Especially in the Quietest Moments

Are you ever driving in your car or perusing the aisles of your local supermarket and this seemingly random, benign, memory pops up? Oddly, while you’re looking at the hundreds of kinds of orange juice available to you, your brain flashes to a time when you were sick and stayed home from school? That day, your mom brought home some Pine Brothers cough drops and a package of multi-colored modeling clay and you spent the day under a blanket, chewing candy-cough drops and crafting wee animals out of clay.  Maybe you’re driving in your car and you think of being on a family vacation in Pennsylvania. You recall a summer day when your group of friends are sitting on the field at Twin Willows Cabins in Beach Lake with a group of teenage girls. Some of the boys are tearing at the grass and one of the teenage girls says, "Don't do that, grass has feelings you know?"  So? Why do we remember these? I always wonder, because some memories that pop up are obvious as to why. You hear a song on the radio and it takes you back to a specific moment. A date makes you think of the birth of your son, or your little brother. Maybe a smell makes you think of Grandma’s spaghetti sauce? These moments, these memory connections are obvious but this piece is about those seemingly random moments. This piece is about memories that seem so simple, not turbo-charged, yet they keep nosing their heads to the surface. 

One of the best days I ever had at my old summer camp, YMCA Silver Lake, I spent mostly by myself.   That’s odd, because like so many of my friends at this bucolic place, camp was really about the people. YMCA Silver Lake memories are filled with Rec Hall dances, Dining Hall renditions of “Little Rabbit Fu-Fu,” staff nights out at Jolly’s Pizza and the Sparta Inn, counselor hunts, opening and closing campfires, trail rides up at ranch camp….But my first week at Silver Lake I spent quite a bit of time alone. 

Now for a city kid, raised on asphalt and concrete, the fields, trees, trails, lakes, streams and open skies of northern New Jersey had breath-taking appeal. What a relief to get out of the suffocating heat of the city. For years, the invitations of my friend Glenn Gruder, who was a lifelong Silver Lake devotee, fell on deaf ears.  I hesitated going to camp, fearing I would miss hanging out with my friends on my block. Once I got into the country, I never looked back. To this day, I avoid the
city in the summer at all costs. Unless I can guarantee it’s 80 degrees or less, I won’t go anywhere south of the GW bridge.  

I was never a camper at YMCA Silver Lake, for me, this was a summer job. So these memories are from my first Staff Week. Staff week: a week we work together to ready the camp for the arrival of the campers and a highlight of every summer. The entire staff bunked, males on one side, females on the other, in Lindell Lodge, right on the main field.  Lindell, during the high summer was lodging for the CIT’s. This was a symmetrical log cabin right out of the camp text book; creaky screen doors, sandy wood floors and matching stone fireplaces on both sides. Glen and I usually arrived early, he’s a punctual fellow, and by my first summer, 1980, Glen was a Senior Staff member. As each car pulls up the dirt road, we watch excitedly like puppies in the window: Who might this be? Will it be an old friend? Is it a new counselor? Check out the license plates, tell-tale signs on the car? 

We spend every staff week getting reacquainted with old friends, kindling new friendships, scoping out potential romantic interests and of course working on projects. What I would give to do another staff week! Projects were fun and rewarding, in that we were working together for a worthy cause. The Silver Lake staff, most of us, took pride in the place, we wanted the cabins and fences and waterfront to look nice for the campers and their parents.  Staff week was also about team building, so the Senior Staff would change the detail up and rotate groups of staff members to work on different projects throughout the first seven days.  This way we got to know everyone on the staff, we didn’t stay in our cliques or comfort zones of friends all week, a great idea. 

Occasionally, the powers that be, would give us underlings time to relax during staff week. We’d play softball, touch-football, basketball and one of my favorites, a full-camp circle on the field for Duck-Duck-Goose. Towards the end of the week, if we were in good shape, the Senior Staff would give us a few hours of free time to swim, boat or do whatever we wanted to do.  Usually, I’m a very social guy, usually. Sometimes I like to, my wife might say I need to, be by myself.  Considering how fond I am of these memories, how much they stand out from all of my early camp memories, Kira might have a point.

