Blogs vs. Forums

Whew...Its been a while since I was last here. For those who are curious (and for the record, I'd be curious why you're curious), the main reason I've been MIA from this site for a long time is because I was spending all my time on the Kawabi staff forum, and all my inane camp stories for the last year and a bit were located there. But I think its time that I meandered my way back over to this site, and I'll explain why...

The forum was created as a way to facilitate the massive camp reunion that occurred last May. It was a way for the many generations of staff to reconnect and keep in contact with an eye towards building up the reunion. It also ended up serving as a huge reservoir of camp memories, stories and pictures...in short, it ended up being what I had originally envisioned for this blog.

But then the reunion came and went. The drop off of forum activity following the reunion was nothing short of dramatic. Sure there's still a hardcore group (primarily of older staff), including myself, still utilizing and contributing to the forum, but its become meager compared to six months ago. I myself, who was one of the ones who spent inordinate amounts of time on the site --I used to be all over it many times a day -- now find myself only checking in with it every few days. I guess the shine is gone. Also, it seemed to have transmuted from a well of Kawabi stories and memories into more of a communications hub; less reminiscence and more straight forward and current contact. Nothing at all wrong with that, but I can't help but feel that the forum isn't exactly the place to post my long-winded stories. Plus I started to feel as though I had to pull my punches regarding subject matter and narrative details, since I was deathly afraid of pissing people (some of whom were directly involved in the posts) off and posting things that would make people uncomfortable. Although this is a little verbose, I felt I was starting to lose my freedom to write what I wanted, when I wanted. And here in this blog, where I feel much more proprietal (I did start this thing after all), I do not feel any such compunction to edit myself.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not slamming the forum. I love that thing and still plan to use and contribute to it. It is the central nexus of Kawabidom, and am forever in debt to Tony for starting it up. But as the dust has now settled I realize that some of the camp things I want to write about are better suited to here than there.

So in short, I plan to come back here more often.

Day Off Story #1

There are many days off that I remember fondly, but I'll start with the one that makes me laugh the most. I believe it was 1987, and it was the pre-camp day off. Most of the C's had gone down to Toronto for bus run, and the less PR savvy of us (being brutally honest), were charged with looking out for the AC's. We all ended up going to Rotary Park, as it was the default location for days off back then. Will/Crockett had managed to get us a two-four of Blue in cans --side note: I've not touched Blue since I became of age, and I'm convinced that the only reason why Blue sells, seeing as its only steps removed from urine taste-wise, is that its the simplest name to blurt out as a terrified underage kid clearly out of your depth at the Beer Store. Once we got settled in Rotary, Will suggested that we place the case in Rotary Park River, to keep the beers cold. I thought that a smart enough suggestion, but was slightly concerned that the current may move the case. Not to worry, Will declared, we'll place a big stone on top to keep it in place. Problem solved.

After finishing an extremely tasty barley sandwich under a warm June blue sky, I got up and went over to the river to grab another. I leaned over the river's edge to grab a water-cooled beer, and noticed with some concern that the case was gone. I thought I had the wrong place on the river, so I paced along the embankment, searching for the wayward case; I mean it was a 2-4, where could it go? But slowly, a horrific acknowledgement overcame me, that our very precious beer case had, in fact, gone missing.

I was at a loss as to what to do. I went back over to Will and said, "Hey man, I think our case has gone AWOL". He looked up at me with a grin that said that he thought I was messing with his head, but then realized from the look on my face that I wasn't. He quickly hussled over to the riverbank, and began to prowl it like a giant cat, occasionally stopping, pointing and muttering, "its right here...no, no, its right here...no wait its over here". I finally broke that spell by saying in a perfectly lucid moment that of course its gone, the cardboard box broke apart and the cans floated away. Will turned towards me with a look that was a cross between dispondancy and defiant anger, and then without any warning suddenly whipped off his shirt, dove into the river and started swimming away. I just watched; I mean, what are you going to say?

A couple of hours passed by and I was starting to get worried about the boy, and the fact that I was going to spend the entire day off sober with AC's I barely knew. Then out of the corner of my eye I see this figure ascend from the bull rushes beside the bank at the end of the park, arms filled with beer cans. It was Will, and I swear he was back lit by a warm glowing light and somewhere angelic choral music was played; the new Messiah had come and he had brought me beer!

