamed “Santa’s Chimney,” to get into the tops.

The mechanics of the zipline are fairly straightforward, but I didn’t have a chance to describe it last time we were out there because somebody broke it. The wire used for it is anchored by 50-foot wooden posts on one end (the platform itself is 45), and to a hydraulic release system on the other. It’ll stay up on its own, that is, but once you put weight on it, it’s coming down. Monty, a bear of a man who weighs around 250, drops like a rock. Some of our campers, though, take about all day to come down by comparison.

Greg is an interesting character, and I enjoyed being on the zipline with him all afternoon, but I would’ve enjoyed it more if I had brought a drink with me. He and Skinny Mike have been here for a few years by now. They had a few weeks off from their construction jobs a while ago, he said, and Mike heard of a job mowing lawns, and that sort of thing, at the camp. Greg wanted to go fishing, and apparently took some convincing to get him here. But in the end they came here, and haven’t left since.

After they’d been working at the camp for awhile, they were trained, tested, and rated on the ropes course. Somehow they managed to cram Greg, Don, Mike and Krys on the Matrix at the same time. Greg is a lot like Don in appearance—he’s a bit stout and has a beard, with kind crinkled eyes and a voice that creaks like wind in the reeds.

Chad came to our cabin after the last of the “bottom-feeders” (guys on the bottom track) floundered their way down from the Odyssey. He and Tag were in the same cabin last year. Chad started out as a tracker this year, but he’s been laid up ever since he broke his ankle playing basketball the first week.

He was on crutches for a few days, before someday found him a fancy motorized wheelchair. Since then his nickname has been “Timmah!” among the rest of the guys. I’m convinced he was made for camp. He knows and is unmatched at most every game we play here except anything that involves movement faster than a frenzied hobble. His games are the thinking man’s games: chess, checkers, and connect four. He is precise and accurate—I saw him beat two kids at once, at two different games. For the coup de grâce, his sleight of hand is without parallel anywhere in the camp. Our cabin was so enthralled by his performance that Ray was scheming to torture his secrets out of him, and interrogated Chad on his preferred method. “Money,” Chad said. “I hate it when people give me loads of money.” I thought Tag would never stop shouting “Chad is made of magic!” at the end of every trick.

Tuesday night we were supposed to be in the pool, which Cabin 33 was looking forward to. Dylan has been saying he’s going to get me, but I’m not scared. My water gun is taller than he is. However, the lightning alarms went off halfway through dinner. We hadn’t gotten the all-clear by the end, so the whole camp filed off to the gym. Once I saw that the movie for the evening was “Spy Kids,” I lit out for the hallway to volunteer for bathroom duty. I manned my post with Joe, Jaimey, and Clark while the floodgates opened outside. An entire army of artillery clashed and thundered in the heavens, and everything below trembled for the remainder of the movie.

The sun sets down and away over the softball fields. That night, though, as the rain lifted and the clouds stacked upon each other up and up into the sky, the great fading light in the west lit up the sky with such majesty that no tie-dye shirt can equal.

Dispatch 8- Staying Alive.

Camp, Day 8
Monday, June 15

The most important thing to remember about the first full day of camp is to survive. Like Sean Connery once said in some movie, you have to make sure you go home alive. It’s okay to give the campers a preview about what we’re up to for the rest of the week, but the first duty of a counselor is to keep them focused on the activity at hand. The more they sit around and think to themselves increases the risk of having a homesicker on the first day in, and nobody wants that. Here endeth the lesson.

Our troop started off the day at 7:00. Even though we woke up in time to get to flag 20 minutes early, we were in the same prime viewing location as the night previous. I really need to find a weedwhacker so I can knock a flag-shaped in that tree.

We were making tie-dye shirts in the morning I may have overdunked mine a bit, as I ended up with an entirely green shirt. The last bit of the green dye was coming off my fingers later. Fortunately it didn’t pollute the pool, or the lifeguards might be a little annoyed having kids come out of the pool with red hair.

I got pinked in the elbow at Frisbee golf. Tyrone wasn’t watching where I was walking and I just barely got nicked on the end. That’ll bruise for a couple days. Frisbee golf with the campers is completely different than regular golf. While the ancient Scottish tradition of whacking leather balls down gopher holes is refined and cordial and generally as interesting as eating dry oatmeal, its less pretentious counterpart is an experiment in mayhem.

