PLEASURES OF LIFE

Every summer my thoughts meander to the summers that were like no other. Sure, I had great friends and schoolmates at home in Syracuse, New York, but my special buddies were all heading for Brentwood Camp, a three-hour drive to the southwestern part of the state, in Angelica.

Before leaving, my mother helped me organize my clothing list — the prime directive came in the mail from the camp like an astronaut’s checklist. I identified each pair of shorts, underwear, T-shirts, bathing suit and jeans with my initials in indelible Magic Marker. Laundry was done once a week. Even after this meticulous exercise in labeling, when I was 10 I got a bra back in my laundry the first week.

The drive to Angelica — could it have had a more perfect name? — cut through rural countryside and the Finger Lakes. For a city boy, it was like leaving planet Earth for six weeks. Cabin assignments and bunk positions — upper or lower — were doled out on arrival. There were 80 kids at these summer reunions, 40 boys and 40 girls, with the cabins segregated by sex and separated by a giant stream that ran through the middle of the camp. Ages ranged from 10 to 17, and kids came from all over the country.

Trunks, with all your personal possessions, were positioned at the foot of each bunk. The toilet experience was rustic, to say the least, with limited hot water in the shower building. Bathing suits that never seemed to dry hung on the lines outside each cabin, perfuming the air.

The camp’s specialty was horseback riding. I learned a lifetime of equestrian skills but not without some challenges. One year a female instructor asked me to jump a few obstacles in the ring. I did but got “left” in the saddle (not moving forward with the horse) and came down in a very uncomfortable way for a boy. Sick to my stomach, the instructor insisted I try again. “Can we wait just a couple of minutes?” I begged.

I became one of the leaders in the barn, mucking stalls, cleaning tack and saddling up for others. I learned to drive the tractor, a mower and the camp pickup. Trail rides were highly anticipated, especially when we passed the abandoned house on the railroad bed supposedly occupied by a mean old hermit who loved to scare passersby. Curiously enough, we never saw him. Once every two weeks a chosen few would trail-ride to an area for an overnight campout, just like on TV’s Rawhide or Gunsmoke. It was the first time I sampled coffee. Yuck. And, of course, when I was 13, I fell in love with one of my instructors.

Camp days were divided into four periods, two in the morning and two in the afternoon. Along with the horses, we had a daily swimming session, a 90-minute arts and crafts period where I fashioned one boondoggle after another, and a final period devoted to baseball, kickball, etc. I learned to shoot a .22 rifle and a bow and arrow. After dinner, we had a giant campfire, scary stories and, naturally, a weekly snipe hunt.

The mess hall was our meeting place. A large bell called everyone together. When someone had a birthday “around the mess hall you must go” was sung, and everyone celebrated. After dinner we stopped by the commissary for a treat — candy, ice cream or a Popsicle. It took me a while to figure out why everyone snickered when someone ordered a Hershey’s candy bar and the counselor would ask, “Male or female?”

The summer was not without an occasional romance. Don’t tell anyone, but there were the late night “sneak-overs” to the girls’ side of the stream. If the camp owners found out, you could face the ultimate punishment — expulsion. But it was worth it.

At the end of each summer, as Labor Day loomed, it was invariably a sad day when we were fetched by our parents and returned to the real world. But oh, the memories. I still run into a fellow camper once in a while and all we can do is smile.