Staff Relations

The key to any camp is its staff.  The most incredible physical property, the multi-million dollar facility, the most majestic setting  with the most amenable weather systems, cannot compete with a dilapidated inner-city gym and office cubicle dorms, if the better staff is in the gym.  Any camp wanting to improve has to spend its money on staff.

Not necessarily on salary, though.  The secret is in spending on the selection and training process.  Staff who are hired for their positive attitude, teachability and willingness to sacrifice their personal interests for the benefit of the camp will have an infectious and contagious effect on each other, and on everyone who comes in contact with them.  From that point on, the summer will be a success.  It cannot be otherwise.  Any obstacles, disasters or hurts will be overcome by the group operating in unison and mutual support.  Staffs have collapsed despite huge paycheques through a lack of unity and group fulfilment, while others have stuck together without paycheques because the members want to belong to the group and accomplish their goals together.

I have experienced an outstanding staff environment today at Camp Caroline in southern Alberta.  I volunteered for three days out of the summer, at a camp where my daughter is attending her first overnight program, and I know it would be easy to come and go without ever being noticed by the summer staff. 

However, I was given a staff T-shirt, a name badge, and a steady stream of sincere welcomes from every staff member I met throughout the day.  The camaraderie, support for each other and commitment I have seen today blows my mind.  It reminds me of Sylvan Acres, and the staffs that I was blessed to be part of.  I had mourned the loss of that camp, but am delighted to find that there is a camp my children can go to where they will experience the love and example that I wanted for them.

The Water Weenie Goes Abroad

This is surely one of the highlights of my life!  Last week I got to partake in a water fight in Calgary, and had the priviledge to introduce the water weenie to the head of a large youth organization who was visiting from Europe.  When he saw me bring it onto the field he was curious.  When he saw it in action, he wanted one.  Not just to use, but to take home with him.   "I have a water fight at camp in Ireland next week, and this will be awesome" he enthused.  And so it goes.  A new class of weapon, unleashed on an unsuspecting culture.  And one that can be pretty much built intuitively on sight. Europe is about to enter a new age.  The Water Weenie Age.  And I got to initiate it!  Yeee haaaw. (Calgary, remember).

I remember the day the water weenie came to Sylvan Acres.   I was blessed to be the first to receive one, shortly before lights out on the last night of the Senior Teens weekend at the end of a long summer.  My friend Ed handed it to me, and I have to admit that it wasn't very impressive.  But then he produced a garden hose, filled it and showed me how far it could shoot.  He had obtained an industrial grade surgical tube that had to be three inches thick, and four feet long.  I have never been able to find its equal.  But he had two of them for me, and two for him.  They each wrapped around me three times, and I had to wear a heavy coat to protect them, but I ended up with a pen sticking out of each sleeve, and a 30 foot no-fly-zone around myself.  With Ed similarly equipped, we headed out into the woods to hunt.

It was providential, and I believe Ed was a guardian angel straight from God, because that night the Senior Teen boys decided that they had only one raiding goal.  To get me wet.  Anything they accomplished after that was gravy, but they were not going to sleep until they had hunted me down, held me down, and dumped buckets of water on me.  Apparently I was seen to be personally responsible for a great decrease in their after-curfew fraternizing with the Senior Teen girls, and they didn't like me very much.  Now, they were ready to exact revenge.

I heard about their plans, of course, and took a more introspective approach to raid watch that night.  Ed and I stayed in the trees and tried to pick them off when they split up, but they eventually caught sight of me, and circled in for the kill.  The first streams of water freaked them out, because I didn't have a weapon in sight, but the water seemed to come from everywhere.  Ed stayed out of sight in the shadows and provided suppressing fire in the confusion.  It cut an escape route through them like a knife through butter, and I was off into the trees again. Running away from campers is usually a cardinal sin for a night watch, but I reasoned that while they were chasing me, they weren't technically raiding, since everyone else was asleep and undisturbed, and while they weren't catching me, they weren't succeeding in their mission, which was my ultimate goal on any other given night, so I was really winning by retreating.

The second time they caught me, and got me pinned in a sitting position near the lodge, I immediately started hosing them down with some very impressive water pressure.  They were no longer surprised by the soaking, but a 30 foot stream of water that only travels two feet has to be pretty uncomfortable as a direct hit to the chest or anywhere lower, and soon they were all too busy trying to grab my arms to be actually holding me down, and when the water bucket arrived and was thrown, I was able to roll quickly to the side. To this day, I don't believe that any water got on me that didn't bounce first off of one of them after leaving my water weenies so I didn't consider that they had accomplished their goal.  Once again I escaped by outrunning them, with my hands on my shoulders shooting water behind me at my pursuers, until they all dropped away.

They lost heart after that, and went to bed frustrated, as they had on most of the other nights at camp that week.  Too bad really, but that's the idea of night watch.

Take A Chance

It's pseudo-spring in Calgary - that time of year when the seasons take turns tormenting us with alternating hope or despair.  As I was driving home yesterday afternoon, I saw thick smoke pouring from behind a garage on an alley.  I pulled a uturn and drove up the alley to see a man filling a burning barrel with leaves and grass cuttings.  It was the red flame showing through the holes in the side of the barrel that reminded me suddenly of the large burning barrel on the far side of the washroom block at Landsend.  Did you ever fill it?  Do you remember the sheer joy of stuffing matches into small holes in the bottom of the barrel, lighting it up, and watching the flames grow until they shoot through the heavy metal screen laying across the top of the barrel to keep the embers from reaching the nearby trees.   My enduring memory of the barrel was that metal screen, with edges so sharp that they sent one passing camper to hospital for stitches, and so hot that they burned my fingers on more than one occasion.

That's what I loved about camp - the chance to do things that I didn't get to do at home or through the rest of the year.  Like setting barrels of garbage afire, and watching the flames shoot out of every available opening.  Like running full-speed through the woods at 2 in the morning without a flashlight.  Or leading a cabin-full of kids to accepting Christ.  It was an intensely short time, in an intense time of life, and thankfully, back in the day, we didn't have the paranoia or over-protectiveness which sanitizes camp experiences nowadays.  We could throw 5 or 6 staff members (or even campers) into the back of an open pickup truck and race up and down a winding dirt road from the beach, or down the back roads to the Astrophysical Observatory, without seats, let alone seatbelts.  Certain risks were acceptable, certain injuries to be expected, and many things forgiveable which now would be cause for lawsuits or worse.  Like that razor mesh on the burning barrel.  Now there are color-coded recycling bins, and composters, and nothing is burned in deference to the ozone layer.  But what's the fun in that?

The best prank ever played at Sylvan Acres

I have been asked what the best prank ever played at Sylvan Acres was, and I wish I could say that it was one of mine, but I have to give the credit for that to two brothers from Port Alberni, Alvin and Dietmar. 