The new course was hacked out of the undergrowth in between the archery range and the new slip and slide on one side, the ropes course on the other side. And it has been hacked. Hacked, sawed, bushwhacked, mowed, beat into a million pieces, and generally roughed up a bit. But the land is resilient. The grass is reaching ankle-height already, a perfect biting opportunity for any manner of snakes, weasels, or red velvet ankles lurking around. Not to mention the gopher tortoise holes spread around for good measure. The velvet ants are the most annoying though. They are the biggest, ugliest, nastiest ants I’ve ever seen, and tough to boot. I’ve put in an order for a military-grade flamethrower to take the buggers out on sight. The worst part is that everyone crowds around them to gawk and take turns trying to squash them. It’s a least a five-minute disruption.

Better news though: I got promoted to Assistant Tracker Monday afternoon. Although Keith doesn’t consider it much of a promotion (“The “Tracker’s Toady,” he says), I get a walkie-talkie to mess around with. My first duty was to organize and oversee the Track 6 football game that evening. At first we had about 15 on 15 on a field that was far too small, so I eventually reset the field and split them into two games, which went better.

We had made it through the first day. As we returned to barracks for the evening, cabin 32 (“The wolf pack”) and Doug’s 27th were scampering outside “tagging” other cabins with sidewalk chalk. The circus endured long into the night, and ended with Tag chasing after one of the CITs with a broom. It was a larksome sight.

Dispatch 7- The Campers Arrive

Camp, Day 7

Sunday, June 14

I remember it was difficult finding a good place to write on Sunday morning. I was still sketching out ideas and details from the night previous, but the Pavilion was a bit muggy as usual, and the Sandhill Cranes were casing the joint. I hastily retreated to the LVP, where “Seaweed Hair” Curtis was trying to teach a pretty girl how to play chess. The gym was absolute mayhem in comparison though: a lifeguard and two CITs were idly destroying the place out of boredom. Kickballs soared and ricocheted off of just about everything and everybody. Finding the atmosphere a trifle uncomfortable, I silenced one of the CITs with an oath, and slouched back to the LVP, where more normal people were.

The first campers had arrived even before our final prep meeting was over with. I find that parents are usually prepared to get rid of their kids on check-in day, but aren’t nearly so punctual when it comes to checkout on Saturdays. Either way they find some way to mess up the schedule. Me, I don’t mind it or notice it as much as the Green Team does. All I was doing for the first half of the day was playing the role of the doorman, sans the customary flop hat. I was manning the front double door with Jordan.

Jordan the CIT gets a bad rap around camp as a screw-up, or the official camp jinx. I know plenty of people who have expressed disdain over his antics before, but I dismiss most of it as petty gossip. He’s an excitable Israeli kid from Coral Springs, but you’ll most often see him get carried away only on the four-square court. Every time he gets out, he starts interpreting the rules more creatively than the rest of us, then furiously demands a duel before stalking off in a huff, only to get back in line and repeat the whole process five minutes later. The reason I enjoyed sitting with him, though, was because he knows how to take an interest in people. He’s always glad to see a friend. The first night, he came by my cabin’s table to tell my campers that they had the best counselor and CIT in the camp. Sure he’s a little crazy sometimes. But so is everybody.

I was relieved for lunch at some point, and sat down to mess with a family, who seemed jovial enough to get rid of two kids for the week. The matriarchs were both teachers themselves, and seemed delighted enough to hear that I had similar prospects. Then I was yanked back and thrown in the water bottle assembly line, where I distinguished myself by accidentally calling some short kid with cornrows a girl.

I manned my post to the point where we only had 19 left unaccounted for before Krys ordered me inside to get to orientation. The spectacle was a marvelous sight. Campers and parents occupied fully one-half of the gym, while we on staff were on the stage. After some opening comments from Mr. Lynn, the stampede was turned loose, as everyone sorted into their cabins. Kinda like Hogwarts. Wish I had a Sorting Hat.

Now for my campers. Marcus and Mikey are a bit slow in the mornings. Mikey is an only child, and, as far as I can tell, doesn’t have a father. He tends to be a punk. Dan had him in his cabin last year, he told me, and remembers him as a tough kid who gave him hell just about all the time. His behavior so far has been decent enough, but it’s a tough getting him involved sometimes. He may have grown more obedient in the last year, but he certainly hasn’t done much growing otherwise. At no more than 4’6” in his socks, it seems he has a touch of a Napoleon complex.

