Camp Woodstock and stuff

I goofed! If you are on the automatic recipient list, please disregard the too-large double-spaced thing that just came through. Now I'll start over.

I haven't written here because I've been wrapped up in two things, trying to learn Italian, and enthusiastically writing "Riding in the Back Seat," a book no one will probably ever want to read, but I feel compelled to write it. Anyway, I decided to include one segment (the equivalent of pages 74-76.) I'm trying to keep each chapter/segment to 1000 words.

Reactions would certainly be appreciated, but in the meantime, I hope you'll just enjoy ...

CAMP WOODSTOCK: JOY, FUN, ACCOMPLISHMENT, AND SAD ASSOCIATIONS

I just googled myself right back there – into the wood smell of the cabin and my upper bunk, canoes in sweet blue waters, the barn with its long meal tables, craft stations for interlacing leather belts and lanyards that went home as gifts and souvenirs. Two-weeks at the YMCA camp in Woodstock Valley, Connecticut; the feel of total immersion. If that sounds like a form of baptism, it’s pretty close to the truth. The intimacy of the immediate and the sublime was realized in one of my favorite spots, the hallowed Cathedral in the Pines. Nestled in the trees, sweetened by the smell of living wood and the calm of blue lake waters, it was the site of formal worship, and more important, the place of escape from whatever was too much of the good and bad to bear in the busy day.

Hallie was with me in 1942; World War II was in full horror overseas; the outcome was unclear; and we were twelve. Gas cards were saved to fuel us there. We outlined the initials of our latest crush in tape on our upper legs so there would be a white imprint of sorts left after we got really tan. I chose the initials HB for Harry Belmar. He, of course, had no idea I had a crush on him – a cute blond guy who was in my confirmation class – a joint venture of our Forestville church with the Bristol church that shared the same pastor. I’m not sure I even felt an attraction for him. It was more important to have a crush than to experience it.

I received a blue ribbon, designed especially for me. Something like, “Most surprising progress in diving,” or whatever nice way they came up with saying it. The fact is, although I loved swimming and had no fear of the water, I did fear going in upside down. Learning to dive involved kneeling on the dock and going in headfirst. Having mastered that, one proceeded to do the same thing from a standing position, ultimately to propelling oneself into the water from the diving board. Daily, as everyone moved beyond me, I knelt on the dock trying unsuccessfully to invert myself into the water. Night after night in my bunk, I imagined the feeling of diving. On the last full day, I walked out on the board and, quite nicely if I do say so myself, executed the headlong catapult into the water that I had been imagining. I picture counselors huddling to discuss possible ways to recognize that astonishing feat which would not have been noteworthy had I not displayed a long period of failure.

It taught me something I later used in some of my classes; I discovered that athletes have been known to do that kind of practice in imagery – a great example of the intimacy of mind and body.

Overcoming shyness, I sang in the talent show. First time successfully performing in front of people – makings of a college professor?

I wish I could honor the memory one of our counselors by recalling her name; she was tall, blond, pretty, and very nice. On November 28, 1942, she died in the Coconut Grove fire in Boston, one of 492 killed, closed in by boarded up windows, locked doors, a revolving entrance trapping people unable to move either in or out, lax enforcement of insufficient fire laws, and overcrowding by 500 over the limit. Death by painful violence, unlike my Uncle Emil’s quiet demise at home.

I still find remnants of the empathic frustration and anger I felt at the image of people trying to escape out the limited exit space. I thought of her in my classes when on occasion I’d talk about the study that observed people pulling their own rope-attached beads out the neck of a coke-like bottle. When people cooperatively took turns, all their beads got out. Not so when people competed to be first to save themselves. The Coconut Grove fire spread so fast it was basically impossible for anyone to help anyone else, to say nothing of take turns. Even the firefighters couldn’t get in to help. I experience even more intensified anger when people have been trapped more recently in similar fires because a choice has been made to keep exit doors locked. More should have been learned from the Coconut Grove fire, or the concern for people’s welfare over profit.

By the way, googling reveals the photo of a Coconut Grove matchbook advertising dinner for $1.50. Among the dead was Buck Jones, in town to promote War Bonds and his own films.

In the mid 1980s, I had just finished teaching research related to pro-social behavior. It involved [fake] smoke creeping under the door and people’s reactions under varying conditions. As we were discussing those results, and the deception, another faculty member gestured me into the hall, pointing out the fire in the ceiling. I returned to the classroom, requesting that people leave calmly and quietly, because flames had been detected. Of course, they didn’t leave – not about to be fooled - until I sent one student out to validate the observation.

A few years back, after a picnic on the palace grounds in Colonial Williamsburg, the fireworks display ended in a sudden downpour of rain. In demonstration of the beads-out-of-the-bottle effect, some people huddled under the exit gate, making it almost impossible for the rest of us to get out. The following year that event was cancelled, citing the “riot” that occurred in the rain.

And there you have it – the juxtaposition of personal delight, war, terrible civilian tragedies, and very uncomfortable but minor inconveniences. That’s part of the accordion effect – juggling the simple and glorious with the complex and tragic.

When my children were of late childhood age they went to Woodstock. It was a nice experience for them, but not the thrill it was for me. We can’t relive our own pleasures by exposing our children to them.