Five Summers

Five Summers

by Rick Pascal

           We are the sum of our decisions.

With that thought in mind, I often reflect on how I arrived at the present stage in my life; how the decisions I made during various stages of maturity and personal development – the whims, the follies, and the intellectual considerations - gave rise to the person I am today. One such reflection leads me to the summers at the onset of my teenage years, five of which I spent in summer camp, although the last one fell just beyond my time as a teenager. I think of those summers with a combined sense of emotions, most of which are joyful, a few of which are less so, all of which contributed to my character.

SUMMER #1

At the age of thirteen I spent eight weeks during July and August at Camp Algonquin, in Argyle, New York in the Adirondack Mountains. It was my first time away from home for that length of time. I made friends quickly with the other boys in my bunkhouse and, being quite athletic as well as competitive, I enjoyed all the physical sports the camp had to offer. Heck, I even enjoyed Arts & Crafts. Although we played team sports (softball, basketball, etc.), it was not uncommon to compare our individual achievements with each other, seeing who had the best batting average, who could run fastest, who could sink the most consecutive baskets. One boy seemed to take pleasure in being my athletic rival. Or, perhaps, it might have been the other way around. We matched each other closely in most of our athletic competitions, but I could never swim as fast as he could. Steve was the fastest swimmer in our group. I was a close second.  He enjoyed that status, and everyone knew it.

           That summer was the first time that I had a steady girlfriend. Her name was Anita, and she was twelve years old. Not too many of the other senior boys had girlfriends, which made me feel a bit special. The boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses were separated from each other by a huge grassy common area in the center of the camp. Anita and I rarely saw each other during the day, when we were all engaged in our various activities, but we waved to each other at mealtimes in the mess hall and got together in the recreation hall after dinner. Anita taught me how to do the Lindy hop, for which I am grateful to this day. And, of course, I walked her back to her bunk most evenings and, after we kissed goodnight and told each other how much we liked each other, I felt like I walked on air returning to my own bunkhouse. Of course, Steve had a girlfriend too.

           During the last week, all the campers were divided into two teams for the final event of the season known as Color War. Every child participated in one form of competitive team event. I was on the Blue Team; Steve was on the Yellow Team. One of the last events in the Blue vs. Yellow competition for the senior boys was Swimming. It was a relay race. Steve and I, both being the fastest swimmers in our group, were the anchormen, meaning we would swim the final lap for our four-man teams.

           The whistle blew and the race began. Each of the three boys on both teams were about equal as the third in each team touched the wall that allowed Steve and me to dive and begin the final lap for each team. Steve and I dove into the water at almost the identical time. My heart pounded as my legs kicked as hard and fast as they could. My arms seemed to flail, one after another, reaching out as far as I could to dig my hands into the water and propel myself forward. As I swam and turned my head to the side to breathe, I kept seeing Steve’s face and his arms flailing like mine. All of a sudden, I felt the pain in my hand as it struck the wall at the end of my lap, apparently milliseconds before Steve hit the wall. I had beaten Steve! My dream came true. Steve took his time climbing out of the water, dumbfounded, I believe.  My teammates hoisted me out of the water and we all jumped up and down on the dock like little children. Anita ran over to me and kissed me smack on the lips. To top it all off, we won Color War.  

For the last two days before we all packed our summer clothes to return home, I had the feeling that there was a bit of a barrier between Steve and me. We spoke very little to each other after that race.

Several of us stayed in touch with each other during the next year. Although I’m sure Steve had contact with some of the boys, I never heard from him.  Anita and I corresponded a few times in the fall, but somehow that relationship seemed to taper off as well.

SUMMER #2

           The following summer I returned to Camp Algonquin, not as a camper but as a camper waiter. All I had to do was set the tables, serve the food, clean off the tables, then set them again for the next meal. Which entitled my parents to a discount of fifty percent off the regular camper fee for the summer. I would still be allowed to participate in all the activities that the regular campers enjoyed, my parents were told. What a deal! Half price for a little bit of work on my part. Only thing was, housing for the waiters was off-campus, about 200 yards down a dirt road in an old creaky farmhouse.