Brandon is the quiet one. It’s a bit tricky to figure out where his shyness comes from. On that count, he’s just the opposite of Ray, who hardly ever stops talking, even to breathe. I believe that somebody made a mistake somewhere, for instead of giving me seven campers; they gave me six campers and a 37-year-old New York Cabbie. Ray has the body of a wire, a thin mustache, and the kind of accent you can only pick up from Central Park to 172nd Street.

Adam is the guy who seems like he’s making a career out of going to summer camps. He’s been to the Boy’s and Girl’s camp in Tampa, Sea Camp in the Keys, even Law camp (Powdered wigs a must). I can understand one or two weeks of camp, but a whole summer? Wait, that’s what I’m doing.

Marcus and Tyrone are the two black kids. Tyrone is pretty well behaved, and athletic. Marcus, to me, doesn’t seem like he’s spending this week at camp as much as he’s surveying his future job prospects. He claims to be headed back next year as a CIT, and fills his time pumping Tag and I with questions, whenever he isn’t asleep.

Jake, simply put, is the normal kid. Why they put him in our nut house, I’ll never know.

Dispatch 6- Off-base on the Weekend

Camp, Day 6

Saturday, June 13

When I awoke Saturday morning, I had no suspicion of the giddy horrors that were in store for me. The day started off benignly enough: we were given our staff shirts, lined up for pictures, and got paid, and were released. I planned to make my getaway after lunch, only so that there was one less meal I had to pay for.

Plenty of people showed up to mess with bathing suits on under their clothes, so I decided to stick around and swim awhile, and increase my odds of riding in a car with A/C. I conversed with my compadre Keith while floating around, and he told me of a Target/Wal-Mart plot. I declared that I would join the venture, and went about looking for a ride. At 1:25, Keith and I left to go change, and the girls did the same. I’m all right with the perfume of chlorine and sunscreen on my body, so I decided to shower later.

For the nest hour and a half, we were at the mercy of the feminine hygiene complex. We waited in the pavilion. We waited in the gym. We waited and sent plenty of texts that mirrored our mounting uneasiness: “We’re rdy, where r u?” “Omg, did u leave us?” (Keith’s spelling, not mine). They finally came around at 3. At that point, we were scouting for girls coming out of the cabin area to seize and send in after our straggles.

The next six or seven hours was a dragged-out bickering feud, the kind that reaches epic proportions and often ends in bloodshed. I clambered into the back seat of Jessica and Anna’s Rav 4 as we set off. I don’t think the car could function without both of them. The animated girls, who hail from St. Petersburg, have an established system. Jess drives and chatters with Anna. Attention isn’t paid as much to the road as it is to the conversation at end, which jumps from one thing to the next like hot grease on a stove.

The car itself was a lot like my first Toyota: held together with duct tape and lots of love. Half the air vents are missing, and the floor has archaeological layers dating back to the mid-90s. The only parts that operate with any reliability are the radio and speakers. Control of those is Anna’s job, and she does it justice. The volume was up so loud by the time we cleared the gates that the tiny car shakes even more than usual. Most conversation other than singing along is pointless. Although they have a GPS system (that was given to them by parents anxious about the general driving ability of the pair), anytime they want to get somewhere, Anna finds an innocent bystander to yell at for directions. BFF? Certainly. Scary beyond all reason on the road? I’m convinced. Was it fun anyway? You better believe it.

We hit the roadside thrift stores first, the ones across from the orange juice plant on the road out of town. The girls fell upon the clothing racks like vultures on fresh carrion, while I inspected the antique coins section. (Jeff Davis’ hair looks like a bird’s nest) We left the thrift stores belatedly, mostly because the staff kept offering us free armchairs, cigar store Indians, children, etc., and headed off for Target.

Seven of us spread out through two enormous department stores, so naturally some confusion ensued as everyone pursued their own shopping lists. I knew that I could Keith near the water guns, because it was the only thing on his list. I was in the market for either Risk or Axis and Allies, but struck out on both counts.

After we cleared though both stores, I was getting hungry enough to loudly insist that we go to Chick-fil-a for dinner. Nikki was having other thoughts, and she was louder than I was. So, after a few frantic conference calls between cars, we only decided to pull into a parking lot for further deliberation. Following my win in our four-way game of Rock, Paper, Scissors (By far the best way of solving both international and domestic disputes), I declared that we would eat at Chillis, but the wait was 45 minutes. And we were on the road again. Bah.

