It was church camp. I think I was 13 the first year I went. I had a roommate named Brooke Mills. We had never met. I can't even remember where she was from, but we had matching sheets. It was a funny thing. My mom bought me sheets specifically for going to camp and they were yellow and white striped. What strange twist of fate caused Brooke and her mom to go shopping for camp and pick out the exact same sheets?
We had a blast being roomies. We shaved our legs in bed during horizontal hour. We talked about boys. We stayed up as late as we could past lights out laughing and singing together. We even became parners in crime to a small degree. We caught two of the counselors making out on the sofa next to our room and we used this to blackmail them into letting us break a few rules.
That first year at camp we went skiing and did lots of crafts and singing and dancing and we went to the movies. We had bug juice every day with our meals. We had mail call every day at lunch. It was every thing you expect from your first camp experience and more. We had a really amazing communion service that I'll never forget. We sang Kumbaya while carrying lit candles up the four three story stairways of the lodge and took CocaCola and potato chips for communion. It really was a spiritual experience for me.
And I met a boy. His name was Doug and he asked me to dance one night. While we were slow dancing he whispered to me, "You have the hip swing of a hula dancer". I figured that must be a compliment and I felt really admired. The next time we took a walk around the lake he kissed me. Imagine that. I had two spiritual experiences in one trip to summer camp.
Doug was from Indian Rocks Beach. I hope he is living happily ever after. He was a great kisser.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Why I Missed Father's Day
Why is Father’s Day so close to the first day of summer? Looking for a photo of my dad on Father’s Day triggered a series of emotional conflicts that I hope to not relive every year.
I grew up knowing that my father was ill. He was in and out of hospitals for as long as I could remember and when he was at home he was always in pajamas. I never saw any of my friends dads in their pajamas. He was home more than my mom. She always had a “real” job. My dad was a newspaper photographer. He worked for several different newspapers through the years. I don’t remember ever having a newspaper delivered to our house though. Reading the paper was never encouraged in our home. Dad also was a salesman. He sold everything from household products to jewelry and cosmetics. It just didn’t feel “normal”. I suppose hardly anyone felt they had a normal family or childhood. I spent a good many years just ignoring my father as much as I could. It wasn’t easy because he was everywhere anything was happening and he honestly was my ticket to my most memorable experiences. His job took us to the Bahamas to play on the beach when I was about six years old. His job got me a poolside seat at the glamorous Shamrock Motel for a week with no parental supervision when I was about nine. My father’s job got me a press pass to the Colonades along with my best friend Alice the week of the Palm Beach Pops Festival when I was thirteen. That included breakfast with Don Brewer and Tea with King Crimson and even a face to face meeting with Janis Joplin. It wasn’t all bad.
My father never called me “Princess” or “Angel”. He called me “Ace” and “Tiger” when I was little and “Bird legs” as a teenager. My father never raised his voice. He never argued. He often voiced his opinion and then walked away refusing to listen to any rebuttal. My sister and I were taught from an early age that conflict wasn’t tolerated in our home and might have serious or even fatal consequences for our father. My occasional emotional outbursts were laid heavily with guilt. I can’t even estimate how many times I was told that I had shortened my father’s life. I don’t remember even taking it seriously, but it was always present. There was very little expected of us other than not upsetting our father.
My dad was demanding in his own way. It didn’t matter if I got good grades in school or excelled in sports or exhibits of talent poise and beauty. He just wanted me to know more words than any of my friends. I wasn’t happy the Christmas that he got me a dictionary and a thesaurus. I just can’t get past the idea that no one really cares how many words you know. What good is it anyway if you can say things in a way that hardly anyone understands? I admit it helps with listening and it pays to be able to be articulate with a variety of individuals, not just those who grew up in the same neighborhood. Thanks Dad.
My father knew everyone and everything that was going on in the town we lived in. It was his job. I had no idea that my friends admired that about him. I had no idea that when I run into old friends from my childhood they might still have a newspaper clipping that they treasure from the local weekly rag that my dad worked for. I had no idea that my friends wished that their dads would give all the kids a ride to JTJC. I was clueless about the value of my father’s presence. I didn’t save any of his stuff. It never occurred to me that someday I would miss it. I now have a list of things that I didn’t hold on to that I would love to have today. But what I learned only recently is that none of those things that I didn’t save could fill the void of what life would have been like if he wasn’t always present; If he hadn’t been the guy taking pictures in the end zone of every football game. Strangely, the memory of going to the newspaper office after hours the night I totalled my car two days after getting my driver’s license and having my father be the one to call the ambulance and make the police report, is now remarkably comforting. I don’t really need the poster or the Tshirt. I have a piece of my father in my soul. It’s not just in my DNA. It’s a part of how I think and live and make decisions. It’s not about the dictionary or the thesaurus, but it is about words and what they represent and how much power they have in defining who we are and how others perceive us.
