Happy camper

Good morning, one and all on this glorious International Left-Handers Day. A special hello to my gentle readers who are fellow southpaws. BKS, Silver, half of Dusty...crap, that can't be it. Who else is awesome out there? Speak up, my peeps; there's nothing to be ashamed of. Similarly, there's nothing of which to be ashamed.

Well howdy, gang. I hope this Monday morning post reaches you in good spirits. By writing "howdy," it got me thinking (uh oh) of two things. First, as is probably the most common reaction, I thought of Howdy Doody. Heh heh, I just said "Doody." That never gets old! Second, I reminded myself of a time back in the day that's led me to today's topic.

I very rarely use "howdy," probably because Californians have an extra weird gene instead of a howdy gene. However, there was one week in my childhood that I was saying it a lot for some reason. I was at sleep-away camp, and that was just my greeting du jour. Or "greeting du several jours," if you will. At one point, a kid was walking up to me, and I said with a thick and very fake drawl, "Howdy!" He paused ever-so-slightly before replying with, "Ten." Apparently my bad accent made that one word sound like, "How old are you?" That's not an easy feat, my friends.

It's almost reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen's talent of fitting as many words as he wants to into a line. Here's an example: In "Spare Parts" on the "Tunnel of Love" album, there are two lines that are the same length in amount of time it takes for him to sing them. Same amount of music, same everything. The first is, "Meanwhile in South Texas, in a dirty oil patch." The second is, "Bobby heard about his son being born and swore he was a-never coming back." There's even time for a real big breath after that line and room for three extra words before the chorus kicks is. Do I digress? Damn right I digress. I'll get back to camp stuff now.

As you likely know, camps have songs, and the lyrics seldom make any sense. There are only so many times one can boast about the amount of spirit he has or say the phrase, "A boom chicka rocka chicka rocka chicka boom" before realizing that it's moronic. In any case, there was a song that said, "Let's get a little bit rowdy, R-O-W-D-Y!" I believe my Bratty Kid Sister knows a similar song from her camp but with slightly different words and tune. Disirregardless, it was a catchy little ditty, and so it was no surprise to hear our cabin-mate David singing it to himself on his bunk a couple of hours after an assembly. What was surprising was the way in which he was singing it: "Let's get a little bit rowdy, D-O-W-D-R!" Let's also get a little bit illiterate, I guess. 15-20 years after that, I asked my friend Adam if he remembered the way David sang that song. Sure enough, he rattled off "D-O-W-D-R!" exactly as I had without any hesitation. Good times, good times.

As is tradition with camps such as this one, there were secret rites and ceremonies that had to be strictly followed. If I had to give a name to my camp's theme, I'd have to say that we were "pseudo Native American." (Either that or "shabby chic.") The counselors all have names like Running Bear, Broken Arrow, and my mom's favorite, Sudden Thunder. They told clearly-fake stories about how they got their names "from their tribes," and everything had the respect-Mother-Earth feel. Also, each meal started with the whole camp saying, "Oh great spirit in this hearth, may the flame of friendship always burn." Basically, it was all done in the spirit of shaloha.

The one ritual that I recall most clearly is the end-of-the-week ceremony. Each cabin had one kid nominated to be Straight Arrow (which now sounds a lot like "straight and narrow" to me but didn't at the time). It was usually the kid who did something good or just didn't piss the higher-ups off too much. Then in the ceremony, some kids are "honorable mentions" and sit back down, while two runners-up and the week's Straight Arrow stay up there. The Straight Arrow is handed a specially decorated arrow to keep as a reminder of this awesome honor. The three kids then go up one of the mountains with a couple of counselors, learn the secrets of the camp, and then come back down with paint on their face and a vow of silence until the morning.

My very first week at the camp, I was nominated from my cabin and had no idea what was going on. I was relieved to be handed my honorable mention certificate and sit back down. A couple of years later though, I must've done something right in the eyes of the counselors. My name was called as Straight Arrow, and I gladly followed the counselors to a secret little fire pit up in the mountains. Bursting with anticipation, I sat on the bench and awaited all of the secrets of the camp. "So," began one of the counselors (named Puma), "what do you guys wanna know?" I already knew almost all of the counselors' real names, but there were a few I hadn't gotten yet. They willingly forked over the info. "What else?" Puma (Anthony Ferguson) asked. We sat there in silence for a minute, before one of the runners-up spoke. "Is the story of One-Eyed Willie real?" "No, that's just a ghost story," was the reply. We were stumped. The highest honor in all of camp, and we couldn't think of anything good to ask. With that, they applied the ritualistic paint on our faces and told us not to speak again until sunrise. We agreed and went back down to the cabins.

When I got there, my friends thought it would be funny to keep asking me questions and to take my silence as confirmation of whatever they asked. Despite my violent head-shaking, they were laughing telling everyone which girls - and boys -I liked. There's nothing like good friends. I did fine with the no-talking thing, although I did open my mouth to speak when I unexpectedly ran into my friend Drew in the bathroom. (A year later, when Drew was Straight Arrow, he actually said a full sentence to us before sunrise. We agreed we wouldn't tell on his though, because it would be a plague upon our entire cabin.)

When my parents came and got me the next morning, I was happy to explain all of the dried paint on my face. It was a good time, and I hadn't thought about for a while. Basically, I was the top kid that week at camp, and it rocked. It was the highest honor they could bestow upon a camper, and not talking was my only official duty. Heh heh, I just said "duty."

Have a great day, everyone. Righties, cut your southpaw brethren a little slack today, ok? You get the rest of the year to show off how neatly you use scissors, wind your watches, and write in spiral notebooks without jabbing the wires into your arms. Today is ours, and we shall do it justice. See you tomorrow, folks.