We scouted out the surrounding area, roving as far on 441 till it hits U.S. 19. Next came the Checkers roadside conference, which was a bit like the U.N. General Assembly, but with more scenery. At the Checkers, we decided on Frogger’s. I was skeptical at first. Frogger’s was entirely, well, frog green on the exterior, with neon lights and bubbly lettering on the sign, and “Adventure Golf” in the back. I thought it looked like one step above Chuck E. Cheese, and said so. But after a quick look around at the waitresses, apparently they were attempting to appeal to the Hooters demographic. As a thinking man I must say I approved of the decorations, but I did not appreciate it more than I was meant to. I indulged in a Sam Adams instead of the carnal appetites.

The Grand Council met again outside the restaurant after everybody had settled their checks inside. I petitioned the Most Exalted Supreme Mugwump for a motion to return to our quarters. The results were not pretty. I was vetoed, cannonaded, and cashiered of my position in favor of Roller Skating. I did not wish to go roller-skating. Chelsea absolutely did not want to go roller-skating. Keith and Henry did not want to go roller-skating. The drivers wanted to go roller-skating. We went roller-skating.

Argument Number Five occurred in the parking lot of the Roller Rink, after Nikki’s car got themselves unlost. I said that the place looked like only eighth graders would frequent it, that at $8.50 it was overpriced, and that with only an hour till closing, it wasn’t worth our time anyway. They told me it was either roller-skating or a club called “Rodeo.” I surrendered with a huff.

The girl at the register, who had heard most of the altercation through the open doorway, was still cowering under the counter when we arrived, and had to be coaxed out with a kind word and a guarantee that any further violence would occur on the rink. After that consolation she was most accommodating, and even let Chelsea and I in on no charge. We were he last of the holdouts, and, for the duration of our time there, were the “parents,” according to the loophole that got us in. We absconded to the snack counter.

I was not a witness to the proceedings on the dance floor myself, and thus the following comments cannot match the reliability and honesty of my earlier reports. However, I did hear that Keith ran over a kid’s fingers, Nikki was felt up by a black kid, Henry got hit on by a 13-year-old, and Anna kept crashing into things in order to stop. What Jessica was up to, I have no idea. Chelsea and I chatted in our booth, watched everybody’s shoes, and drank the Dr. Pepper that Henry’s new squeeze had given him.

Getting back in the cars later, I thought to myself that although it wasn’t how I had pictured my night going, I don’t think I would’ve traded it for anything. Life off-base on the weekends certainly is an adventure.

Dispatch 5- The Grand Boating Race

Camp, Day 5

Friday, June 12

I slept unbelievably well after staying up for a full overtime the night before. I swore any smarmy Lakers fans would have words from me. I posted another letter before flag, the second this week. So far I’m satisfied with the communication lines I’ve been able to set up. Most of my break time will be devoted to keeping those lines open.

After breakfast, we headed down to the lake, while the girls went further around the edge to the archery range. Nick and his motley crew of half-caste lifeguards were there to greet us. There are both canoes and paddleboats, but the canoes are the only way to go around in style.

For our entertainment, Nick had arranged a Grand Boating Race to make up for the humiliation of the soccer game the night previous. To stack the odds against the Odds (we were playing odd cabins versus evens), the enemy was given a broom and an eight-foot drainpipe instead of paddles in one canoe. It was 5 v. 5, and we wiped the deck with them. Immediately as the race started, I cried furiously to my helmsman to back him on his life, and brought the craft about once we had warped her clear. We were running hot in the lanes; the engineer was stoking for all his worth. The helmsman ran her near to the scuppers, and split my sides if we didn’t scrape the paint off her. The bow swung wide as we shot around the marker, but I clutched the tiller like a man possessed. We steamed into port to jubilant cheers from the onlookers. I gallantly raised my hat to the patrons on shore, who gave us a hearty three cheers in return. It was a magnificent spectacle.

Next we went over to the archery range, which is infested with gopher tortoises, snakes, and probably weasels. The gopher tortoises are usually pretty chill, though Brandon told me last year a baby struck out for the guy’s cabin area. I saw one the other day galumphing across the driving range. The bugger made it all the way across camp by the end of the day, and plopped into the swamp near the counselor’s parking lot. If I end up with a tortoise or a alligator underneath my car when I’m leaving on the weekends, I’m going to be displeased.