It was a March break camp, and the weekend stretched from March 30 to April 1.  April Fools days at Sylvan were very rare, and the boys decided to make the most of it. 

It started for me when a camper came to me and asked what they should do if they knew that someone at camp was breaking the camp rules.  I asked if there was a chance that someone could get hurt, and they said that they thought so.  I asked for details, and then went to speak to Alvin and Dietmar.

They were campers in Haida Cabin, and for some unknown reason they had brought a large footlocker to camp, with a padlock on it, and it was sitting at the foot of the bed.  I pulled the boys out of lunch and asked them to open the locker, as I had heard a rumor about what was inside.  I was very disappointed to see that it was true, and was trying to figure out how I was going to deal with it without getting them banned for life, when Alvin offered his explanation.  After I was done laughing, I agreed to keep their secret.

Late that night the sound of loud music started to float down from the top field and over the camp.  This was before there were any houses in the area, and as the music got louder, the director was finally forced to come and investigate.  What she found was her whole staff, and more than half of the campers, up on the field with music and beer.  Enough beer to keep them going for the rest of the weekend at least.   Alvin and Dietmar had brought fifteen cases, along with the stereo and lights.  It was a camp director's nightmare, but with one difference.  The beer bottles were full of apple juice.

Apparently, their father had a home brew operation, and they were able to collect enough bottles and fill them with juice and cap them so they were indistinguishable from regular beer until you opened a bottle and tasted it.   Alvin came over to offer Bev a bottle, and eventually got her to take a drink to put her out of her misery.  It was brilliant.  I really wish I had thought of it.

A Trap Door with a Flag over it is still a trap door

        One of the things you learned at Sylvan Acres after a few weeks was that there were trap doors in the ceiling of the lodge.  Why they were there was a mystery to the uninitiated, because there was a large door going from the staff room above the covered area into the lodge attic, and it was much more convenient for putting things in storage.  Come to think of it, there was precious little ever stored in that space, but the trap doors were a godsend. 

        The attic was like the crawlspace above Diggory's house in the Magician's Nephew.  You could start in the staff room, push the fridge out of the way (it wasn't a big fridge), and step into the darkness.  There were cross beams to stand on, and narrow boards laid across the beams for those who weren't confident about stepping from beam to beam while bent over at the waist.  The story was that if you stepped between the beams by accident, you might fall through into the room below.  I doubt it, since the Cooper family helped build it, and Coopers never built anything half-way.  But that was the story we were told.

        So, you step from beam to beam, bent over at the waist, or walk quietly on the narrow boards, trying not to make them creak under the weight of you and the bucket of water you're carrying, and soon you come to the trap door.  It is in the middle of the meeting area of the lodge, before you get to the dining area, and this is where people tend to stand around if they don't know better.  And if you are careful about not making any noise when you lift the trap, you can dump a bucket of water on them, get out through the staff room window, and be over the roof and into the woods on the far side of the lodge before they can figure out what happened and come after you.  

        The trap played a frequent role in skit nights as well, but as more and more staff got soaked, less and less of them stood around where they could be targetted, so the game got more challenging and less likely to end in success, particularly if you were after someone like Wayne, who rarely walked through the middle of the room for precisely this reason. 

        It was Senior Teens 1986, and the theme for the summer was tied to Expo 86 in Vancouver.  Wayne had obtained large flags from a number of countries around the world, which he draped by their four corners from the ceiling of the dining hall.  It was a striking display, and was very effective, but it was while he was doing the after-lunch announcements (delayed by choruses of "Why are we Waiting") that I looked at the flag above his head and thought to myself that I vaguely remembered there being a trap door right under that particular flag.

        I checked it out late that night, and sure enough, there was a trap there, but you couldn't get to it from the staff room because the attic was divided into two separate rooms by a wall inside the attic above the kitchen door.  In order to get up there, someone would have to climb through the ceiling and wait, and afterwards they would not have any escape.  It was a suicide mission, particularly considering the target, but one well worth the cost.  A perfect assignment for one of the boys in my cabin.  I told them of my discovery, and was proud to see that every single one of them was ready to step up and face the wrath to come.

        The next day I helped my two chosen volunteers get up through the trap during free time before lunch, passed them a large bucket, and replaced the flag over the opening.  They were more than willing to miss lunch for this, and waited through the whole lunch for Wayne to start his announcements.  I gave one cough to signal ready, and a second cough for go.  The flag dropped behind Wayne and the water hit him as he looked up.  It was a beautiful thing.  The camp went wild, Wayne took note of the grinning faces looking down on him, found me in the crowd, and wordlessly communicated that vengeance would be swift.  But, as I said, it was well worth it.

Music over the Water

One of my favourite memories of Sylvan Acres was a combination of music and water.  During the 1980’s we had a regular program feature called the Antiphonal Sing.  It was traditionally held in the evening, as part of a campfire program where we would light candles, attach them to small pieces of wood and carry them, lighted, from the lodge to the waterfront.  There, we would float them out into the water, and gather in three or four groups and sing campfire songs back and forth between the groups.  It was always amazing to watch the thin line of candles float away out of sight and listen to the other groups singing as their voices carried along the shoreline. 

One night we had a large senior teens camp, with well over a hundred campers, and when we walked down to the beach it was necessary to stop traffic on Landsend Road so the campers could continue in an unbroken line down to the waterfront.  Landsend wasn’t a busy road, but there was some traffic, and I think we made the drivers a little nervous as they came around the corner and saw a stream of candle-bearers, most wearing hoodies because it was a cold evening.  However, no one panicked, and they were able to drive quickly away as the procession ended. 

                The other night that I remember most at camp was a night we camped on a small island off the coast.  The whole staff packed up for pre-camp training, and took over a few campsites at a campground on the island.  I had my recorder with me, and after supper I went for a walk along the beach, and heard someone playing a penny whistle on one of the cabin cruisers anchored in the bay.   I ran back to my tent, got my recorder, and when I got back he was still playing.   So I waited for the end of his song, and then played Amazing Grace on the recorder.  For the next hour we traded songs back and forth.  When we finished, I called out to him and told him where we were from, and how to find our camp near the ferry terminal.   I listened for him when we got back to camp, but he didn’t search us out.  It was a neat experience.

                What was your favourite memory of music at camp?  Was it singing in the lodge, campfire songs, or music at the waterfront?  Post a comment and share your experience.

Dont Answer Phones after Midnight

          Pop quiz.  It’s just after midnight on  the last night of a camp at Landsend Road and you are standing beside the office door at the main lodge, when the phone rings.  These are the days before call display.  Without picking up the phone, who is it?