The guest waiters, those older guys with more experience, occupied the upper floor bedrooms while we newbies had to bunk on the first floor, wherever a spot for a bunk could be found. The guest waiters were the elite. They waited on the camp staff, i.e., the directors, the medical staff, the “camp mother” (affectionately called Aunt Helen) and their families, as well as all the campers’ parents who visited on weekends.  Camper waiters (there were about six of us – I was the youngest at only 14 years of age) did not have a counselor, per se, as did the regular campers. We were under the general supervision of the oldest guest waiter, Billy P. from Canada. He was nice enough, but seemed to love the power he wielded over us.

When I completed my chores after each meal, and if I were fast enough, I could run down to whatever activity my former bunkmates from the previous year were at and manage to participate in a softball or basketball game, swimming, or whatever other activity they were enjoying. Many of the same boys with whom I bunked last year had returned as campers. I was relieved that Steve, my last year’s nemesis, did not return.  Anita did not return that year either.

Most of the time I was able to fit into the activity schedules, but there were times when I did not and had to wait and see if they needed an extra player. I never felt completely accepted in their circle, though. It was as if they thought I had moved on, or had abandoned them. I was no longer one of the boys. After two weeks, however, I joined in with the waiters and enjoyed the rest of my summer vacation playing sports with them.  

SUMMER #3

           After skipping summer camp for a year (my mother convinced her boss at The Psychological Corporation in New York City to hire me as a summer temp in the mail room), I returned once more to Camp Algonquin, this time as a guest waiter. I was sixteen years old, above the age for campers and not too enthusiastic about being a junior counselor. Guest waiter seemed just the right job. I can’t believe that my parents still had to pay one-third of the camper tuition for me to work my tail off again! This time my friend Kenny, who lived in the same apartment building as we did in Brooklyn, joined me at Camp Algonquin as a guest waiter. He was a year older than I.

           Kenny and I shared a room on the second floor of the still creaky old farmhouse with two other guest waiters, the four of us comprising the complement of the guest waiter staff. Billy P, the Canadian, returned as the supervisor of all the waiters in the camp. This time he seemed to have mellowed, no longer lording over all of us.

           Kenny was a good friend. We played a lot of basketball, ping pong, softball and most other sports together. Kenny had more experience with girls than I had. Each evening that we socialized with the girls in the rec hall, Kenny always seemed to be with a different girl. They all liked Kenny. But Kenny tended to exaggerate, to embellish his exploits. After returning late from one his days off (he sometimes liked to spend his day off by himself and wander the countryside alone, hitch-hiking), Kenny relished telling us a story about how he was picked up by two women in a convertible who took him back to their apartment and, he said, had sex with him for a few hours. That’s why he was late returning to the farmhouse.  Yeah, right

           Otherwise, it was a relatively quiet summer. I learned how to ingratiate myself to the directors and, especially, to the campers’ parents on weekends in order to earn larger tips. I enjoyed joking with them all, making them laugh and, to a greater extent, like me as a kid trying hard to please them. It seemed to work. I earned over $300 in tips that summer, all but $50 of which I gave to my parents to cover the cost of my camp tuition.

SUMMER #4

In my eighteenth year I was back at Camp Algonquin as a senior counselor of the nine and ten-year old boys. These boys were, for the most part, the most adorable and eager to learn and play. It was their summer and they were there to have fun. I realized early on that they were at an age where their physical skills and dexterity were beginning to blossom.

I found it especially gratifying to help them learn how to hit a baseball, shoot a basketball, learn to swim, and work on arts and crafts projects. I felt so connected with these young boys and felt proud to see how virtually each one of them improved his skills over the course of eight weeks. This was the first time that I thought about, and began to believe, that I might make a good father one day. My dedication to these boys must have paid off, because I received a really handsome number of tips from their parents at the end of the summer.