However, the only wildlife in this area that I have a true fear of are the Sandhill cranes, snakes and weasels aside. These birds closely resemble miniature ostriches, but with sharp, pointed beaks. The hunters have a red mark upon the eye, and are frequently seen sulking near the gym or the mess hall area. Unwary campers should take note, for we’ve lost about a dozen expendable CITs to the insatiable beasts so far. They are bold, cunning hunters, and sometimes even come to the doors of the gym seeking prey. Our gameskeeper, however, has prepared equally deceptive lures for these raptors, who are apparently afflicted with a touch of vanity. They cannot resist the sight of their own reflection. They will stare into mirrors for hours on end. Trapping the beasts is not a problem. Keeping them contained is. The 100,000 gallons of concrete should be here on Tuesday.

Archery was a simple affair. However, I was disappointed that it had been substituted for the artillerist’s arts, for, as every thinking man knows, a contest of deadly weapons should make as much noise as possible, in order to satisfy the spectators in the event of a disappointing conclusion. The hay bales make for docile targets. Fetch me some car tires instead. Much more practical, I would think.

Next, the nurses addressed our assembly, and the men were sent out into the gym while they discussed lady parts. After lunch we got our end of the talk. Mr. Lynn sat in on it, and gave advice like “If he’s humping his pillow and he’s dead-ass asleep, wake him up!” from time to time.

We trouped out to Frisbee golf later on in the afternoon. The course is located in an ant-infested corner between the boathouse and archery. No less than 81 frisbees were in the air at any given time, which made for an erratic game that is nothing like the sweet serenity found on the 16th green at Pebble Beach. Julia, the girl with the Italian nose who hands out her opinions like party favors, got smacked in the forehead. Three hours later she was still clutching a washcloth to her head. If only she had gotten hit in the mouth.

Nick gave us his general crash course in getting the parents to park where we want them to, which is a detailed and delicate process. I wish I had remembered to bring a bullhorn, orange vests, those big plastic earmuffs, and the orange batons. On the bright side, after I’m done with this, I should be qualified to park cars at Disney. Or planes.

There was a lot of trash talk at horseshoe golf afterward. Horseshoe golf is one of the favorite attractions for college tailgates, and I affected my best Alphonse Capone accent, in order to appropriately demoralize the enemy. Kevin, Joe and I played against our CITs, and came out in a wash after several intense rounds.

Dispatch 4- Rock 'n Roll Ain't Noise Pollution

Camp, Day 4

Thursday, June 11

Thursday was also a classroom day. Tag deserted Keith and I, so he and I were chatting for a lot of the morning. Keith reminds of ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, the mail clerk with a smart mouth from Catch-22 (Even better, he delivers the mail at dinner). He’s a cocky guy who knows the system, and what he can get away with. Keith comes from Englewood (all Englewood and Miami campers are punks, according to Don), and his Dad was in the 82d Airborne during Desert Storm. (And he wears the dog tags around his neck day and night) During the music section this morning, we compared classic rock bands and songs, because all the music they were playing was too girly.

Proper music etiquette was the topic for discussion in the morning, as I noted. Don came in through the side door while they were playing “Do the Locomotion” and paused at the doorway, like he was unsure if he wanted to come in. Before long, the classroom devolved into a huge debate over which music is the best. Kevin had worn a shirt with Moses clutching a phonograph that day, and the rest of it was pure musical extravaganza. Meanwhile, Keith and I were puzzling over whether “All Along the Watchtower” was appropriate for the children or not. Eventually Krys got tired of it, and we moved on to group scenarios.

Group scenarios began with finding a group. (I covertly tapped the guys on my right and left) Then the sheets of doom were passed out to the assembly. Every group was given a situation, and informed whether we were supposed to act it out positively, or… poorly. We were fortunate enough to have a positive skit, which meant that I got to simply look official with my clipboard and smile for the camera from behind my sunglasses.

Krys and Nick were leading the discussion. The skits were refined zaniness, for the most part. As Tag explains it, “Going to this camp will turn you into a cartoon character.” Crystal should be auditioning for Daffy Duck’s understudy any day now. Ashley played Krys during one skit. On the fly, Krys pressed her trademark sunglasses into Ashley’s surprised hands, but she managed to ham it up in the most hilarious way.

Seeing Krys without her glasses was a rare occurrence. It helps with her “camp face;” you know, the one that says “Back up or I will run you over.” According to the returning staff, watching her go after problem campers is a glorious sight. Her wrath can be terrible (from time to time), but she realizes that being a good employer and leader means that you have to be harsh sometimes. I have not yet seen her truly angry, for as long as you realize your mistake and correct it, she’s fine. Because she expects the best from us, and more importantly helps us become better, it shows that she cares. And that’s how I know I can work for her.

