My Real Memoir
We’d finally arrived at big kid’s camp! Camp Osceola, amid the pines of Southern California’s highest mountains, was amazing. The moment we got off the bus, we were assigned to our cabins. We ran to our new homes, claimed our bunks, chose our group name, and then spelled it out in rocks outside!
My BFF Jeff and I bunked together. We’d had untold numbers of sleepovers, and apparently had adopted an unconscious language unique to us. The next morning, we were rudely awakened by laughter. The other boys were standing around guffawing. Apparently, they told us, Jeff and I had carried on a conversation in our sleep that went something like:
“Hey, Jeff, why buy marble tree?”
“Because plumber.”
“Ah, horse in my shoes.”
“Neato. Got mom with monster hammer?”
“Uh-huh. And twice meatballs.”
“Oh, OK, good, goo. Poot.”
Jeff and I did everything together. Except one. Inspired by endless sky and rocky peaks, I began hungering to commune with the infinite. The YMCA had a voluntary “Ragger” program, a de-militarized equivalent to Boy Scout merit badges. We were invited to make a voluntary vow, something secret between us and God. I decided to stop saying “bad words” I’d adopted in emulation of the “cool kids” I didn’t really want to be like anyway. We were given a colored scarf (“rag”) to wear as a symbol of our vow, and then led blindfolded to a holy place called Raggers Point, where we could sit and talk with God.
I still had no clue how to do that. So I looked at the view for awhile, and then made my oath to stop cussing, or at least say, “I’m sorry” each time I did it. No Monty Python-esque voice boomed out of the sky, “Gee, that’s swell, Mitch!” No cloudy animated finger wrote, “So happy to hear it!” Heck, I’d have even settled for gibberish, like the stuff Jeff mumbled when I asked him questions in my sleep! Nothing. Not even nonsense.
I went for another rag the following summer because I really liked the color, but I eventually learned to feed my hunger for the infinite with things like music, girls, and dreams of fame. Still, the longing never was never satisfied. Because, as it turned out, those things were only big enough for a me-shaped hole. They eventually started to rattle around and finally disappeared altogether into that infinitely larger…
God-shaped hole.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
Mitch Teemley 
YMCA camp in Indiana is one of my favorite childhood memories. 😊
LikeLiked by 2 people
I really like these episodes of memoir, Mitch. BTW, when you were at Osceola I was just down the road at Camp Tahquitz, the Boy Scout camp. Went there first as a camper and later as staff. I taught rowing and canoeing at Jenks Lake.
LikeLiked by 2 people
How cool is that, Steve! (P.S. I read today that Steve Martin went to Osceola as a kid too!)
LikeLiked by 2 people
The closest I ever got to summer camp was Allan Sherman’s ode to Camp Grenada. Thanks, Mitch, for sharing your far more meaningful camp experience.
LikeLiked by 2 people
;>)
LikeLiked by 2 people
Pingback: ReBlogging ‘God, Summer Camp, and Talking in My Sleep’ – Link Below | Relationship Insights by Yernasia Quorelios
Love this! I was a church camp kid. And then a junior counselor. And then a staff counselor, a volunteer camp director, and eventually a program director. Alas, life took me in other directions and I wasn’t able to remain a camp kid forever, but those are some really special memories and so many great moments with God.
LikeLiked by 3 people
I can see why those memories are so special for you, Sarah.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Mitch, I love your memoirs. I grew up going to church camp and then, at age 16, became a C.I.T. (It sounds very cool 😎 ~”Counselor-in-training). By the next summer I had a small group of my own. My sons attended the same camp I did. My youngest got into a fight at camp when he was about 7. He hated being called a “schmidget “ and there was a small boy there who was also being harassed. My little guy stood up for him. “Isn’t that what God wanted him to do?”, I was asked. I knew he was on his way to finding a God-only void. He still works on the delivery!
LikeLiked by 1 person
An unsung hero, Karla! Clearly you did something right in raising him.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aww, thank you, Mitch! 💛 he and his brother are definitely heroes to me!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: The Year I Almost Believed | Mitch Teemley
Camp can be such a meaningful experience! And I have often thought that one of the strongest arguments for the existence of God is that throughout history, humans have reached out for the divine. All those people can’t be wrong…..
LikeLiked by 1 person
I couldn’t agree more, Ann!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I loved this! Summer camp holds many memories.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love reading your stories…so inspiring. I’m glad you found divinity later on😁
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Chioma, I’m glad too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s the little things that means the most. Spending quality time with family and friends!
Amen?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Mitch,
Camp was always full of fun and opportunities to get closer to the Lord. I miss those simple days. In Christ,
Gary
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: The Jesus Lady | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: Summer Treats on Wheels! | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: Headed for Home? Or Headed for Hell? | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: Goodbye, Marilyn | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: Goodbye, Marilyn — Mitch Teemley | Ups Downs Family History
Pingback: Duck and Cover! | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: How I Almost Became a Man of the World at Age 13 | Mitch Teemley
Pingback: JFK, C.S. Lewis, a PE Coach and Me | Mitch Teemley