fourth of july

Fireworks were so abundant and so easy to get when I was a kid, that I thought you could get them anywhere – the grocery, the local drug store.  I didn’t realize till much later that my father – and everybody else in town – had to go all the way across the river to Kentucky to get them.

He always bought a good selection – not just sparklers, but bottle rockets, black cats, cherry bombs, and big stuff like roman candles.  He showed us how to set them off, but we were not at all graceful.  We’d light them and run, 20-30 feet off.  And if the thing didn’t go off, you’d have to decide whether or not to go back and check.  Was it a dud?  Delayed?  Should we light it again?  What if it exploded the moment you got near it?  I can say that I never knew one of those kids who lost a body part over a firecracker.  (Although I did meet a kid on a bus once who shot himself in the leg with his dad’s rifle.  But that’s another story.)

But the best fireworks were firecrackers.  The ones they sold (and still sell I’m sure) in bricks with the fuses all tangled up and you could separate them out or light the whole thing at once.  We’d put them under cans and watch them explode into the air.  Miniature dynamite.

The biggest badge of honor was finding a loose, unused firecracker somewhere outside.  The kind that had been dropped or abandoned.  Bottle rockets that flew off but never exploded.  If you found one in the street or the woods, it was better than money.  And after a typical Fourth of July, kids would scour the streets for them.  Most were duds, but one in a hundred worked.  I held onto one for about a year that was perfect and dry before I tried it.  When I did, I had no idea what was going to happen.  I blew a Folger’s can to kingdom come.

One time, at camp, we did this show that we knew would be perfect if we could end it with big special effects.  What we wanted was dry ice – but my friend Kenny said, no problem, he’s got black cats and some cherry bombs.  He’s on it.  Fortunately, it was at the end of the show, and it didn’t matter so much when the entire building filled up with smoke and everyone ran out of the place, screaming and coughing.  No one got hurt.  But ten minutes later smoke was still pouring out of the windows.

underground man

By 5th, 6th and 7th grades I was being bullied by kids of all races, creeds, and genders. Kids who were being bullied by other kids bullied me.  Disabled children bullied me. Friends let friends bully me.  Bullying me was like a local Rite of Passage.  You just weren’t anyone in Wyoming if you didn’t beat me up, first.

The rest of the first chapter of Plrknib .  Click here to continue.

things I learned at summer camp from the large, rotten, red-headed kid

• How to hold my breath underwater (for more than 20 minutes)
• How to untie knots
• The proper way to get dragged by a horse
• How to untie knots while being dragged by a horse

fourth of july

Fireworks were so abundant and so easy to get when I was a kid, that I thought you could get them anywhere – the grocery, the local drug store.  I didn’t realize till much later that my father – and everybody else in town – had to go all the way across the river to Kentucky to get them.

He always bought a good selection – not just sparklers, but bottle rockets, black cats, cherry bombs, and big stuff like roman candles.  He showed us how to set them off, but we were not at all graceful.  We’d light them and run, 20-30 feet off.  And if the thing didn’t go off, you’d have to decide whether or not to go back and check.  Was it a dud?  Delayed?  Should we light it again?  What if it exploded the moment you got near it?  I can say that I never knew one of those kids who lost a body part over a firecracker.  (Although I did meet a kid on a bus once who shot himself in the leg with his dad’s rifle.  But that’s another story.)

But the best fireworks were firecrackers.  The ones they sold (and still sell I’m sure) in bricks with the fuses all tangled up and you could separate them out or light the whole thing at once.  We’d put them under cans and watch them expode into the air.  Miniature dynamite.

The biggest badge of honor was finding a loose, unused firecracker somewhere outside.  The kind that had been dropped or abandoned.  Bottle rockets that flew off but never exploded.  If you found one in the street or the woods, it was better than money.  And after a typical Fourth of July, kids would scour the streets for them.  Most were duds, but one in a hundred worked.  I held onto one for about a year that was perfect and dry before I tried it.  When I did, I had no idea what was going to happen.  I blew a Folger’s can to kingdom come.