I was speechless, and simply gave Will a 'how in the hell' look. He just looked back at me and said, "I just just kept swimming, and every time I found one, I would swim over to the side of the river and put it on the bank, and just picked them all up on the walk back. I was just on the other side of Minden when I got the last one..." I was truly astonished, and this is one of the leading reasons he's my best friend to this day. And I'll tell you another thing, those were some of the finest tasting beers I've ever had in my life.

Favourite Female Staff

So I'm finally getting around to my favourite female staff. Look, I'll be honest, this isn't going to be a big list, and the reason for that is that the female staff during my camper years just did not have as much of an impact on my young mind, as the male one's did. My theory is that I didn't spend very much time around the waterfront, where historically, the female staff tended to congregate. Perhaps I should have spent more time hanging out in the female section (though my voice would have been a wreck from yelling 'male' constantly). Regardless:

1. Wasabun. Very obscure reference I know, but she was really nice, very funny, outgoing and taught me how to fence. You could say she's Fletch's dream girl....
Oh, and some Kawabi gossip 25 years after the fact: I saw her and Boro snuggle on the Bus ride home from camp --Skip, have mercy on them.

2. Frye. Oh yes, she be at the top of every boy's list who attended camp during the early 80s. She was sweet, engaging, cool and what else...oh yeah, drop dead gorgeous! Sometimes it was like looking directly into the sun. The best part was that I had her for swim periods 3 years in a row! I know there's a bunch of very jealous male staff out there right now...except Ribii.

3. Zoe. I can't remember exactly why, but I thought she was the coolest. Maybe it was that early 80s proto-New Wave short hair style of hers. I think I had a swim period with her, but my real regret was that I didn't go to more of her periods.

4. Every female councilor I was on staff with. I loved you all. Seriously...ask around. I had crushes on 99% of you at one time or another. Its actually kind of sad. Special mention goes out to Ekko, Benz and Jad whom I had repeated and futile crushes on.

Ok, so maybe there's not as much emotional resonance in this list as the male one, and maybe this list is skewed towards my attraction to the women in question, but in my defence most of my late camper experience was viewed through the terribly distorted prism of pre-teen hormone-addled eyes.

Big FYI: Camp Kawabi - A Celebration

I'd just like to post an email message I recieved from Adrian Sark/Bow yesterday.

==============================
Hello Everyone.

Some of you may remember me from your camp days as “Bow”. And, as you may have heard, I have taken it upon myself to try and organize a proper celebration for Kawabi for ex-staffers some time in the Spring of 2006.

You may also be aware that Camp Kawabi has ended its 50+ year run and that the August 2005 (40th) reunion of the camp since Skip and Nish re-established it would be the last one. Frankly, this camp was too much a part of my life and of many others to simply leave it there! Hence the desire for a proper celebration.

I imagine that this will be a large event that will be well attended and that it will be ultimately designed by all of us. The first step is to build a network in cyberspace and to do that I would like you all to go through your contacts and send me anyone you have who was a Kawabi staff member at some point in our illustrious history.

Ideally, I’d like an e-mail address and a camp name if one exists. So far, I have 83 staff who have begun to participate in this process. It would be terrific if I can add your name and any new contacts you may be able to supply to the list. By Christmas, I hope to have a list in the hundreds! Once that is in hand, we will move to the second phase – conducting a group survey of what, when and where a celebration should happen. Between now and then, I’ll send out periodic letters like this one to remind us why we are doing this and keep you posted on progress.

This is really about history. I spent about 10 years at Kawabi as a camper and staff member in both the Ron Perry and the Harris days (1958-1968). My children went to the camp over the 1982-1994 period (Julian, Lisa and Richard). I met my wife over 35 years ago through the camp. It was part of my family’s life like yours. And I am sure that you felt some dismay when you heard that it was to close – that somehow we had been deprived of a piece of our lives and that some occasion should mark its passing – more than just a letter.

I have spoken to Bruce (Skip) and Doreen (Nish) and they are absolutely OK with the idea that we should organize something – and they have indicated that they would be pleased to participate.