SUMMER #5

Summer #5 was one of the most interesting, satisfying and profound summers for me. One of my classmates, Stanley, suggested that I join him as a counselor at a camp he had attended for several years, located in Monticello, New York. Having completed two years of ROTC at Pratt Institute, and having achieved an Expert rating on the rifle range with an M-1 rifle, I interviewed for the position of riflery instructor and co-counselor of the thirteen-year old boys at Camp Kennybrook. I was hired for $600 for the summer. Not too bad, I thought. And Monticello was closer to my home in Queens than Argyle, NY way up in the Adirondacks.

My friend, Stan, having done so in the past, suggested that we arrive at Camp Kennybrook two days in advance of the actual start date in order to be a part of the team that helps prepare the bunks and general camp areas for the campers. It would be a good idea, he told me, so that we could bond with the other counselors and the directors. It sounded like a good idea to me, so we did.

That first evening, after a day of sweeping bunks and clearing trash, binding loose branches for disposal we all congregated after dinner in the rec hall.  We threw back a few beers, sang some songs and, generally, began to get to know each other as co-counselors and colleagues. As we were sharing personal stories, I suddenly felt two hands on my shoulders from behind.

“You’re Sky Masterson,” someone said.

“What?” I responded. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

With a warm laugh, Diane, the Arts Director, introduced herself. “We’re going to perform Guys and Dolls this summer. You look like you could be Sky Masterson, one of the lead roles in the play. Marlon Brando played the role in the movie.”

“Great, I’ll do it,” I responded, never having heard of the play before, but excited to perform. Stan slapped me on the back to congratulate me. He was given the role of Big Julie, a part made just for him, as he was no small individual.

The following morning, I was handed the key to the rifle cabinet, wherein I found six 22-caliber rifles, along with a supply of targets. Ammunition and cleaning supplies were kept by the head counselor in the main office. I took the rifles, ammunition, cleaning supplies and targets up to the rifle range where, under a lean-to, six mattresses were piled on the wooden platform. For the next couple of hours, I proceeded to clean the lean-to, set up the mattresses which were to be used to lie on by the shooters, disassemble, clean and reassemble the rifles. I had learned to disassemble and reassemble an M-1 rifle blindfolded in ROTC the year before, so managing this with a 22-caliber rifle was a piece of cake. I then set up some targets and began to test my marksmanship. After several practice shots, I wasn’t too bad. Hit the targets and even a few bulls eyes. Then I did something that changed my life forever.

           Down range some twenty yards, I noticed a bird sitting on a tree branch. For some unknown, inane reason, I caught the bird in my sight and fired my rifle. The bird fell out of the tree to the ground. I hit my target. I laid the rifle on the mattress and walked to look at the bird. The bullet had passed directly through the bird and killed it. I just stood there, speechless, stupefied. What in the world had I just done? Other than stepping on an ant or a spider, I had never killed any living thing before in my life. I bent down, picked up the bird and cradled it in my hands. Tears welled up in my eyes and I began to sob.  How could I, who was raised by good and decent parents, who valued and treasured innocent life, commit such an act? Who was I? To make matters worse, I noticed a small bird’s nest above me in a tree branch. I managed to climb up the tree trunk a bit to see three hatchlings with their mouths open, waiting for food. Oh my God, I thought,

What do I do now?

           I packed up the rifles, returned them to the locked cabinet and went to the camp kitchen to find some bread. For the next two days I attempted to drop crumbs of bread into the mouths of the hatchlings. On the third day, they were gone from the nest. How, I don’t know. All I know is that from that day forward I became an ardent advocate against game hunting. To this day, I feel the same.

           Each time I instructed a group of campers at the rifle range, I stressed the value of life.  That the primary reason for a gun is to kill; that it is a weapon of war. That they were there only to test their skill at aiming at a paper target.  I was trying to scare them away from guns in general. I think it may have worked, as riflery turned out not to be one of the most popular activities that summer.

           During the fifth week of camp, the head counselor called me into her office. There she sat, along with two of the camp’s directors. “Uh, oh,” I thought. “What have I done now?”

           “Rick,” she said, “We’ve been watching you for the past few weeks. You’ve done a fine job and we want you to be one of the two color war generals.”

