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.