I’m hoping that you’ll help and look forward to hearing from you (and remind me of your camp name when you sign off). Of course, if you have any suggestions besides the contact information that you can supply, please feel free to include them when you reply.

For your interest, memory-jogging and amusement, the following is a listing of the names and contacts I currently have:

Adam (Sirka) Eakins, Adrianna (Vibe) Clapp, Alex (Bryer) Shelley, Alex (Top-o) Hutton, Andrea (Dacca) Rennie, Andrew (Cyrus) Turvey, Beth (Oslo) Daniher, Brad (RiffRaff) Morrison, Caleb (Gimmick) Lance, Cari (Peppi) Forteath, Christa (Beezu) Legate, Christina (Kaliko) Sloane, Christine (Frillz) Vinette, Colin (Anchor) Couper, Connie (Nomad) Blazs, Dan (Bali) McPherson, Daniel (Hoops) Lance, Devon (Moxie) Sackett, Drew (Rosko) Carroll, Ellen (Spook) Hurlock, Emilie (Zayta) Connelly, Fred (Peel) Darlington, Hannah (Zenn) Ticoll, lain (Oiler) Sinclair, Ian (Selwyn) Humphreys, Jamie (Tango) Couper, Jane (Duckie) Good, Jeff (Luten) Brown, Jessica (Metric) Gavourkas, Jessica (Willow) Lastuk, Jill (Gheko) Godbould, Jim Morrison, Jon (Nemo) Collins, Joseph (Rudiger) Lance, Joshua (Dodger) Lance, Julia (Pico) Turvey, Karen (Bondi) Stanley, Kate (Bently) Hutchinson, Kate (Fyzel) Dickson, Kathy Lance, Kerry (Kix) Shapiro, Kim (Tropic) Shapiro, Laura (Capri) Stanley, Laura (Jive) Dean, Lauranne (Nova) Hutton, Lauren (West) Shelley, Lucie (Essence) Wade, Maggie (Moglee) Cowperthwaite, Margot (Zara) Brandeth, Mark (Squints) Shapiro, Martha (Hayzel) Richardson, Martin (Phineas) Morrison, Mary (Sawga) Samloczyk, Matt (Nevis) Claxton, Max (Snare) Rothschild, Megan (Sumac) Selby, Meryl (Folee) Probst, Michelle (Aeros) Campbell, Mike (Nash) Rieger, Mike (Rikits) Bloom, Mollie (Versus) Rolfe, Nicole (Moka) Frieday, Pam Rosenthal, Pat (Fonzy) Daniher, Phil (Durango) Legate, Rebecca (Bretton) Russell, Reilly (Tambier) Gray, Rob (Parley) Toller, Rosalyn Morrison, Sanday (Yukon) Mackay, Sara (Alto) Kilmury, Sarah (Helix) Vinette, Sarah (Jerzee) Lemay, Sarah (Kyoht) Wylie, Scott (Mambo) Couper, Sean (Peetro) McGrath, Steph (Karma) Mouck, Steph (Tribe) Near, Tom (Esko) Quinn, Vanessa (Wenzdae) Gray, Vincent (Vector) Gouin, Virginia (Bepo) Maclennan, Will (Loco) Milne.

Finally, I’d like to offer you a short letter than my son Julian (Pwyll) wrote after his last year at camp in 1990.

“Outside this sheltered place, things move faster than they need to. Within, time is immaterial. Outside this sheltered place, people are hurt. Within, no-one suffers at the hands of another. Outside this sheltered place, we anxiously search for things to fill our empty days. Within, our days are filled for us. Outside, we are taught to learn from our mistakes. Within, we learn from our triumphs.

Outside this forest glade, we are a single, unremarkable person among billions. Within, we are unique and cherished, considered nearly superhuman for whatever feats we perform. Outside we are cultured and live a civilized life. Within, we live a life that is relatively primitive, yet somehow we become far more wise.

Within, our appetites increase. We become ravenously grateful for the food we receive while outside, eating is just another habit. Within, a million stars fill a gaping sky where at home there would be none. We walk old paths trod by many others before us and are made stronger for it. We forge friendships that endure eleven months of silence and still manage to retain their strength when we return. And some of the warmest, happiest light comes from bare light bulbs hung in the gathering place.