          Only a rookie would answer the phone of course, because at that time of the night it can only be a neighbour, living in one of the new houses bordering the camp property.  They want to talk to the director, immediately, about the air horn that is blowing intermittently through the woods.   More specifically, they want the noise to stop, because they paid a lot of money to build  their dream house right next to a summer camp, which by the way has been here for the past 40 years and hasn’t made a secret of its presence.  They don’t want a lecture, though.  They want action.

          How are you going to tell them that the director is on top of the situation.  That she is, as we speak, running around in those same woods, and in fact that if the neighbour would care to follow the sound of that air horn to its source, they could tell her to stop in person.

          The simple fact is that no one rises to the rank of camp director by being the type of person who would confiscate an air horn in the dead of night, the last night of camp, and then NOT give the guilty counsellor 10 seconds to run away before they became the hunted in this ancient game of freak-your-socks-off-by-sneaking-up-and-blowing-the-horn-in-your-ear-as-you-run-past.  And once that counsellor had escaped or begged for mercy, who wouldn’t go after anyone else who happened to be in the woods, since it is too dark at that time of night to tell who you are picking on anyway.

          Camp needs a buffer zone; a treed area between the camp and its neighbours, both to keep the neighbours happy and to discourage them from deciding to participate in camp life.  This was seldom a problem at Sylvan but there were a couple of occasions when teenagers from around the area wandered onto the camp grounds at night, looking for a little adventure. 

          Male staff lived for this.  We generally kept good track of any cabin groups or staff members who wandered around at night, and despite using flashlights, those of us who patrolled at night had exceptional night vision and could recognise staff when we were chasing them.  If we started chasing someone who wasn’t staff, we would have all male staff out of their bunks within minutes, and you wouldn’t want to be caught by them.

          One night, very early in my camp career, one of the girls said she saw someone on the trail below Salish Cabin.  She screamed, he ran, and the staff mobilized, but we didn’t catch him.  After a while everyone went back to bed, except me.   I slept that night in the clearing beside Salish.  My counsellor told me to go to bed, but I declined, and Wayne told him to let it go.  The girl who saw the intruder took a lot of teasing because everyone knew I had a crush on her, but I would have done the same for any of the girls on staff.  A few nights later Wayne called me out and let me help him do night patrol, and I was hooked.   

          I would happily sleep during the day, missing most of the camp activities, just to prowl around until early morning, looking for anyone out of bunks.  I’m sure that I spoiled some fun (my friend said my motivation was probably that if I wasn’t getting any goodnight kisses, then nobody was) but I know that sneaking around at night wouldn’t have been any fun at all if Wayne hadn’t been out there trying to catch us, and I just tried to provide the same experience for the next generation.     

The futility of trying to be impressive

                One of the interesting things in the storage shed at the Landsend site was a massive stack of doors of all sizes.  You wouldn't think a camp would have that many doorways, and you would be right.  These doors were leftovers, salvaged from a variety of places, in the thought that someday we might need 40 or 50 extra doors.  We even gutted a number of houses in Sidney which were donated to the camp on the condition that they be torn down completely by a certain date.  It was great to have so many spare doors, but it complicated my life as a wrangler because there were only a few doors that we really needed, and they tended to get lost in the stack.

                The doors in question were the interior doors for Chilkat cabin.  Every year it seemed that one or more of these doors had to be removed or replaced, depending on the leadership style of the girls’ counsellors in Chilkat.  You see, every other cabin consisted of only one room, and therefore only one door.  It was madness to consider removing this door, because it provided privacy for the campers and protection from the creepy crawlies that tend to live in the great outdoors and which would rather live in a nice warm cabin. 

                However, the interior doors of Chilkat cabin divided that cabin into about 5 bedrooms, and while some staff preferred having a private space where they were separate from the campers, others wanted an “open-concept” where they could hear and see all of their campers.  So they would call me to either take a door out, or put a door in.

                The challenge came when it was time to try to find one of these doors, because they were slightly different sizes, and they were mixed in the mound of other doors of varying usefulness in the storage shed.  I suppose in hindsight it would seem simple to just set the Chilkat doors off to one side, but organization in the storage area was non-existent, and there always seemed to be someone wanting to re-organize everything, and nothing seemed to remain in the same place from year to year.

                The end result was that there was this counsellor that I thought was kind of nice, and she wanted a door replaced in Chilkat.  It had been off for a number of years, and I didn’t really know if the original door was still around, but I was determined to be helpful, and efficient, and most of all impressive.  So I took measurements and set off to find a door that was the right size, or that could be forced to fit.

                If you‘ve ever replaced a door, you will know that the hinges on any given door are not in a standard location, so after finding a door that was reasonably close to what I needed, my first challenge was that the hinges did not line up with the hinge spaces on the door frame.  However, I was prepared for this and diligently proceeded to cut new notches in the door to match the frame.  As I worked, the counsellor sat on her bed, reading a book and occasionally glancing at me with what I hoped was admiration.

                Then I had to cut the door down a little bit, because it was a tiny bit too big for the door frame, but again I was prepared, and though it was a solid wood door, and therefore harder to cut through with the dull camp handsaw, I was able to get it done, get the hinges on, and proudly swing the door shut.  My ingenuity had succeeded in replacing a door despite several problems. 

                Almost.  Because when I had finally finished all of the alterations necessary and swung the door, it was to discover a two inch deadbolt sticking out of it, which I had not noticed before in my rush to be impressive, and which banged loudly on the door frame.   

                At this point the counsellor started laughing.  Not tittering quietly, mind you.  Full-throated, snorting hysterical laughter.  And she didn’t stop.  All the time I spent dismantling the dead-bolt, pulling the unit out of the door, and packing up my tools, she laughed.  And laughed.  And laughed.  My attempt to be impressive had failed.  But at least I was able to shut the door on her and muffle that darned laughter when I left.

The One that Got Away

          Go to summer camp long enough, and you're bound to run into one.  Someone who's completely out of your league.  You'll take your shot, but it's certain to end in heartbreak and humiliation as you ponder how things could go so wrong.   For me there was frustration too, frustration that she got away and I never had the chance to get her back.   Because I am confident that I could have, if fate had only given me a chance. I watched for her every summer, hoping a miracle would happen, that God would bring her back to me, but He never did.    I heard that she got married last year, and I stopped watching.   I will meet others, I am sure, but none will be like the one that got away.

          In my memory, that fateful summer is as clear as last Saturday.  The first time I saw her, sitting across the campfire, I thought she looked like any of the other girls I had known. How wrong I was. The sparkle in her eyes, which might have warned me, was hidden by the reflection of the dancing firelight.
 
          She was strange, foreign, a girl from the United States. Rumors had flown before she even arrived at camp that she had a reputation back home as something of a practical joker, but I had some experience and a reputation of my own, and was confident that if any situation came up, as I secretly hoped it would, I would be able to stay in control.   Besides, she would only be at camp for a week, before she had to return to the States for work. I had been disappointed to hear this at first. After hearing the stories, I had hoped to spend the summer finding out how good she really was, but a week was not very much time for that.