One time, at camp, we did this show that we knew would be perfect if we could end it with big special effects.  What we wanted was dry ice – but my friend Kenny said, no problem, he’s got black cats and some cherry bombs.  He’s on it.  Fortunately, it was at the end of the show, and it didn’t matter so much when the entire building filled up with smoke and everyone ran out of the place, screaming and coughing.  No one got hurt.  But ten minutes later smoke was still pouring out of the windows.

summer camp tips 2

When you dive into a pool, don’t have someone hold your legs.

When I was about eight years old I had my first lesson in diving at the Camp Wildbrook pool in Cincinnati. 

Initially, diving terrified me.  My thinking went:  if I dive headfirst, the entire pool will enter my nose, and I’ll drown – or – somehow the liquid, watery water will magically harden and I’ll break my neck.  And so on.  My mind zipped through endless configurations where I drowned or became paralyzed.  So, I’d stand by the edge of the pool, head down, arched over, arms in perfect V-formation – and then jump into the pool. 

But the Camp Wildbrook swim instructor had an ingenious idea to help kids like me.

“I’ll hold your legs,” she said.  “And you dive in.”

I was incredulous.  Oh, sure.  Like that makes sense!  That way when I crack my skull – my legs will still be poolside, already paralyzed.  No thanks! 

Over and over she’d try to hold my legs still.  But I’d always wriggle free and flail into the water, heads-up, sideways, belly-flop.

“How was that?!” I’d say.

And she’d smile and sort-of half nod and shake her head.

A few years later, I overcame my fear and learned the proper way to dive.  In fact, I love diving now and continue to this day.  Though never off the high board.  That’s too scary, and I’m sure the water actually would harden if I ever tried that.

i miss mumblety peg

Ah, the great knife games of our youth!

Mumblety peg was a game we played at camp where you would flick a pocket knife off various parts of your body and try to make the blade “stick” face down into the ground.

(Not to be confused with the knife games where you’d stab around your fingers or throw a knife as close as possible to your foot. Although, I understand those were great fun too.)

In mumblety peg, you’d flip the knife off your palm, elbow, etc., working it up to your forehead. You had two chances each turn. If you took a third chance and the knife didn’t stick into the ground you had to start from scratch. (Pun intended.) First one to make it off all body parts and then back to the beginning was the winner.

During course of play, you’d get little nicks and cuts all over your palms, knees, and wrists. We played quite frequently at camp in the 70s. Although, even then, we were told that if we got caught our knives would be taken away. (Never had mine taken away tho.)

Recently, I was quite pleased to learn that mumblety peg was created (or at least tremendously well-documented) by legendary Boy Scout emeritus Dan Beard. And, as a tribute, I considered spending a day at my son’s BSA summer camp teaching it to all the kids, but I thought it unlikely that the other parents would appreciate it.

Here’s the rules from Dan:

http://www.inquiry.net/outdoor/games/beard/mumbly_peg.htm

summer camp tips 2

When you dive into a pool, don’t have someone hold your legs.

Particularly the instructor.

summer camp tips

When you run from a horse, let go of the reins.

When I was six I took horseback riding at Camp Wildbrook, a day camp in Cincinnati, and I was terrified of horses.  I thought they were gigantic, monstrous things and the idea of riding one absurd.  And we weren’t even riding them, we were just supposed to walk them around this tiny track and back to the stable.  There was only one rule:  don’t let go of the reins. 

I had the reins of, what seemed to me at the time, Secretariat.  I was leading him around the track.  But after a minute, I thought he was getting too close.  So I walked faster, trying to put more distance between us.  But he walked faster, too.  And when I walked even faster he started trotting after me.  Then his nose came down and brushed against me.  And I panicked and ran, still holding onto the reins, screaming that the maniac horse was going to trample me.  Thankfully, one of the trainers ran over and grabbed him. 

“Why didn’t you let go of the reins?!” he asked.

So…when you run from a horse, let go of the reins.

summer camp tips

When you run from a horse, let go of the reins.