The joy of a boy’s first summer camp
The call of the wild is as old as man and nature, distinct and indelible — at once frightening and exciting: The bugs. The bush. The grub.
For city kids lucky enough to get the call to summer camp, the questions don’t change much: What if I want to go to the loo at night? Are monsters going to burst out of the bush and devour my brains? What’s it like to skinny-dip in the cold, clear lake? Will I catch my first fish — or return home with only a cold?
My first call was nothing like that. I was already a country boy — familiar with the low-hanging night sky undimmed by artificial light. Bugs were my companions; bush was the neighbourhood; an open fire the norm. Monsters in the night? Yes, a child is never at ease with that mind bender — even in a village outside the tourist mecca of Montego Bay, Jamaica.
I remember the first call — to the campground in White House, Westmoreland, near now-famous Negril. I wouldn’t have made the trip — except my church sent my friend Gerry and me as “delegates.” The church paid our camp fees for the week. In exchange, we were to take notes and present a report to the entire gathering of youth the next Sabbath.
As the Star’s Fresh Air Fund kicks off, our columnist remembers a blessed week in Jamaica and counts lessons that last a lifetime
We reported how we slept on cots, did our two-hour stint of night duty to keep the roaming pigs away from the kitchen, but raided the food ourselves. We paddled in the ocean, made crafts for our moms, and were roused far too early in the crisp, cool tropical mornings. But what endures a half-century later is the fact that before age 12 I was being culled as a reporter and a leader.
Camping has so many lessons to teach, so many worlds to discover, so many ways to fit you for life. If only you get to go.
Since the Toronto Star created the Fresh Air Fund following the stiflingly hot killer summer of 1901, hundreds of thousands of Toronto kids have been introduced to the great outdoors — only because Star readers paid their way and send them as “delegates.”
They go to camp as awkward, goofy kids and return a little more sure of themselves. They go to escape the creeping influences of neighbourhood deviants and return with purpose. They go with crippling diseases and return with a final summer of peace. When they report back — and how — is left to the inexplicable working of the human soul and spirit.
This summer, 25,000 kids are waiting to attend 104 different Ontario camps, half of them overnight pleasures. These children stand no chance of seeing a campfire without the subsidy your donation provides.
At the dawn of the 20th century, the depression of the 1890s receded and left Toronto thirsting for prosperity. North Toronto and similar neighbourhoods were annexed and immigration soared, bulging the population.
A cycle that was to repeat itself saw housing construction boom in lockstep with inadequate housing for the underclass. The economic boom bypassed many newcomers who lived in wretched conditions. A decade into the century, children lived in a dirty slum where city hall rests today. Infant mortality rate was 180 per 1,000. The population was growing — from 208,040 in 1900 to 376,538 by 1911 — and so was poverty, particularly so among children.
The well-to-do were able to escape the oppressive heat of the summer of 1901 — sheltered on spiffy verandas in leafy neighbourhoods or farmed out to the country for weeks at a time. The poor children were trapped in their narrow row houses, sleeping in oven-like bedrooms. The heat wave claimed 28 people that summer, including 12 babies. And the Star took up their cause.
Publisher Joseph Atkinson propelled poverty from a private issue into a public concern, arguing that the welfare of the underclass is everyone’s business. The idea of the Fresh Air Fund was to offer free boat rides or daylong excursions into the countryside. From that targeted response, Fresh Air has migrated to include a myriad of summer experiences.
For a decade, Star reporter Leslie Ferenc has prodded and praised your giving and generosity while archiving the amazing annual exercise in community-building.
“I’ve met some of the most incredible kids — physically and mentally disabled, those bravely fighting terminal diseases such as cancer, and those who never returned to camp because they died in the course of the year,” Ferenc says.
“There are poor kids living in foster care and whose parents work several jobs to keep their families going. Whatever their circumstances, camp is the great equalizer and everyone is the same. And they have one thing in common — they’re having fun with their friends.”
One year I took time off writing about the trifles of city hall to urge readers to step up their Fresh Air giving or watch thousands of kids end summer in disappointment.
Robert Schad, founder of Forest Rangers, was moved to give $120,000 that summer six years ago. It was the largest single donation in the 116-year history of the fund. But there are many stories of heroic giving, in amounts large and small. A group of women gave $77,500 one year, part of their court-awarded compensation for a physician’s botched surgeries. Kids give up their allowance. Others sell lemonade and bring in the nickels and dimes.
“The Toronto Star is proud to play a part in providing a summer camp experience for thousands of children each summer,” says David Holland, acting publisher. “The donations from our readers mean many underprivileged children will have the opportunity to enjoy a life-changing adventure they will remember for the rest of their lives.”
Barb Mrozek, director of charities for the Star, says she’s always taken in by the way donors truly grasp the importance of helping children have this experience in life. Many of us never forget our inner child and fondly recall our own fantastic summer memories, she says.
“I’m hoping this campaign brings all donors together just as it does the campers — from the younger generation who will likely skip a few lattes to donate, to the seasoned donors who will budget for their contribution.”
Sign me up. Time for this “delegate” to repay my church’s generosity. Put it in the name of the Orange Seventh-day Adventist Church.
And you? Join me, please. Every year, thousands of new “delegates” emerge. This is the year you be their “church.”