          My first impulse was to discount the rumors about her as ridiculous. She didn't seem the type, and the stories were so wild that they had to be exaggerated. She couldn't possibly have done everything that people said.  But, I have to admit I was intrigued, and wondered if she might be the challenge I had been seeking for so many years. I decided I would give her a try and see what happened.

          Across the campfire, I watched her eyes travel around the circle until her gaze settled on me.  A long, confident gaze that was strangely uncomfortable. I looked away, and all was lost. I think she picked me out at that moment as her next conquest, and everything else that happened was just chess pieces moving into positions that I didn't recognise until it was too late. I was used to seeing the strategy from my side of the table, and like the lost hiker who never looks behind him, the return trail looks strange and unfamiliar.  I failed to realize what was happening until she was gone. She was playing it just as I would have, ignoring me to make me think she hadn't noticed. I should have known then that I would just be spinning my wheels, but I had to find out the awful truth myself.
         
          She was a cabin counsellor, which presented the first obstacle to my plans. I would have to find a time when her campers weren't around. Unfortunately, this eliminated most of the days and all of the nights. I couldn't leave anything for her in her cabin, because her campers might see it, and I didn't want to get them involved. I had no choice but to wait for a meal when she sat at the staff table.   Counsellors and AC's take turns sitting at the extra tables because there isn't room for everyone at the camper tables. I began to check at every meal to figure out her eating schedule.

          For several days I found her schedule very unpredictable, and I gave up on trying to anticipate it. Time was running out, and I began to feel the pressure, which is why, when the opportunity presented itself, I finally decided on an admittedly childish method of getting her attention. She had left her bathing suit hanging on the clothesline outside her cabin, and it was dinnertime, so while everyone was in the dining hall I slipped out, removed the bathing suit and took it to the kitchen where I found a tall bucket and a piece of broomstick cut up for making doughboys on campouts. I balanced the stick on the bucket, hung the suit on the stick, and filled the bucket with water. I found that the suit floated, so I put a rock in it to make it hang properly. Then I put the whole thing in the freezer, behind several pails of margarine, where it would not be found.

          By dinnertime the next night the bathing suit was encased in ice. I was somewhat disappointed that no mention had been made of the missing bathing suit.   I felt that a girl with a reputation such as hers would be more aware of such things, and I began to doubt even more strongly that the stories I had heard were true. I was saddened by the idea that I might be wasting my time, but I had started this, and I might as well finish it. She was sitting at the staff table, and dinner was over. Dessert was being served when I asked the cooks to deliver a special dessert to her table. I used hot water to loosen the ice block and put it on a serving cart. They agreed to my request, understanding my motives, and delivered my creation, along with a dull ice pick, to her table.
 
          She laughed, along with everyone else, and scanned the room looking for the culprit. Once more her eyes settled on me, laughing eyes that looked for and found the answer she wanted. She raised her ice pick to me (as a toast or a mock threat, it mattered not. I would welcome either.) and made short work of the ice block.

          For the rest of that evening and all of the next day I waited. Sure, it wasn't the most clever way to start things off, but it deserved some kind of response.  Toilet-papering my vehicle; sewing my sleeping bag shut; setting alarm clocks al around my cabin.  But there was nothing. The following day was to be her last, and I went to bed that night very disappointed.
 
          Next morning she said goodbye to everyone, but said nothing to me. I saw her getting into her friend's car as I got into my own truck.  She saw me, but didn't wave. Sitting in the driver's seat, I reflected that it was going to be a boring summer.

          As I started the engine, I noticed a piece of paper on the seat beside me. I hadn't remembered seeing it there before, and reached for it as I took my hand off the gear shift and stepped on the accelerator to back up. As I grasped the paper, I realized that my truck hadn't moved. I shifted gears and stepped on the gas again, without success.

          I knew then what was wrong, even as I opened my driver's door. I didn't need to look at the paper or the truck. My rear tires were one inch off the ground, held by two sturdy blocks of wood.  I knew my jack was gone, and wouldn't likely turn up for several days.

          I turned to see her waving from the back seat as she drove slowly out of the camp gate and out of my life. Becky Belt, you were everything they said you were. Come back, I dare you.

Sylvan Radio

Undoubtedly, the Golden Age of Sylvan Radio was the late 1970's and early 1980's, when Grant and Travis ruled the airways and the hearts of dozens of swooning young ladies and impressionable young men from the rooftop of the Sylvan Acres lodge.

The origins of Sylvan Radio are murky and open to debate.  Some say that it was an entity unto itself from the first day; that the meteoric rise of Grant and Travis had to have a vent, an outlet with which to express itself.   Others say that Doug Butler and Greg Vaughan started things off by setting up massive sound systems on the camp roof to power the camp's 50's themed "movement to music" activity nights (dances in the non-Baptist vernacular).  Putting that kind of wattage in the hands of "Swave" and "Debonner", as Travis often billed his collaboration with Grant ("I'm Swave, and he's Debonner"), was asking for genius to step up to the mike and let-er-rip.  Mr Dress-up and his "Tickle Trunk" meeting Kermit the Frog in the air over Sylvan's upper parking lot. 

But however it started, the thought of those early programs, mainly scheduled on the days off when campers were not around to hear, or during Junior and Senior Teens, when the campers were old enough to appreciate what they were hearing, brings a smile to my heart.   When the format changed to all-music with the loss of its talk stars, we adapted, (reeaaally loud music on great speakers is always a good thing).  I remember preparing for the arrival of many camp groups to the music of Rockin' Robin, At the Hop, Tell Laura I Love Her, and hundreds of other great songs.

Sometimes we were fortunate to have live bands playing at our 50's nights.  Grant was the lead, the main draw and the one who could carry the song, but we had some good harmonizers and knowledgable singers to back him up.  There were the standard Beatles songs, and the parodies of popular songs tailored for individual campers (Tell Laura, for the guy who liked a girl at camp named Laura, Back in the SABC, and the all-time hit "I wish they all could be Sylvan Acres girls."  It was patently self-serving, but as I recall it served well.

What memories do you have of Sylvan Radio?  Post a comment on this blog and share it with us.  And, until next time, rock, roll and remember.

Careful What You Say on a Walkie-Talkie.

          At an average camp there are about 40 staff, but only four walkie-talkies.  So who gets them? 

          That's what it's all about.

          Without a radio, you're just like everyone else;  running around, taking campers' luggage to their cabins, taking parents on camp tours, or trying to look busy so you don't get tagged to do something you don't want to do.  But with a radio in your hand you don't have to run errands, and for everyone who comes to camp from your home church, you are one of the first staff they see, and you are high-ranking enough to need a radio to keep in constant communication with the director.