Once the skits were over with, it was time for a tour of the field of battle. Every Friday, the camp erupts into a full-fledged water war. There’s a 200-foor slip n’ slide, water bombardment on the tennis courts (known affectionately as “the grill”), a water war between guys and girls, and snow cones. Like any good commander, I scoped out the field of battle, judging how to best position my troops. I’m confident we can rout the enemy. They certainly are proud of the new slip n’ slide. It was specifically amended, according to Joe, “for maximum slippage and slidage.” I’m not too concerned though. What worries me is the irregular warfare that breaks out from time to time. I’ve been told that the nurses go guerilla style. If they’re seen approaching with rain jackets on, duck. They may have a water balloon for you.

After the tour was over, we were back in the LVP for miscellaneous question and answer time. In other words, we were stalling until dinnertime. Nick unveiled his master schedule, which was a color-coded masterpiece of planning, which everybody had a zillion questions about anyway.

However, later on was the inter-cabins four-way soccer game. I suited up for battle in my rough-and-ready hiking boots, the Apollo Track shirt from the Mississippi trip, a blue bandanna and the Terminator glasses. There were four goals that formed a cross on a large field. A ball was tossed into the middle, and the game was on. There are plenty of trees and shrubs around the edge of the field, but play didn’t stop for anything, unless somebody boosted it over the rusted metal fence on the edge.

The other team was stacked, but we had Nick. The man is a human tornado on the soccer field. I don’t know if you’ve heard of esteemed aquatics director before, but his feigned distaste for campers and counselors alike is legendary. But in the heat of battle, this disguise is dropped for the attitude of a true comrade. He dashed to and fro like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the gaggle of girls who were standing around in the middle of the field. The mere sight of it filled me with such enthusiasm that I barreled across the field and rammed into Monty. We lost 3-1, though I ended with my honor intact.

Following the game we cooled down around a campfire (not my idea), but we toasted s’mores. I was wishing I had brought water. A few guys had guitars, and I had my harmonica. Afterward, we got to go watch the Magic game. Although they lost too, I had a good time teaching Joe, Ruthie, Chad and Bob how to play Farkle. I came out with a win again.

Dispatch 3- A Strange Pinching Feeling.

Camp, Day 3

Wednesday, June 10
Reporting from the ropes course

I’ve had this bloody climber’s harness on for most of the day, and I’ll be damned if I get a rash. Everyone is hot, sweaty, sticky, & smelly, but at least we’re in the shade. We just got kicked off the Odyssey because somebody ahead of our group (Tag, Henry, Dan, and I) discovered a way to break the zipline. The cargo net on the way down kept trying to eat m shoes.

The ropes course is an entire compound, off behind Bldg. 9 and the boy’s cabins. The different stations are the Odyssey, the bouldering hut, the climbing tower, the Alpine tower, the swing, the big zipline, and some other random huts, tossed about for good measure. All activities out at the ropes course require a harness and a helmet. The helmet is pretty straightforward, whereas the harness consists of three loops—one around the waist, two around the legs.

It’s odd, but after spending time in it, I can still feel the phantom pinch of the harness. It’s kinda like still feeling the ocean waves after a day at the beach. For the guys, the leg loops, when under tension, creates the kind of stress that can make a soprano, or even a eunuch out of the best of us. So, we men adjust things to make a “pocket,” the kind of style that went out with Louis the XIV. The girls tried not to stare.

Buck and Balen got sent up the Alpine tower first, while the rest of us waited down below, trying to learn to belay, or in other words, how not to drop the campers off the 50-foot tower. It was smooth sailing on the way up, but they were a bit flighty on the way down. Don, the grizzled ropes chief, yelled for Balen to check his knot and then shimmy on down. “Shouldn’t we have checked that before I got up here?” Balen yelled back. We got everyone down in one piece, more or less.

We were introduced to Don and the rest of the ropes crew after harnessing up. Don (I’m Don. Don’t give me any of this ‘Sir’ bull.”) is a rumpled man, about as wide as he is tall. He has the personality of the kind of bear that is familiar with being woken up from hibernation because of squirrels tap-dancing on his head. He is a compact, tough man, in his mind as well as his physical strength. Any camper or counselor who jokes with him can expect a sharp retort. Ruthie made the mistake of mentioning a plot to hide his remains somewhere on camp. “Just watch where you dig,” was his subtle reply. “You might dig up somebody else on accident.” A man of iron, that is.

