stephenwinbaum
Communications Coordinator
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Aug 15, 2007, 11:40 AM
Post #1 of 1
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Son of a Camp Doctor
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"On the road, on the road to Camp Fresh Air, with never a heartache, with never a care!"
That’s the song my family would sing all the way from home in border town Windsor, Ontario, Canada, to Camp Tamarack, a Fresh Air Society Camp, in Southern Michigan, USA.
My father was a doctor, a pediatrician, and when I was three, I accompanied him with our family for a two-week stay at Camp Tamarack.
It was a marvelous solution to get away from the boredom of stuffy suburban Windsor, where the cars and trucks relentlessly propelled themselves back and forth from the Detroit Tunnel and the Ambassador Bridge. Trips to the neighborhood corner store for taffy, popsicles, and licorice, were fun but, after endless visits, held out little adventure.
Wanderings throughout a nearby field and shinnies up a beloved cherry tree, long since developed in place of bungalows and two-story homes, remain picture perfect childhood memories, but lacked the wonder of the great outdoors.
The adventure at Camp Tamarack was a practical opportunity for my father to leave behind his growing medical practice and take his family along for some summer fun.
Fashionable virtues of SUVs or Mini Vans paled besides the feeling of piling into our 1950s station wagon for the two-hour journey to Southern Michigan. To my three-year-old mind the trip felt like a major road trip. Thus the value of the quaint chorus . . . "On the road . . . on the road" . . . an incessant pipe and drum that we sang until we arrived at our destination.
Then we'd pile out of the station wagon and into our special trailer for the doctor and his family.
My mother and the three kids would spend our days roaming the camp grounds, swimming, running, playing in the coniferous forest. My father spent most of his time at the health center helping out kids with minor injuries like cuts and scraps. He had time off to enjoy the camp grounds and he easily could be found in case of emergency.
Mostly, he was glad to have his family in the safety of the outdoors and a camp with a good reputation.
He was more relaxed at camp. His body possessed an easy jaunt and he was more alert and responsive. That was the value of fresh air, the clean water, and the pine trees.
I visited my father from time to time at the health center; I wasn't a nuisance to his manageable patient load . . . a boy with an ankle twisted while rounding second base, a teenager who ate something that disagreed with her at lunch . . .
But there was one room I was forbidden to enter, the overnight room, where a camper or staff might have to remain for observation — maybe something contagious, a scary illness that could overtake the camp.
One day, I opened the door to this room and I saw a tall, skinny boy, about 10, sitting on a bed. He was pale green, like a Martian, with a pointed nose and peaked ears like Mr. Spock. My dad told me to close the door and I did, frightened by the alien apparition I'd seen.
But why was he green I asked my father, and he explained that the boy's skin wasn't really green, it was just the poor lighting in the room that made him look that way.
I never went near that room again.
Being three, and the camp doctor's son, meant that I wasn't a registered camper. I had come along with my father and family and didn't have to be anywhere at any time, which is just the way I liked it, being three, what was the rush?
One day, I walked into the senior boys’ cabin during rest hour after lunch. The big guys were so excited to see me: "Stevie, Stevie, c'mon over here, watcha doin'?"
It felt great to be the center of attention because I was a kid and older people liked me. I kicked off my shoes and started running around the cabin when the counselor came in.
He pointed his thumbs towards the door to tell me to leave, and I put my shoes on the wrong feet and ran out petrified.
The campers said; "Bye Stevie, sorry ya have to go". But what could I do? I'd been ordered out by the counselor.
Now, I realize, that the counselor was enforcing the no visitors’ policy during rest hour and that he was strict on it. As far as this counselor went, not even the three-year-old son of the camp doctor could come in and disrupt quiet time.
I got over it, mainly because I fell in love, with Debbie, a CIT who took a liking to me, maternal-like, and always held my hand during flag-raising in the morning. What a flag it was, with red and white stripes and lots of stars, not like the Canadian flag, which was part Union Jack and part the provincial coat of arms. At three, with Debbie, and the Star Spangled Banner, I felt something special.
The entire two weeks at Camp Tamarack were special, to drive a few hours into the USA and to be in a different country, a different culture, and a different people . . . more similar than different . . . but it's the differences in life that count. Vive la differénce!
"On the road, on the road to Camp Fresh Air, with never a heartache, with never a care!"
Stephen Winbaum is the Communications Coordinator of MySummerCamps.com
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(This post was edited by stephenwinbaum on Aug 17, 2007, 9:10 AM)
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