I got to thinking of some of the simple everyday things I used to love about Wyanoke. Things like:
v Mrs. Morin’s sticky-bottom rolls which redeemed the turkey soup every Monday night.
v Free evenings after Parade and Cook-out.
v Crisp, or downright cold, August nights, with every star in the universe visible from the OD table.
v Getting up too early for Wharf Police.
v Wincing when we realized we had Chapel Police on a Sunday.
The little store with the penny candy in
Henny Knowlton’s huge frying pans full of sandy
bacon on the beaches of the
Cap Taylor and his wife living in that tiny
v Bacon and toast breakfasts.
v Coffee on the veranda with the Bentleys and the ladies after Sunday turkey.
v Being afraid of Mr. Cooper (C-8, 1957).
The ladies from Wolfeboro sewing name tags on
our uniforms while we stood dejectedly in our underwear in the
v The ambivalence of closing-day emotions.
v The tremendous impact of Mr. Scheirer’s death.
v Sneaking into the ice house just to see what was in there.
v Setting up tents in pre-camp.
v Taking down tents in post-camp.
Cleaning up the Midget rifle range before camp
with the entire
v “Taps in fifteen minutes.”
Overnights on Olds’ Beach and
v The nature trail. Sunday afternoon walks to the airport.
v The fruit cocktail at the Farewell Banquet.
v Everett Slocum’s endless baseball summaries at the Farewell Banquet.
v Reading to my tent group long after Taps.
v Dreading Reveille.
v The impossible task of cleaning the cookout pans with sand.
v Actually drinking Winnipesaukee water with no ill effects.
v The camaraderie in the Senior Pines after New England Boiled Dinner.
v The Sunday Bulletin – “Health: excellent” when the infirmary was filled with guys with colds.
v Never having anything to say in the mandatory Sunday letter home.
v Camp nurses and Witch Hazel.
v Feeling sorry for the kids who had to be tutored.
v The Council room nobody ever seemed to be in.
v Rowdy kitchen boys.
v Mr. Risser – “I got worms.”
v The indefatigable Freddie Nichols.
v Never getting up the nerve to call Mr. Bentley “Brad” to his face.
v The “odor barrier” along the Junior trail to the wharf.
v The two “private” stalls in the upper Junior Pines.
v Phil Hodgson and Mrs. Morin in the kitchen.
v The shredded baseball bat the kitchen boys used to knock the tops off the old aluminum milk cans.
v Freely spraying DDT around the tent on buggy nights (“get under the blankets”).
v The “Lost River”.
v Fighting off slapping mosquitoes during parades.
v The bologna sandwiches, oranges and Hershey bars on the Chocorua trips. Free Candy line.
v Atomic Fireballs.
v “No jumping!”
v The candle procession in self-imposed, lump-throated silence after the Farewell Banquet.
All these are like photographs in my mind.