After lunch and another layer of sunscreen, we were back on the course. It was time experience the Odyssey. The name does not involve clashing with the Cyclops, annoying Poseidon, or even wooden horses. Instead, the Odyssey is a double-decked high-wire obstacle course. To make sure those brave enough to tackle it don’t fall 30 or 40 feet to the ground, everyone is outfitted with “lobster claws,” metal clamps that clip into the wires above. You begin on the lower track, after climbing that infernal cargo net, with the “hourglass.” It’s for one person: keep your feet on the wire, hands on the rope, and you shimmy your way across.

Next comes “Frankenstein Lines,” where you go in pairs. You have a wire for each foot, and the man in back puts his hands on the shoulders of the point man. Then you clomp you way across like Frankenstein, matching step for step. After that is “The Matrix,” a four-man hopscotch exercise. They say the steps are sturdy, but I have my doubts. The “Complex X” is the last one on the lower track, and is a two-man deal. You have to cross over the ropes where the wires intersect in the middle. I find that, like while belaying, it helps to keep one hand firmly clenched on the line, pushing out. Definitely helps with your balance.

Sasha, John, and Apryl were our jumpmasters, and helped us through most of it, whereas Lindsey and Julia chilled out on the far end, giving us (some) direction. My group went last, with three groups ahead of us, so we were well-motivated to be the fastest and finest group out there. I was forever telling the platform crews that they should just call me Peter Pan, Dr. Indiana Jones, or Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. I had nimble feet.

After a break in the shade, we scaled the opposite side to the t’gallants. Our group was last again, only because the cowardly buggers who went before us played rock, paper scissors without us. Cheap shot.

The tops begin with “lateral limbo,” which is like the Frankenstein lines, only rotated so that the pairs face each other, with arms on the shoulders of the man opposite. They put 2x4s in the way, which is why I call it the “Toothpicks of Doom.” It’s catchy.

The second one is the Team Tension Traverse. There’s a pulley in the middle that has two ropes attached. Everybody grabs a knot and walks across together. We were supposed to do the “Scary Ferry” next, followed by “Multi-Vine,” but it was at that point when we were told to go back. We already had the gondola ready and everything, but they told us to get off. I wasn’t in my Alpine gondolier’s outfit anyway, but I hated having to miss the double zipline at the end.

It was by far one of the most grueling days we’ve had so far. But this was just a dry run. With 30 campers or so in tow, it’ll be an entirely different situation. I may even start to sound like Don after a few weeks. However, I doubt that I’ll be able to perfect that rustic voice of his. In another time or place, you would probably find him hunting squirrels in the backwoods of Old Virginia. For now, he seems content in his work. And so shall I.

Dispatch 2- Down to Business

Camp, Day 2

Tuesday, June 9

A lot of my moments from Tuesday I already marked in passing somewhere in my notes, but I’ll sum up, regardless. Today was a classroom day for the most part, and I continued to collect more names, faces, and friends as the day went along. I had the harmonica with me for mealtimes, which was appreciated, it seems.

Kevin is one of the new faces I get along with. He’s paired with Eddy, in cabin 25. He’s tall, lanky, and often wears shirts that look like American Apparel, kinda like Joe. He and John are also outdoors enthusiasts who like to rock climb. Funny thing—Kevin had just been to Foster Falls recently, right about the same time as me. Easy-going and good natured, I’ll see him again at UF in the fall.

I’ll spend more time on character profiles as we go along. I just don’t have the time for a full dramatis persona right now. Our trackers are pretty fun though. Crystal is a consummate actress who knows how to play a crowd. Even though she’s tiny, she is always bursting with energy. She has an obsession for color-coding her wardrobe, I’m told. Her olive skin makes me suspect she’s Greek. She has a voice that doesn’t match her small size.

Other bits of information about the camp: we raise the flag every morning, take it down in the evening. I’m a fan of that. It’s important to learn respect for your country. The soda machine in the pavilion is “broken,” as far as the campers know. Thus, if you wanna get a drink, madcap trickery and deception ensue to distract the campers while somebody shells quarters faster than at a slot machine. Would make an excellent SportsCenter commercial.