On this continent a semi-nomadic culture returns to its place in the North Country to enact their summer rituals, their magics and to sing the old songs of power. The elders cast off their own names in favour of those which have mystical properties so that they might be closer to the forest spirits and to their people. Each dawn is greeted by the raucous ringing of an ancient bell, followed by the setting of old wooden tables and a chanted grace steeped in the past of some thirty-odd summers.

So it has been and ever shall be”:

Or at least, so we thought. Please help me get this celebration going.

Adrian Sark (Bow)

ajsark@albedo.net
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I think this a great idea. I'll try an post updates as they happen

My live and let die moment

My very first year as a camper was just short of disastrous. I was --and I'm paraphrasing quotes by Skip and Phineus here-- the second worst home sick case in the history of Camp Kawabi (the first being awarded to my friend Deepe...way to go man!). I was miserable, cried all the time, and most likely made my councilor's lives a living hell. However, I was extremely fortunate to have three fantastic councilors my first year as a camper: the aforementioned Phineus, Sasquatch and Luten, whom I've tried to give my props to in my all star councilor list several entries ago. Man, these guys worked super hard to settle me down and get me into the groove of things. And by the second week, I began to do just that; I even began to sort of...to...well, like the place. But I was still making these buggers work for their pay (!?).

Right about the time I started not minding the place, the camp dance occurred. At the age of 7, this was my first dance. I did not know how to dance; I did not know how to relate to girls, let alone ask one to dance; and I was completely clued out in relating to the social complexities of a camp dance. As a result, I spent a large amount of time hugging the plywood walls of Squamish, only occasionally being dragged by a female staff member or senior girl onto the dancefloor to get jiggy with it, which at that age resembled some sort of cross between running on the spot and a seizure. Luten was DJing the dance, complete with dual turntable and receiver that was about the size of a stationwagon. I looked upon him as a lifeboat in this sea of mortification, and angled my way over to the DJ table, where I hoped to disappear amongst the stacks of album-filled milk crates. Of course he noticed this, and realizing that between the homesickness and the communal hysteria of the dance that I was close to having some sort of meltdown. He had also noticed that I was thumbing my way through the LP supply, checking out the titles (thanks to almost hip parents and older sibling, I had a rudimentary musical knowledge). He made me a deal, offering that if I promised to go and ask somebody to dance, he'd play anything I wanted.

Now in 1977 I was big into Wings. That's right, Band on the Run-Paul MacCartney and Wings...did I mention it was 1977 and I was only 7? And lo and behold sitting there before me was a copy of Wings greatest hits. So I asked Luten to play my favourite song off the album, Live and Let Die. He did, and I went and found some idle G1 and managed to get her to dance/flail with me. A social breakthrough, even epiphany had been breached. I was able to ask girls to dance and get out on that dance floor, and by God, actually enjoy myself. This was huge; it was if Kawabi had given me my own gentile Barmitzvah several years early.

The next day I told all this to my brother, who was a cool B7 dude by that point. He replied that, yeah, he figured it was me that asked for that song. He continued, by telling me that, "you know, you can't dance to Live and Let Die. It doesn't have a steady beat. Didn't you notice that everybody was struggling to dance to that?" So he did what all good older brothers do, crushed my spirit in my moment of triumph. The bastard did have a point though. You can't dance to live and let die without some sort of narcotic enhancement. I was mortified by this, and if anybody remembers this dance, and that song being spun, let me again apologize for having that song played and disrupting the rhythmic continuity of the July 1977 Kawabi dance.

I have to admit, I'm still embarrassed by this. But you know what, I never worried about dancing in public again or asking a girl to join me.

The decline and fall of the Hub

Once upon a time, during the late disco era when feathered hair reigned supreme and men's shirts were unbuttoned to an embarrassing degree, the Hub was the undeniable social nexus for Kawabi staff. During my early days as a camper, I would pass by the hub and see a fair majority of the staff crammed into the living room section of it, laughing, talking, smoking with music blaring. By the time I was on staff, the hub lay predominately unused; a ball room without any dancers as it were. So it begs the question, what happened to this mighty icon of Kawabidom?