          But what do we actually talk about on the radio? 

          Not much that's camp-related.  We talk about last week, what's going to happen tonight, and sometimes we talk about our fellow staff who are not fortunate enough to have walkie talkies.  The director has a radio, but he keeps it turned off unless he needs it because he is sitting at the registration table, and he knows what we talk about.  It's not stuff the parents want to hear as they leave their precious children in our care for a week of days and nights.

          One occasion I remember vividly was arrival day for the second camp of the summer.  We had introduced a new program the year before; a day camp group of younger kids from various local churches that would arrive each morning and leave just before supper.  Wayne was still well-connected with his friends from Biola, and as male staff we were delighted to get to meet some recruits from down south.  Last year's day camp director had been a very attractive young woman who was a spectacular basketball player for a leading high school team in California. 

         We told ourselves that we had to take it easy on her because of the knee brace she wore, but the simple fact was that she could mop the court with us most of the time.  We had been very sorry to hear that she would not be returning for a second summer, but none was more sorry than our sports director, who had dated her for a time.  I won't mention his name because he seems to have a particular affinity for California girls, and I'm not sure if the one he married knows about the pattern she became the last link in. 

         Anyway, we had just had a chance to meet our new day camp director; a very attractive young woman from California who was a spectacular basketball player with a knee brace.  It was even on the same knee (our memories were that good).   Apart from hair color, there wasn't much to differentiate, and I was unwise enough to speculate that our sports director had the inside track since he had experience in how to win the heart of basketball-playing, California-girl day camp directors with gimpy knees.  

         Within minutes I saw him coming down the driveway toward me, with a remarkable head of steam, a walkie-talkie in his hand, and what, in anyone else, would have been described as "murder in his eye".  Since I had never seen him get violent, my initial reaction was to laugh, and that perhaps took away a little of his momentum.  He merely punched me on the shoulder and said "Not on the radio, you idiot.  She was standing beside me when you said that.  And she wants an explanation!" 

         Now, for a mere mortal, that would be the end of it.  That kind of handicap would take a normal guy a lot more than six weeks to overcome.  But I knew it wouldn't defeat our sports director.  A slight set-back, that's all. A chance for him to experience just how difficult it would have been for any other staff member to win her over.  He did overcome, as I knew he would.  But it slowed him down a little, and it was good for a laugh.

A Rose by Any Other Name

        So, they’re changing the name? What’s that about? What is ZAO Ministries? Are we going to be sending our kids to Camp ZAO? I was skeptical at first, but I have to say that I am getting excited as I read more about the direction the camp is looking at.

        Does a name really matter? Would the new camp really be Sylvan Acres anyway? It would be easy to stick the old sign at the front of a new property, congratulate ourselves and say that Sylvan Acres is back. But it would also be dangerous.


        The simple fact is that Sylvan Acres is gone. This new camp is not going to have the spirit that made Sylvan great unless we get in there and transfer that spirit from where it resides, in our memories and in our hearts. The name on the sign is not as important as the names that will be on the staff list.

        Ramsay, Cooper, Jamieson, Boschma, Stewart, Duerkson, Patterson, Atkinson, Bingham, Urquhart, Callaghan, Deans, Pollock. The list could go on and on and on, and for you it would be a different list. But names like these are what made camp for me.

        “Sylvan Acres” is a great name because of the memories it stirs in us, but the history of Sylvan Acres in the past few years has been different. The name hasn’t conjured up a beautiful quiet retreat where you could sit on the dock and watch the sunrise over the water. Those who have worked have worked incredibly hard, and it has been harder because they haven’t had a beautiful camp to start with.
       
        Sadly, for many in the church today Sylvan Acres stirs up only images of struggle, and of trying to re-establish a great history in a half-built facility that wasn‘t designed as a camp and wasn‘t what we would have built if we had the choice. It would have been easier to bulldoze the whole thing and start fresh, but it would have cost too much, and perhaps we relied too much on the name “Sylvan Acres” to do the work for us.


        We can’t make that mistake again.

        Wherever our camp takes place in the future; whether we purchase an existing camp or buy raw land and send in the heavy machinery, or operate a summer program out of the back of a semi-trailer and a bus, we can’t expect people who weren’t at Sylvan Acres to reproduce what we had there. Indeed, merely reproducing a camp is not their goal, and for that I congratulate them. They want something better than Sylvan Acres, something fresh, new and exciting. And that makes me believe they will succeed.

        There’s only way to contribute to this new camp a feeling of what Sylvan Acres used to be. Those of us who experienced Sylvan Acres have to show up, and pass on the culture of our camp to the new campers and staff so that when they talk about Camp Zao or Camp Sylvan or whatever it is twenty years from now, those kids will smile, and wish they could go back.

        Check out the new website at www.zaoministries.org and see what we have planned for the future, and get involved anyway you can. Bring your new ideas, and your memories. Add your name to some future camper’s list.

The Chilkat Drop

          At the old Sylvan site on Landsend Road there was a Cooper-built storage shed (as in massive, solid and constructed without any identifiably recycled materials) beside the lower parking lot which was somewhat buried in the trees, and which housed all of the donated materials that turned up at camp over the years. I should say it housed almost all of the donated materials, because over the embankment below Chilkat cabin, there was another dumpsite, where we threw the donated items which could not be repaired, salvaged or legally disposed of anywhere else.

          Church leaders know that when some item becomes so old and decrepit that it can not be sold at a garage sale, it gets donated to the church. When it can’t in good conscience be given away to the poor, the church janitor loads it into his truck and drops it off at the camp in the middle of the night. That’s why camps really have caretakers: to keep church janitors at bay.

          Thinking of this reminds me of a story I heard many years ago about Raymond, an unfortunate cook’s assistant at an off-season rental camp. In those days, Sylvan Acres was a popular destination for school and scout groups, and the camp employed kitchen staff to work at these weekend and week-long camps. They were usually former Sylvan staff who knew the layout of the kitchen and could help the cooks find everything they needed, and more importantly, put everything back where it belonged so it could be found by the summer cook, who was really the most important person in the camp. Ray had only been at a couple of summer camps, but he had been a wrangler, and had done his fair share of pitching things over the Chilkat embankment. The money he made at these off-season camps helped pay for his first year of University, and working with kids would be extra credit to help him secure an eventual transfer into the Social Worker program.

          The night in question was the last night of a particularly rowdy Grade 7 weekend camp combining two classes from different elementary schools in nearby Saanich. The kids had gotten to know each other quickly, and it was the time to do things that could get you kicked out of camp, because you were going home in the morning anyway. Just like summer.