We also learned never to give a homesick kid a cell phone. Two years ago, a camper had a cell phone with them, and gave it to another camper. She then called her father and lied about getting kicked out of camp, and told him that she was walking down the road outside of camp. While dealing with the irate father, Krys and the others had to figure out who had the cell phone, and who done it, and where. Kinda like a game of Clue.

Even funnier is the story of a Jewish girl who came to camp, decided she didn’t like it, and then called her mother to tell say that she was at a Nazi camp, and wanted to go home. Mothers, apparently, believe whatever idiocies their babies tell them, and they had to calm down a screaming mother to assure her they weren’t running a concentration camp in Central Florida. Moral of the story: cell phones are always bad news.

Later we played more games, including a chaotic game of foursquare where there was much bickering over the rules. I gave out my first two nicknames of camp at the game, both of them girls. “Salt” got hers because her shirt was gray, mine was black, and she was annoying me by aiming for me. “Cheerios” got hers for her prickly demeanor and because she looked like a honeybee in yellow and black. That nickname should remind her to cheer up. Now to see if they’ll stick.

Most of all, I enjoy how many great people I’ve met and how much I look forward to working with them. This really is an eccentric ensemble of characters, and I’m sure it will be an entertaining summer. We ended the day by watching the Magic play the Lakers. It was a loud, raucous time, and most of the viewers seemed happy with the Magic win. I went back to the cabin and was soon asleep.

Dispatch 1- Beginnings.

Camp, first morning- Day 2
Tuesday, June 9

This is the first full day at camp. The kitchen staff are already in high spirits, playing “Ring of Fire” as they serve up breakfast for all 90 or so counselors and counselors-in-training (CITs). Today we’re in classroom for the majority of the day. I’m looking forward to catch up on the log while looking like I’m taking notes. A Clever Subterfuge.

The sun shimmered on the dash of the Buick on the drive up yesterday, while I glistened with sweat most of the time in absence of air conditioning. I arrived a little after 3 o’clock, then was told at the check-in table that I’d take a drive through the fields to get to my cabin. Almost got stuck in a retention pond on the way. Parked beside a decrepit putt-putt course that’s been closed ever since kids got whacked in the head with a putter. After stashing my gear, I collected in the main hall with a bunch of UF students. Good company.

After most everybody had arrived, we headed off into the Grafton Gym, right next to the open-air pavilion where most of the meals take place. The rest of the afternoon was spent in icebreakers.

During the icebreakers I met my CIT, Jacob. His camp name though, is T.A.G. (Tall and Goofy). He’s been here for four years, since he was 14. So far any question that I could’ve asked someone else on the staff, I just leaned over and gave it to Tag. He’s an invaluable source of information, and most of my stories from past summers at Camp are partly from him. He’s tall and lean, wears his dirty blond hair cropped short, has spindly glasses and an excitable way of talking- I think we’ll work well together. The campers are always pestering him for his real name, and it seems the guesses are getting wilder with each passing week. We’re also working out the kinks in most of our many bear-wrestling stories. Some of the campers believe us.

During the evening we were addressed by Lynn “Mr. Lynn” Warburton, the director of the camp, and Ms. Krys Ragland, his adjutant, for lack of a better word. They explained a little more of the hierarchy. The trackers are just above the counselors in the chain of command, then the green team (Because of the lime-green shirts they wear). Krys is a part of that. Other camp jargon: “returnees” are returning staff or campers, the “homesickers” often need a shoulder to cry on. I’ll make sure it’s someone other than me.

The Elks, to me, seem a lot like the Shriners, only without the funny little hats. From what I understand of the organization, they do a lot of good in this world. There used to be an old hospital in Umatilla, (closed in ’97) which served polio children for decades. When Mr. Lynn first started here 10 years ago, the camp was facing a lawsuit. He went to a lawyer in Ocala, whose specialties were camps and horses. As it turned out, the man, who was older than dirt, was a former camp counselor. They chatted for hours before they got to the case at hand as he recalled names and faces from his past. I hope to be able to say the same.

Mr. Lynn is an interesting character himself. He’s an elderly chap. His face is sunburned and weather-beaten by the years. The retired locksmith has the slow, drawling voice of a bullfrog, and wears his steely hair swept back like a wave at the crest. He is, without a doubt, a man of intense dedication, and sharp as a tack. Around the 4th of July he putters around camp on a bulldozer, throwing trees, park benches, and port-a-potties (according to Tag) into a heap for the bonfire. It’ll probably scorch the ground from twenty feet away, I’d wager.