To anyone reading this who was on staff post '86, the question rattling around their brain must be, 'why hang out at the hub? Isn't that just Skip and Nish's summer house?'. Well, yes and no. As far as I can remember, and even into the twilight of my camp experience, the hub remained a central meeting place for staff. But back in the 70s, it played a central part of staff life. Why? Simple: music. If you wanted to listen to tunes, that you'd later on in life perceive as 'summer classics of youth', then you had no choice but to go to the hub. For alas, this was the only place on camp property that you could play your music collection, which back then was 99% vinyl. Simply put, back then there was no practical way to install a turntable, or even God forbid, an 8-track tape deck in your tent. This led to the large collection of milk box containers filled with records that sat in the hub during my early days there, noticed during the occasional pancake breakfast which was won by way of some skit, game of skill, or talent for 'bomahawky-bomahawky'.

I was always kind of envious that the staff at that time came together to bond through music at this central place, which I could only think provided them with a togetherness and camaraderie that I never knew on staff. I've always enjoyed it when my friends and I have a 'music' night, whereby we sit around and play tunes for one another that we think the others should hear and would appreciate. I picture them all sitting there in their bell bottoms and checkered snap-on button shirts, laughing, smoking, chatting enjoying some choice Cat Stevens or Rolling Stones selections. I fear I missed a unique bonding experience.

Though that may be too much of a romantic assumption. My brother, who was four years older than I was, and started camp a wee bit earlier than I did, related a story to me a little while ago. He said that one rest hour he and his tentmates were listening to some Rush (again people, we're talkin' the 70s ), when all of the sudden, Mr. Rolling Stones himself, Greb (who was a legendary extrovert during my early years) burst into the tent and announced, "thank God somebody around this camp listens to good music; not like the Abba/Carpenters shit they play at the hub. Just good solid rock and roll man!" I didn't ask if Greb stayed and listened to Rush with a bunch of B6ers after this diatribe. But it does point the way to what happened next.

I've always been pretty snobby about my musical tastes. And one of the basic tenants of a music snob is that 95% of everything in the top 40 is crap (until 25 years passes, when it turns into nostalgic period pieces that can be listened to with irony). But one of the things that makes a top 40 hit is that the majority of people think they like that pap that is fed to them and want to listen to in incessantly. So I'm thinking that back in the day, if you wanted to listen to some of your LPs in the hub, you'd have to be willing to sit through a tonne of crap to do so. My thoughts turn to when I did dishes with Sketch/Leslie, who's first reaction when I brought my ghetto blaster into the dishwashing area was to ask if it received CFTR (the antithesis radio station of my musical tastes), and then asked to put on a Whitney Houston tape, which I explained in very, very undiplomatic terms that a snowball in hell had a better chance. And there wouldn't have been any way I would have stuck around the hub to sit through that either. Fortunately, technology offered a solution: the cassette tape and portable player.

By the 80s tapes and ghetto blasters were cheap enough that any idiot like me could have one and be a one man DJ, all for the price of 8 D-size batteries every couple of weeks. No need to sit through anything. And because of the compact size, no need to go and hang around at the bosses' house, where you'd have to watch what you did and said. Not only that but you could hang out with just your select group, instead of having to be polite to some complete social retard, who you have no idea how they made it onto staff, and know that their days are numbered regardless, but still have to pretend that you're civil to them anyways...I'm not going to name names here, but you know whom I'm speaking of. Elitist, yes, but remember, these were the teen years when forming socially ostracizing cliques was what it was all about. Simply, I'd rather hang out at the Bear Naked than the hub.