          Ray was asleep in his van in the lower parking lot, but was wakened by flashlights and the sounds of young boys running around the campfire pit clearing well after curfew. It was fairly clear what they were up to. All of the girls were in Tsimsian, Kwakuitl, Salish and Chilkat cabins, and the boys were trying to draw them out. Raymond didn’t intend to do anything about it because it wasn’t his responsibility, and he had to get up early in the morning to get breakfast ready. However, as he looked out the van window, a group of the boys heard teachers coming, and dashed down the narrow space at the back of Chilkat, with their flashlights waving wildly. Then one of the flashlights went over and down the embankment, still in the camper‘s hand.

          Knowing this to be a long steep slope of broken dishes, pottery, dishwashers and electronic parts, Raymond did not hesitate. Running to the scene, he heard the apparently uncrippled camper scrambling among the trees away from the bottom of the slope. His friends had abandoned him, and were racing away through the trees behind Kwakuitl and Salish, also seeking their own ways back to the safety of Haida, Nootka or Bella Coola as the case may be.

          Ray’s thoughts about how they would manage to get there were interrupted when he was caught in a brilliant triangle of light as three teachers arrived at the side of Chilkat above him. Standing outside the girls cabin in only his tighty-whities, Ray’s career flashed before his eyes. Hesitantly, he pointed at the embankment and explained what he had seen. Only now there were no boys, and no sounds other than Ray’s own heavy breathing.

          I guess the teachers knew that the boys had been there, and they scanned the nasty litter of rubble at the bottom of the slope to make sure they had indeed escaped alive. Chuckling, one said that there would undoubtedly be someone with scrapes they wouldn’t allow themselves to complain about in the morning, and they went back to their coffee in the lodge. Perhaps they remembered their own camp experiences.  But nothing was said about Ray, and he scurried back to the safety of his van.

          Ray didn’t come back to camp the next summer, and to the best of my knowledge no one at camp ever heard the story. It passed through the Saanich School District though, for a few years, before I heard about it when I mentioned my connection to Sylvan Acres to my practicum teacher.

Don't Let the Nerd...

                One summer Wayne got the LIT group to ask me for a “Thought of the Day.”  I enjoyed the challenge, and came up with a few good one-liners with some connection to camp life.  I have wanted to write them down and adding to them in this blog.  I thought of a new one today.

Have you ever noticed a really average guy at camp with an incredibly gorgeous, outgoing, intelligent girlfriend and asked yourself how this could happen?  I can tell you from personal experience that it just doesn’t happen as a part of the natural order of things.  So I have asked myself this question many times and I think I have an answer, in two words.   Prayer warrior.

                How else can you explain it?  One particular example comes clearly to mind.   The first time I saw the girl I thought she had it all.  She was a stunningly beautiful California blonde, had a great personality, a smile that would knock anyone’s socks off, and she arrived at camp to join the staff along with her boyfriend, who was geeky, loud, obnoxious and completely out of her league in the wrong direction.  I thought my first, second and third impressions of him might be wrong, but as the summer progressed, his impressions deteriorated.    The only explanation I could come up with was that he must spend hours every day in personal prayer and worship, and God decided to bless him.  I mean, realllllly bless him.

                So, my Thought for the Day for all the single girls out there is simple.  Don’t let the nerd be the only one praying about your future. 

Imagine Your Child at Sylvan

          My son has recently turned 5, and with that milestone he changed Sunday School classes this week.  Looking at the signs outside the Sunday School doors, my daughter said "Alex will be in my class now."  When I told Alex this, he hugged me because he was so excited.
          At our church there is a big difference between the 3-4 year old class and the 5-12 year old class.  It is the big step; almost like moving from elementary into youth group.  He moves from having one teacher to having a whole group of leaders, and from playing with toys to going through activity groups, singing and crafts, stories and lessons. 
          I have the opportunity to watch him go through this milestone moment because I am on the computer outside his room, making nametags and coordinating any parent contact required through the church's powerpoint system.  It is exciting to see him behaving like a suddenly older child, adapting to being with older, more mature (sometimes) children.
          It made me think about summer camp because I can suddenly see him sitting in the lodge, listening to speakers and singing songs, watching skits and playing small parts in the program.  I can see his excitement and curiosity, his desire to explore, participate and belong.  His longing for friendship, camaraderie and encouragement from an older leader who cares about him.

          I heard recently that Sunday School programs have about 40 hours a year to impact your child for Christ.  I see how powerfully they are impacting him today, and I wish he could have more.  He's not ready for mid-week programs yet, but I need to find ways to get him involved.  Then I think about camp, where he has perhaps 72 waking hours a week to be influenced by his leaders; to experience a concentrated Christian environment.  It is so incredibly important.  We need to have a Sylvan Acres for our children.  We need to find out how we can help make that happen.  Is it fundraising, leadership, promotion, talking at church about it?  What can we do to make sure that our children have that unique experience.

          Picture your son or daughter sitting at the campfire, or in the lodge after lunch. Lined up for tuck shop or lying in a bunkbed listening to a young counsellor talking about how Christ has changed their life.  Then get involved in making it happen.  Go to http://www.sylvanacres.org/ and email the director.  Ask at your church if you are not at a VIA church now, and find out what your summer camp needs help with.  Your experience at Sylvan can help make their camp a little bit like Sylvan Acres.  And that's what your children need most.

Camp is forever

                I am not much of a Facebook user, but when I set up this blog I started getting people coming from Facebook to read the blog, so I went back.  I am intrigued that as I look at the Facebook pages of friends and acquaintances that I know from camp, I see camp pictures in their Facebook pages from camp that are 10, 20 and even 30 years old.  I see that as a strong statement about what Sylvan Acres is all about, and what makes Sylvan Acres so special.  I am pleased to see that Sylvan still lives in their hearts and minds, and that there are so many groups for Sylvan Acres campers and staff.

                Why does Sylvan have such strong emotional attachment to us?  I think it is because everyone who was at camp felt they belonged there.  Sylvan Acres wasn’t just where we spent our summers.  It’s where we met our friends, and for many of us, it is where we met our spouses.  But most of all, it is where we belonged.  We felt an emotional attachment to the other campers, and when we got to be old enough to apply to be on staff, there was little question about whether we would go back. 

                I am also happy to note how many staff and campers continue to stay in touch with each other years and years later.  How long has it been since you were at Sylvan?  How many of your friends from camp are you still in touch with?

                Camp makes life-long friendships.  Sharing a cabin for a summer with campers passing through week by week, or sharing a tent or trailer as program staff, makes for very strong bonds.  I had great friends in high school that I haven’t talked to since, but I have friends from camp staff who I have known longer, who I still keep in touch with.  More importantly, though I would feel uncomfortable getting reacquainted with someone from high school, I would feel different about meeting someone from camp, because we have more in common.  Is it the same for you? 