My father died on June 21st 1977. It wasn’t a big surprise. I found him on the living room floor in his pajama bottoms. I was 22 years old and had been prepared for this my entire life. No one outside of our family knew my father was always dying. I think maybe that was because he was busy showing us how to live. The truth is I am not a princess. I am not an angel. I most certainly am beyond any imaginable doubt my father’s daughter.
I grew up knowing that my father was ill. He was in and out of hospitals for as long as I could remember and when he was at home he was always in pajamas. I never saw any of my friends dads in their pajamas. He was home more than my mom. She always had a “real” job. My dad was a newspaper photographer. He worked for several different newspapers through the years. I don’t remember ever having a newspaper delivered to our house though. Reading the paper was never encouraged in our home. Dad also was a salesman. He sold everything from household products to jewelry and cosmetics. It just didn’t feel “normal”. I suppose hardly anyone felt they had a normal family or childhood. I spent a good many years just ignoring my father as much as I could. It wasn’t easy because he was everywhere anything was happening and he honestly was my ticket to my most memorable experiences. His job took us to the Bahamas to play on the beach when I was about six years old. His job got me a poolside seat at the glamorous Shamrock Motel for a week with no parental supervision when I was about nine. My father’s job got me a press pass to the Colonades along with my best friend Alice the week of the Palm Beach Pops Festival when I was thirteen. That included breakfast with Don Brewer and Tea with King Crimson and even a face to face meeting with Janis Joplin. It wasn’t all bad.
My father never called me “Princess” or “Angel”. He called me “Ace” and “Tiger” when I was little and “Bird legs” as a teenager. My father never raised his voice. He never argued. He often voiced his opinion and then walked away refusing to listen to any rebuttal. My sister and I were taught from an early age that conflict wasn’t tolerated in our home and might have serious or even fatal consequences for our father. My occasional emotional outbursts were laid heavily with guilt. I can’t even estimate how many times I was told that I had shortened my father’s life. I don’t remember even taking it seriously, but it was always present. There was very little expected of us other than not upsetting our father.
My dad was demanding in his own way. It didn’t matter if I got good grades in school or excelled in sports or exhibits of talent poise and beauty. He just wanted me to know more words than any of my friends. I wasn’t happy the Christmas that he got me a dictionary and a thesaurus. I just can’t get past the idea that no one really cares how many words you know. What good is it anyway if you can say things in a way that hardly anyone understands? I admit it helps with listening and it pays to be able to be articulate with a variety of individuals, not just those who grew up in the same neighborhood. Thanks Dad.
My father knew everyone and everything that was going on in the town we lived in. It was his job. I had no idea that my friends admired that about him. I had no idea that when I run into old friends from my childhood they might still have a newspaper clipping that they treasure from the local weekly rag that my dad worked for. I had no idea that my friends wished that their dads would give all the kids a ride to JTJC. I was clueless about the value of my father’s presence. I didn’t save any of his stuff. It never occurred to me that someday I would miss it. I now have a list of things that I didn’t hold on to that I would love to have today. But what I learned only recently is that none of those things that I didn’t save could fill the void of what life would have been like if he wasn’t always present; If he hadn’t been the guy taking pictures in the end zone of every football game. Strangely, the memory of going to the newspaper office after hours the night I totalled my car two days after getting my driver’s license and having my father be the one to call the ambulance and make the police report, is now remarkably comforting. I don’t really need the poster or the Tshirt. I have a piece of my father in my soul. It’s not just in my DNA. It’s a part of how I think and live and make decisions. It’s not about the dictionary or the thesaurus, but it is about words and what they represent and how much power they have in defining who we are and how others perceive us.
My father died on June 21st 1977. It wasn’t a big surprise. I found him on the living room floor in his pajama bottoms. I was 22 years old and had been prepared for this my entire life. No one outside of our family knew my father was always dying. I think maybe that was because he was busy showing us how to live. The truth is I am not a princess. I am not an angel. I most certainly am beyond any imaginable doubt my father’s daughter.
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