Ironically, the next nail in the coffin was the increasing amount of non-smokers on staff, combined with increased limitations of where one could go to smoke. I remember passing by the hub on my way down to the beach and only being able to see a blue cloud in the living room of the hub. Now I'm what you can call a smoke-friendly person, but even I would have had real reservations about living in a building that had ridiculous amounts of tobacco smoke whaffting through at all hours, not to mention the perma-stink. Understandably and justifiably, as social mores towards smoking grew less tolerant, the idea of having counselors hanging around children with butt-in-hand, became less of an acceptable premise. I witnessed the de-smokification of Camp Kawabi, from the obvious (such as in the hub) to the hidden (in your tent during rest periods) to forbidden (requiring one to go off camp property to indulge in a secret vice --but on the up shot, allowed me to begin my love affair with the dew line). But the point I'm making was that this shift in policy took away one more raison d'etre of the hub...a crucial one.

So I'd say that by my last year on staff, 1988 (and yes, please do not make comments about the fact that I'm writing about things that happened over a quarter century ago) the hub was like one of those run down movie theatres that couldn't adapt to the coming of television and the VCR; faded glory. The rationale behind going to the hub, listening to music while hacking back an Export A green, had disappeared. In its place, the staff of camp Kawabi fragmented with groups of like-minded individuals going off to listen to their walkmen, somebody's tent, out to the dew line for a smoke, etc. Gone were the days when you went and joined in more social experience, fostering a communal sense amongst the staff. Perhaps I'm romanticizing it way too much, but I can't help but feel that I missed out on something special. Then again I also missed out going to Woodstock and the first Lolapolooza, but I've gotten over that.

All good things....

So I'm in the middle of writing an expose on the Camp 40th reunion when Riff Raff sends me this message:

Hey all,

For many years, I thought that the Kawabi grapevine was a wonderful thing. I always got great news through it. Unfortunately, this time the grapevine is sending terrible news for those of you who have not already heard:Last week, Skip and Nish sent out letters to current campers and staff relaying the news that after 40 years, they have decided to close Kawabi.

Heavy, man! To be honest, my first reaction was my shock at not being more shocked. This does make sense, and as Brad said, 40 years is a long time to run a camp; hell, 40 years is a long time to be doing anything. Change was in the wind. And on my long way home from the 40th, with nothing but my extensive music library to keep me company, I had plenty of time to reflect on camp and my time there, what its meant to me, and questions of a more metaphysical nature (a beach bonfire has that effect on me still). The amount of time which Camp Kawabi operated was driven home to me during the fire on the beach, as staff from different eras reflected upon their Kawabi, and read the letters from their times, which I always enjoyed as literary (and I use that word liberally) snapshots of a particular point in time. The representatives of Kawabi past ranged from people who were old enough to be my parents to youngsters who could be my children (if I had gotten busy at an earlier age). Despite the different use of language, cultural reference points and passage of time, all the letters spoke to an almost indescribable commonality of the camp experience that can bring a smile to another person's face by just uttering the words, drip and dry, tuck, free period, etc. It was this intangible wonder that brought back a goodly sized crowd to the 40th reunion, and for six hours bathed us all in a wave of memories and nostalgia over a place that was permanently planted in our hearts. I realized that the thought of future campers and staff not having the wondrous opportunity to go on their first outsupper, to dance with an actual girl in Squamish while someone screamed 'snowball' behind them, to make their first gimp bracelet, to play the best game ever invented --buckets and squares, and to make some of the closest and dearest friends they'll ever know for the rest of their lives makes me very sad. The idea that the world will not have a Camp Kawabi in it makes it a smaller, colder place.

On a more personal level, its a little more complex. My camp experience is long over. The pillow cases with my name stitched into them are long gone. Camp Kawabi was my childhood and teenaged years, but it was the foundation upon which my adulthood was built. What struck me at the reunion was both how familiar and surreal going back to camp was. As I walked up the camp road, I was struck by how natural strolling up that road was, as though I had just walked it the day before. And yet, with a couple of exceptions I hadn't walked along it in years, and it seemed to be like wandering through a waking dream about a place that had long ago receded into memory, and only exists as a template of a veritable lifetime ago, before the more immediate existence of adulthood. I spent the entire day strolling around with a dumb-ass smile on my face as the smells, sights and sounds transported my brain back in time and emphasized how much of an impact it had on how I viewed the prism of my life.

