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.