21 – Camp Sundays

The stained fringes and inscriptions inside my green Bible purchased for camp transport me to another era...

To a grassy spot where Long Lake laps up to a birch tree in Harrison Maine, and I'm wearing the Sunday uniform shirt with a v-collar and listening to a counselor evangelize us group of 10-year-olds.

Kate –pre-quarantine

The German-measles spread that year. Kate Twichell and I are among those quarantined to the infirmary. It wasn't so bad.

At the Newfound shore, where our female counterparts bunked, you could hear a high-pitched congregation singing hymns of "Easter gladness" in a lodge, while the sun gleamed and the day just open for exploration.

Those were camp Sundays. Pine needles in your khaki pants. Brushing teeth and clipping nails for inspection; oh ya, and combing your hair.

A lunchtime feast, along the lines of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, was prepared by the gracious, ever-smiling Clauses. They’d push through the swinging door, like royalty greeting their subjects and wave to a cheering throng after they were summoned by a table-pounding roar of, “We, Want, the Cooks! We, Want, the Cooks!”

At age 13, during the longest hour of the day, known as Rest Hour, some campers wore headphones to zone out as we were relegated to our cabins to digest.

One rest hour, Zack and Glenn read from Richard Bach's Illusions, convincing the cabin that a messiah passage picked at random from this book had relevance to your life, and in particular, to a current challenge you were quizzed to share.

Then there was Alex who had a talent for blurting out perverted remarks without prompting. His bush of curly hair would bounce as he’d laugh uncontrollably at his own jokes.

As the sun goes down on Mt. Chocorua and the evening moon rises, you can hear crickets chirping mad-dog through the crisp air as we prepare to nestle under the wool blankets and required clean sheets. Going to bed on Sundays was special, even though you heard the same bugle-blowing taps as every night.

Sunday night felt like the completion of a week, a true accomplishment. You didn't think much of schedules or bills, the way you do as an adult. Instead you rested with a sigh and heavy head, reminded that this was a satisfying week. And if there will be another one, well that's fine too.

Owatonna Sundays are delightfully unforgettable. I wonder where those care-free eternal Sundays have gone.

—CSR

(Check out these vintage slideshows for more camp imagery)