                I would encourage all Sylvan staff to keep tabs on what is happening with our camp.  A new director has been hired, and they are looking for new direction.  Follow the camp website at www.sylvanacres.org and send emails to offer encouragement and support.  If you can, support a camp in your area.  Don’t let your Sylvan experience go to waste.  Keep in touch with your friends, get reconnected with the ones you haven’t talked to lately, and share your stories.

               

Flag Raising

        Everybody up for Flag Raising!

        I hated those words from the first time I arrived at camp.  I suppose they needed some reason to get everyone out of bed at the same time each morning, and make-up application and personal grooming only worked on the girls, but I wasn ‘t getting up without a fight.  I gave my counsellor my personal opinions on the separation of church and state, pointing out that it wasn’t the Christian flag that was being raised. 

        Which reminds me; a message to my counsellors.  I am sorry now for all that I did to you.  Once I became a counsellor and understood the pressure from above to get my campers to conform, I felt bad about what I put my counsellors through.  It didn’t stop me from putting the camp director through the wringer, dumping water on the camp cook, and leaving a stuffed wetsuit in the nurse’s bed.  I never held those jobs, so I still feel pretty good about those antics, but for my counsellors I feel nothing but guilt.

        Anyway.  Flag Raising.  A hold-out from antiquity when my parents went to camp, and were expected to salute the flag, sing O Canada, and then march in straight lines into the dining hall for breakfast, cheerfully ready to drink the swamp water that passed for Kool-Aid.  Flag Raising.   It was a tradition that could have been worse, as I found out when a new camp director decided to add physical exercise to the morning regimen.  Jerks, it was to be called.  I always thought that was a proper noun referring to the leaders of the activity, rather than a common noun referring to the activity itself. 

       Eventually though, flag-raising was saved. Some of our more benevolent leaders decided to liven up the experience by adding an element of surprise and suspense to the occasion. They couldn't smuggle something into the flag bundle every morning, but they did it often enough. What would fall out of the wrapped flag when it opened?  Cheerios?  Pants?  The waterfront director’s bikini?   That was worth getting out of bed to find out.        

        My all-time favorite was one I engineered myself.  The elderly camp nurse made the mistake one day of hanging her undergarments on a clothes line behind her cabin, and a bra that had to be at least a 50 double-D was too much to resist.  I wasn’t the actual culprit in this case.  I just knew who it was.  My role was simply to add a finishing touch to the enterprise. 

        When the flag, and the bra, unfurled the next morning, the question on everyone’s mind would be the same.  Whose is it?  I simply pointed out that since there was no name on the bra, we could choose whose name to put on it.  Any female staff member would do, but the more preposterous the name on the bra the better.  Camp can be cruel.

Running

        Writing about camp trails yesterday brought me a new topic last night. There was this girl at camp that I really liked, who was a runner. She would be seen early in the morning or late in the afternoon, running off down the trails, and I thought that this would be a great way to get “in” with her; to offer to run along with her.

        Now if you are a girl who used to run at camp, don’t get all weird and start thinking that I’m talking about you. I was at camp for over 20 years, and there are at least 6 girls over that time period who fit the description I’ve given, so don’t get all excited. The fact is that in my experience there were an incredible number of runners among our female staff. Every time I came across a girl on one of the trails she seemed to be running somewhere or other. Or was just about to start.

        The point of my story is that I could never keep up. I would have the sense to try running myself, before committing to running in the presence of someone I hoped to impress, and I discovered quickly what I already knew; I don’t like running unless it is dark and I am involved in a pursuit (in front or behind). As the pursuer, if I can’t keep up, I just take a shortcut. If I’m the pursued and I can’t keep ahead, I just claim that I was also chasing someone who escaped ahead of me. But when you’re jogging alongside a cute girl, and you can’t keep up, there just are no good outcomes. And running alongside is a much longer type of pursuit than I was willing to commit to. So I let them all go.

        But my question to all you runners out there is this. What was the best trail at camp for jogging? Where did it take you, and what did you see? And finally, girls, why were you always running?

The Trail's the Thing!

        Someone asked me “What is the secret to a great camp?” and after a few minutes thought, I gave him a one-word answer: Trails. Trails are what makes the camp. When you’re new, your first summer at any camp, you learn the main trails; from your cabin to the lodge; from the lodge to the playing field; from any spot on the camp property to the nearest washroom, and so on. It takes one day, and for the rest of your time that year, you are content to know the trails that everyone else knows. You are there to do what everyone else is doing, so you don’t need more than that.

        But then it happens. You find a trail that isn’t on the list. A trail that takes you somewhere you haven’t been before, or gets you somewhere faster than the main trail does. Suddenly, you are an insider. You have the esoteric knowledge. You become a Gnostic. (it’s not the same as agnostic - it’s better.) You can get there quicker and have time for some mischief. You can turn up somewhere totally unexpected. You can end up spending the night frozen stiff with 13 fellow campers on the side of a nearby mountain. (more on that later).

        Now, when you come back next year, you have an edge. You know a secret. And you start to collect more of them. You trade information, learn new trails, until you can disappear without a trace and reappear at will, driving your counsellor crazy. You discover the places that those trails used to lead to. Like latrine pits. Or abandoned tent trailer units. Or decaying ropes courses that no one else knows about. Even an empty clearing is a tremendous discovery if it belongs only to you. And the more trails you know, the more mobile, and more powerful you become.

        Now you can venture out at night, and when I come hunting you on the main trails, you can disappear into the woods, with your arms outstretched at your sides so you don’t veer off the trail, and I will never catch you. Well, so you think. I will catch you, because I’ve been here for 20 years, and I know the branches on the trees on the trail you just went down. But you will go up in my estimation, because you used a trail that many didn’t know existed. You’ve been promoted. You will be watched more closely, but with respect.

        So, what trail do you remember most? What trail saved your life at camp, or almost lost it for you? What trail is so vivid in your mind that you can still walk it?

        Is it the Trail of Silence, going from the basketball court to the chapel (it still exists, about fifteen feet of it, if you know where to look on the side of Sylvan Place just off Landsend Road), or the trail from Frontier Village to the boys’ cabins (very tricky to follow at night) ? Or was it the trail leading past the canoe racks at CLEC, which would take you around the perimeter of the camp all the way up to the kitchen without being seen from the playing field? Send me an email and tell me about your special trail, and tell me what memories it holds for you.

        My favorite trail of all time was the Midnight Hike trail at Landsend Road. Starting at the lodge (don’t say Cowabunga - it brings water balloons from the sky), we would walk down past the washroom block and veer right into the trees just before reaching the slight hill that led to the three boys’ cabins. From that point on, there was no sight of camp buildings until we reached the upper field. Nothing but trees, a small wooden bridge which counsellors liked to hide under at Halloween camp, and branches reaching out over the path to grab unwary campers. I loved it because it held the greatest mystery of all. How the heck could 13 campers and two counsellors separate themselves out of the middle of a midnight hike group (with everyone holding hands as if they were a kindergarten field trip) and end up miles away on Horth Hill? It was the Bermuda Triangle story of Sylvan Acres.