           I was stunned. Finding it difficult to control my excitement at such an honor, I blurted out, “Wow! Really?”

           “Yes, indeed,” she continued. “We’ve watched you demonstrate

leadership and this is your reward. Now go out and select your lieutenants. We’ll have a list of campers for your side tomorrow. You’ll be the BLUE TEAM. Decide on your team’s name and let me know tomorrow. Congratulations.”

           I was too excited to sleep that night, but managed to catch a few winks before morning. I decided on the BLUE VIKINGS. Color war is always exciting, with competitive events for the senior campers all the way down to the juniors, aged 5 and 6 years old. After three days of competition the winner was announced after dinner in the rec hall: THE BLUE VIKINGS have won this year’s color war!!!

It was my very first major leadership role and my first victory. I was on Cloud Nine. What a summer!

           Guys and Dolls was a huge success. I acted, I sang, I was, for all intents and purposes, in heaven. The director called me aside after the performance and said,

           “Rick, you were very good. Have you ever considered studying theater?”

I returned home at the end of the summer with stars in my eyes. I told my parents what the director had suggested and that I wanted to consider dropping out of engineering school and transferring to a school to study acting and performing arts. My parents were appalled by my desire for changing my career focus.

“You worked so hard towards becoming an engineer,” my mother said. “How can you think of changing now? You’ve got only two more years to go to get your degree,” she continued.

“Life in the theater is no life,” my father insisted. “You’d have to travel constantly. It’s no way to have a stable family environment,” emphasized. “Don’t do it. Finish engineering school,” he implored.

So, being the obedient son that I was raised to be, I put the thought of acting and theater behind and returned to complete my junior and senior years at Pratt Institute and was graduated as a chemical engineer.

As it turned out, the woman whom I married was graduated from Brooklyn College with a degree in Speech and Dramatic Arts. She put aside her original goal of becoming an actress in favor of raising a family in a stable environment. Years later, when our two sons had grown and were out of the house, we both pursued our mutual love for performing in Community Theater, acting together for nearly twenty years.

One morning I opened the mail to find an invitation to participate in celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Camp Kennybrook in Monticello. I felt compelled to attend. On a beautiful Saturday morning in the spring, prior to the camp opening for the summer, my wife and I drove from our home in northern New Jersey to Monticello, New York. After parking the car, we wandered the campus, where I attempted to recognize and, possibly, recapture any part of the camp sites from my past. To my dismay, I found nothing familiar. The bunkhouses were different, and the rifle range was gone.

“I suppose that saying is true,” my wife said. “You can’t go home again.”

           There were fewer than one hundred people in attendance, most of whom were former or even present campers. No one from my year at Kennybrook attended. I felt like an outsider.

           “Let’s just have lunch,” I said, “And then we’ll leave.”

           My wife agreed, and we proceeded to the mess hall, feeling a bit dejected.

           Lunch was served cafeteria-style, mostly cold cuts and salads. We picked up our trays and silverware and began moving along the line. As I was deciding what kind of sandwich I would take, I happened to glance at the back wall above and behind the serving line. And there it was: BLUE VIKINGS, GENERAL-RICK PASCAL, COLOR WAR 1961.

My eyes began to tear. “Maybe you can’t go all the way home again,” I remarked to my wife. “But you can take a few steps in that direction.”

           Almost every moment of every day we are faced with a decision. Each of my decisions brought me to the very place I am at this moment in time, this moment in my life. I made the decision to follow my parents’ advice to continue my engineering studies at Pratt Institute. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met my wife, we wouldn’t have had our two fantastic sons, their wonderful wives, and our five amazing grandchildren. Would I have it any other way? Not on your life. I’m happy with who I’ve become and my life as it is, the sum of all my decisions.

THE END

Sleepaway Camp (1983) was filmed at the former Camp Algonquin in Argyle, New York. The camp was located on the eastern side of Summit Lake. The camp opened in 1927 and closed around the time Sleepaway Camp was filmed. The land was auctioned off in 1987 and the buildings were torn down. Camp Kennybrook, in Monticello, New York is still operating.