As I've often mention to friends, I'm able to go to a place in my mind's eye that brings me a kind of inner serenity when I think about it, and that place (don't laugh) is actually the dew line. When I was at camp last month I took a chance to amble along it once again admiring its northern growth, the way the sun poked through the forest canopy like a golden ribbon, the sound of quiet russeling leaves and branches, along a classic country road. It was quiet, it was beautiful and it was all mine. For all I know, even if Camp Kawabi never closed down, I may not have ever seen the dew line again for one reason or another. But may have, is much different than will not. And I'm not just speaking about the dew line here. Although my camp days are long over, the news that camp is closing brings a sad finality to a part of my life, while being from long ago, still is deeply ingrained with who I am, and where I've come from. I've been fortunate over the last several years to meet and get to know some fairly important people both here and in Washington; ambassadors, generals, ministers, etc., but the hold they've had one me is a pale one compared to those people whom I continue to want to share my time with; those people whom I shared the summers of my youth with, and have a common and deep bond with that's hard to convey to anyone. I've never wanted to 'relive' camp (was way too awkward a kid to want to do that), but I wanted to continue to respect a place and a time in my life that has deep roots within me, and my chosen friends.

So the truly sad part about the closing of camp for me is not that as a physical place it ceases to exist; we all had an inkling that was going to happen regardless. But instead it consignes away forever a central part of my life so far to merely memory, because soon that's all that will be left of camp Kawabi. And perhaps this may be more of a statement of how I approach mortality, since it is hard to come to grips with acknowledging the finality of aging. In the end I guess camp is, or now was, a chapel song; the kind I used to grimace at as cliched and hokey, acting as a mental reminder of the cruelty of getting older and leaving things behind, and the blessing of knowing and experiencing a real gift, that while will only now exist in my head and stories told with friends, will continue to be an important part of who I am for the rest of my days.

Cue the two hundred kids singing a mangled version of Cats in the Cradle out of tune...

The eternal conundrum of tuck

Tuck....have to admit, the word still stirs a little excitement in me. The idea that once a week I will be treated to a veritable feast of sugar and artificial flavours still massages the pleasure centres of my brain. In hindsight, one of the things that makes me smile about tuck was that it was indexed to the rate of inflation. I think it was 50 cents a week when I was a resident of Bears Claw. By the time I was an awkward teenager in the Swamp, it had risen to about $1.75 (though have to admit by that point the fascination with tuck was starting to wane thanks to hormones and an increasing interest in girls, booze and music). Despite the over 100% mark up in my tuck allowance, it always seemed to buy about the same amount of 'stuff'.

Which brings me to the central philosophical question regarding tuck: was it better to spend your tuck money on a lot of small priced commodities, such as black balls and bazooka joes, or go for the big ticket items such as a kit kat and soda? Alas, the elemental conundrum: is it better to go for quantity or quality? The quantity school of thought suggests that by buying the small items, you can make it last, almost until the next time you go for tuck. In this sense, tuck is like crack, judiciously spreading out your stash until your next fix. Sure the stuff you get isn't as wonderful as a whole chocolate bar or a bag of chips, but at least its still tuck, and can provide a daily alternative to the fruit salads and custard cups that constituted deserts at Kawabi. In the quality school, the idea is that tuck is only a temporary treat or snack. It will be gone before too long, so why not give yourself a real treat and go for the decidedly nice items, the ones you would have down in the city and would buy with your allowance back home. I mean outside of Halloween, who the hell would buy those cheap, tiny plastic wrapped sour tarts on purpose. And is it worth getting blackballs, which I always thought had the taste of industrial waste, or some other penny candy that had a flavour only slightly removed from chalk, just so you can get some slim facsimile of candy for more than one day?

Truth be told, I started out camp life in the quantity school, but as I got older and my taste for sugar-related items became more refined, I first tried to compromise the two, and then finally by my second year in B8, I'd get a coke and bag of chips to eat once decamped at the outsupper or overnight site. I guess by that point, the shiny gleam of tuck had faded. Ironically, this same kind of thought process and development has been mirrored in my approach to buying wine over the years (when I was younger, it was all about the huge cheap bottles of paint thinner with twist off caps; now I'd actually rather buy a nice expensive bottle of Amarone). In the end, I think that you could tell a lot about someone's personality buy what and how much tuck they got. Got to admit, it makes ya think.