        I’m guessing that this Midnight hike group accidentally broke into three sections (label them A B and C in your mind). Part A didn’t get lost. They arrived safe at the lodge in time for hot chocolate, firmly grasping part C as if nothing was wrong. However, Part B was no longer in the middle. Theoretically, they peeled off during the time that the chain was broken, and Part C lost sight of them, eventually catching up to the end of Part A. Apparently, the people on each end of Part B weren’t very special to the folks they were holding hands with, because they weren’t missed when Parts A and C joined up. Insult to injury, I guess.

        Anyway, the Three Hour Tourers in Part B were found THE NEXT DAY, cold and prepared to eat their counsellor instead of the snacks they had in their pockets ( all good campers have snacks in their pockets), on Horth Hill, several kilometre of heavy bush trekking away from the camp. Now, names are not important. I was at Sylvan for 26 years and I never got any, so don’t ask me who they were. However, if you were on that fateful hike, I would love to hear about it.  I never did figure out how you got there.

        So. What’s your trail? Email me at normosblog@gmail.com and let me know.  I would love to hear your stories.

Arriving

Do you remember arriving at camp? 

As a camper I always arrived in a car pool, so I was with other campers for the two hour drive from Nanaimo, with a stop for burgers and shakes at Hannigans in Sidney, and there were always many campers and staff milling around by the time I arrived.  It was great to jump out of the car and look for friends,  rush to my cabin and claim the best available bunk, and then go back to watch the later arrivals for pretty girls and friends from last year, but my strongest memory is of later years, and of driving into an empty camp in my own car. 

Whether it was the original site, with its mile-long dash down Landsend Road to the turn at the caretaker’s house, past the tool shed, up the short curving road to the lower parking lot and campfire pit and the upper parking lot beside the lodge, or the CLEC Center with its comparably long dirt road access, through the gate to the circular upper parking lot, I always wanted to be the first to arrive. 

The last stretch of public road was an exit  from the outside world where I seldom fit in, to camp, where I lived,  breathed and belonged.  I knew every curve and bend, and could almost drive either road in my sleep, and at rates of speed that I now shudder to think of.  But at the camp boundary, I would slow, savouring the arriving, and the feeling of coming home.   I can still picture the Sylvan Acres sign on the little knoll in front of the tool shed, the caretakers house, and the ancient paved road leading up into the trees on the left, and the bent bar gate on the right side of Landsend Road blocking the road down to the beach, almost 25 years after the closing camp.

When I used to arrive at the empty camp a few hours early, everything belonged to me, and everyone who arrived after was coming into my camp.  I would walk over every part of the property, savouring a silence broken only by the distant waterfront waves and the chirping of birds, taking possession.  Returning home from the outside world.  My sleeping bag and pack could remain in the car.  I was moving in emotionally.

I have been to camps without this feeling of ownership; where the camp is like a summer hotel providing a camp experience or employment.  The facilities are amazing, the maintenance and chores are professionally done, and the staff are selected from large application pools each year.  Campers moving up to become staff are a rarity rather than the rule because they have to be the most qualified applicant to get the position.  Everything is fabulous, until the camp hits financial trouble or a better program opens up in the next community.  Then the campers and staff move on, because they have not invested in the camp, and the camp doesn’t belong to them. 

Imagine if that great hotel you stayed at last year on vacation had a fire and needed help to rebuild.  You might be willing to take a job rebuilding it, to earn money for the summer, but would you volunteer, and miss out on a paycheque altogether, just to get that place back on its feet?   The greatest strength of Sylvan Acres has always been the fact that it develops ownership among its campers and staff. 

I once heard that the original camp was built using funds from a number of church members who mortgaged their homes in order to raise the necessary money to buy the property and the materials needed to build the camp.  Imagine doing that today.  Imagine fifty or a hundred former Sylvan staff or campers taking out second mortgages on their homes to build a new Sylvan Acres, so that their children and grandchildren could have the same experience at camp that they did.  It boggles my mind.  Those of us who enjoyed Sylvan Acres owe a tremendous debt to those who sacrificed to build it for us. 

Why Blog Now?

                My five  year old son came to me this week with a very serious look on his young face.  I could tell something was on his mind, but was not prepared for what he told me.   “Mommy says that it’s not good to be sneaky” he explained, “but I always get sneaky ideas at night.”

                Now, those you you who have only known me in my married state will be wondering where this could come from.  Those with a more distant knowledge are laughing.   The footprints I thought I had covered up have been discovered.  The sins of the father... well, you get the idea. 

They say that sea turtles, born after their mother has buried them in the sand and left them to their own devices, instinctively  head for the water, and once there, they carry on their lives just as their parents did, without ever having met them.  But how?  How could my son be so much like a part of me he had never seen?  What did my son need from me now?

The solution to my problem?  My son needs camp.  More precisely, he needs Sylvan Acres.  I need Wayne to tell him “Don’t let me catch you sneaking around at night.”  I need Joanne to take him out in a canoe and point out seals swimming past the camp, to validate his importance simply by being willing to spend time with him.  I need someone who carries Carol’s compassion in their memory to tell him that he is special, to encourage him when he feels unloved, and to lead him through evening devotions in the cabin before he falls asleep.  I want Elizabeth to give his sister the bathing suit talk.   I want Adam and Jordan to lead him in singing, and Chris to teach him how to row a speedboat safely back to the dock.  I want him to have memories of summer days and nights as special as the ones I have.  I want him to know that Wayne was right.  It’s not wrong to be sneaky at night.  It’s just wrong to let yourself be caught.

                My Sylvan Acres started on Landsend Road in Sidney, moved to Lake Cowichan waterfront, and then to the hill above the lake.  The places I spent my summers as a child, youth and adult are no longer there, but the time I spent is still in my heart, and in my mind.  The friends I grew up with are no longer close by, and some are gone from this life, but my memory of them, and the words they spoke and their friendships are inside me. 

To me, Sylvan was more than a camp; it was a life, with all of the good and bad experiences that any life must contain.  The fears, the happiness, the peace, the loss, and most of all the laughter, were all there, and cannot be taken away by the sale of a piece of land.  All that we worked for, all that we built, all that we lived, exists still in those we shared it with, and for that I am most thankful. 

This blog will be my chance to share those memories and that life with those who were not able to be there, and to rekindle the memories of those who were there with me.  I hope that you will share with me the Sylvan Acres that was, and strengthen the desire to build the Sylvan Acres that must be there for your children when they need it most.  I want my son to have the pleasure of hunting your children through the darkness fifteen years from now, to make being out at night a challenge and a memory worth having.