In the middle of that first staff week, the senior staff decided we were all working so hard, and the camp was in such good shape, that we could knock off from 2 o’clock until dinner. Figure there was about sixty to sixty five staff members all hootin’ and hollerin’ about having the afternoon off. Some people went out to eat, some headed out to do laundry, I put my bathing suit on and headed down to the water front with some new friends. After a quick dip to cool off, I decided that a bit of boating might be fun. Choices of boats were limited, we had row boats, row boats and more row boats. Off to the side we had maybe 2 or 3 of these little kayaks. The kayaks were small, plastic and red. I grabbed one of these “playaks” and headed out onto Silver Lake. Like a dog following a variety of scents, I just went, slowly, taking in the sights. I’d pick a spot, and head out to say, Snake Island. I loved how the kayak would cover some pretty good ground with each stroke. Even my 17 year old, Pink Panther arms, could really propel that little plastic boat. 

Now this was ALL new to me, I was exploring, discovering things, a great feeling. I skirted around the island, slowly, languidly; the only sounds the birds chirping, the wind rustling the leaves and my paddle cutting the water every few seconds. Stopping paddling, I’m glancing at the small wake I’m leaving, I’m looking, devouring, savoring. During that kayak ride I saw submerged rocks and logs, fish, turtles, birds. I loved being a part of nature, Tom Sawyer-like, as a dragon fly would light on the bow of the kayak, check me out for a few seconds, and deciding I was not all that interesting, take flight. From Snake Island I crossed over to what I now know is Winnebago Rock. From there I skimmed the side of the lake out to Director’s Cabin, continuing around the side and up towards the Ranch Tents, eventually making it out to this lily pad infested cove where again I
“discovered” this little wooden bridge.  It’s a day I cherish, a memory that keeps nosing to the surface. 

My water excursion was bookended with some discovery on foot, when we got another few hours off later in the week. On my second voyage, I headed off behind the lower Kybo (bathroom & shower building for you non-camp people) through the woods to another road and a riding ring for horseback riding. The one thing I knew I had to do different while I was gamboling on foot, was to keep track of where I had come from. As a 17 year old city kid, I had a reasonable fear of getting lost in the woods;  so I always made mental notes of landmarks and turns made.  As I headed up towards what I now know is Ranch Camp and the Upper Kybo via that back road, I’m taking little tangential hikes on the various paths and trails I see. At one point, and my Ranch friends will know this rock; I spied a huge rectangular rock on the left side of the trail, kind of like that big black spinning cube around St. Mark’s Place. This rock was calling me, Come my little city friend, test your wiles, see if you can climb to the top of me. Off the trail I go, picking my way through the brush for 35 yards. Walking around this RV-sized rock, with a nice flat platform up top, I was crunching through leaves and sticks, searching for the series of ledges, crevices and hand-holds I could use to get to the top. My brain lighted on a route, so off I go, hand-hold to hand-hold, foot by foot, grabbing, pushing, exerting to eventually reach the top of this ultra cool rock. Exhileration!  We never got to do that kind of stuff in the city. I stood on top of that rock, raised my hands in the air like Rocky, for no one in particular to see and basked in my accomplishment. For my remaining years at Silver Lake, every time I passed that rock with my campers in tow, each time I rode down the back road on a horse or drove up there in the camp station wagon, I glanced at that rock and was reminded of my day of exploring when I “discovered” that rock.  

So I’m thirty some odd years removed from that summer. Yet those memories keep popping up? Now that I live in Middlebury, CT and we spend a good deal of our time in the woods, on the trail, at the lake, I realize that this was always a part of me, it was always in my DNA. What other reason for those two memories to stand out so strongly from all the other memories I have? These trips of discovery, into the woods and fresh air, were all about discovering a love for nature. 

The whole trip was about discovery, about exploring, something I love to do to this day. That’s the best part about going to a new city, a new vacation spot, taking out the local map and looking for adventures. So of course now I have to ask, do you have tales of discovery from Silver Lake or another place? Or some seemingly simple memories that keep asking for your attention?