How camp transformed a bored, scrawny kid
I have my Sunday school studies to thank for one of the happiest experiences in my life. Summer camp was a luxury my family couldn’t afford. Just the same, my father insisted that I spend at least one week at the summer camp associated with my Sunday school.
As dad was paying for that one week, a leader of our Sunday school approached, listened a bit, and said: “One week isn’t enough. Please take this.” I didn’t see a wallet, and realized later that my benefactor had approached us with the money in hand, determined not to take no for an answer. So two weeks it was. And that was a lesson in generosity.
One week most certainly was not enough. I spent much of that first week more homesick than I’d been in my life. Yet by the time of my parents’ arrival at the end of that first week — which I had not anticipated — I didn’t beg them to take me home, as I would have during the first few days of my stay.
Instead, I was delighted for them to see me in a cheerful mood. I had now grown fond of this Camp MiniYo-We on the shores of Mary Lake in Muskoka. I gave mom and dad a tour, and thanked them for coming to see me and for the enjoyments of the camp.
I thought mom, especially, needed to hear that I was having a good time. She had been upset at this first time of my being out of her presence for more than a few hours.
That was a lesson about my selfreliance; that I could learn to have fun away from home. And that experiences that seem alien can work out with sufficient patience and effort. And that my mom and dad were angels. I spent much of my childhood bored. Gosh, I was bored — something I didn’t realize until I looked back at it in my 50s.
There was no time for boredom at Camp Mini-Yo-We, which is one of the camps supported by the Star’s Fresh Air Fund. There was volleyball, hiking, canoeing, soccer, swimming, rock climbing and, of course, craft-making, among other diversions.
I was frightened of water. On my first experience at a beach, in Quebec, I had almost drowned after falling into a hole inexplicably located in the roped-off shallow kids’ section.
My mother, who might have qualified for the national swim team if not the Olympics, spotted me, rushed to the far end of the area where I was and hauled me out. I spent the next half-hour in a coughing fit.
On my second brush with water, high school students teaching basics of swimming to visiting primary school kids, including me, thought it would be great fun to have us tadpoles line up at pool’s edge.
They then suddenly plunged us into the water, placing their feet on our heads and pushing swiftly downward. Once the foot on my head was removed, I sprung out of the pool, ran to the change room gagging for breath, and waited for the bus to return us to the safe confines of our pool-free elementary school.
And so, at this camp, I would not be going near the water, as alluring as the lake was. This resolve lasted until two of the camp counsellors — all of whom were males in their late teens — gently escorted me to the water’s edge.
One of them slowly walked me into the water while the other fellow watched carefully. It reassured me that the fellow with me had backup on shore.
I was soon doing the breast stroke and the crawl. I realized eventually I was being tested to see what level of swimming skills I had, and whatever I did have were those just acquired from these lads.
I emerged from that session with a red lanyard ceremoniously placed on my neck. This was a prized possession, indicating that I could swim but was not to be called upon to rescue anyone.
So here was another lesson in mastering something I didn’t think I could do.
My parents didn’t read to me, I think because they were each hard of hearing. In our camp cabins each night, we were read to by the same counsellors who taught us all manner of outdoor-life skills, from drown-proofing to carefully managing a campfire.
These lads were good storytellers. But I regret that some of their effort was wasted, since I don’t recall ever hearing the end of a story. At the close of such active days, we were asleep in 10 minutes.
I had not been kept so happily busy before as at that camp, nor would I ever again be as hungry. Like magic, I was hungry only at the moment that one of our three big meals was to be served. At that moment, we all were suddenly famished — and not just because we had finished a hardfought game of football.
The food was fantastic: Placed before us were stacks of pancakes, bacon and bread, great pots of mashed squash and potatoes, and juice and milk in gallon jugs.
I thought about why I’d never been so hungry before, concluding that it must be all this running and diving and blocking and tackling. I’d not been one for games, feeling ashamed of my scrawny physique.
While I arrived at camp shy, I left strengthened in mind and body, for the conversation was as edifying as the games and sports
For the first time, that was not an issue. In contrast to the schoolyard at home, the kids here did not ridicule my appearance or clumsiness. And the athleticism imparted to me gave them no reason for that. Instead, I had my first experience being invited to join teams.
Leaving that camp, still hallowed in my memory, was very difficult. I arrived there shy, ashamed of my own body, wary of strangers. I left strengthened in mind and body, for the conversation was as edifying as the games and sports.
I made more friends in those two weeks than in the previous 11 years of my life. I learned the meaning of the Irish expression I much later encountered, that “there are no strangers, only friends we have yet to meet.” dolive@thestar.ca