Camp Osceola: cabin, T-shirt, campfire, Ragger logo, Ragger’s Point
My Real Memoir: God, Summer Camp, and Talking in My Sleep
I was ten, and finally old enough for a big-kids camp in a real forest, rather than a pretend one in the city next door. And Camp Osceola, high in the San Bernardino Mountains, did not disappoint.
The moment we got off the bus, we were assigned to our cabins. We invaded them like ants, dibs-ing our bunks, choosing our group name, “The Shaggy Dogs,” and spelling it in the rocks outside!
BFF Jeff and I bunked together, of course. We’d had untold numbers of sleepovers, and apparently 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:
“Jeff, why buy marble tree?”
“Because plumber, Mitch.”
“Ah, horse in my shoes.”
“Neato. Got mom with monster hammer?”
“Uh-huh. And twice meatballs.”
I Was in Heaven
Or closer to it anyway. We hiked, swam, rode horses, built “pine derby” roadsters, and absorbed surreptitious moral lessons. Some stuck, some didn’t. When the mess hall counselor told us it was wrong to ramp our silverware against our plates, I asked, “Why?” “Because, um…” (he paused to invent an answer) “…ants could walk right up onto them!”
That one didn’t stick.
But this one did: On an overnight hike up “Old Greyback” (Mt. San Gorgonio), Southern California’s highest peak, the rule was, “We hike as a group. Everyone gets to the top—together.
I still believe in that rule.
Truths were snuck in during campfires too. One modern parable particularly impacted me:
A rich man hires a struggling architect to build a lavish house, no expenses spared. Resentful of the man’s wealth, the architect uses the flimsiest of materials and cuts every possible corner, basically constructing a beautiful pile of junk. When he’s finished, the rich man praises his work, unhesitatingly pays him, and then says, “Because I appreciate your integrity, my friend, I’m giving you this house!”
As I Pondered the Allegory…
…it grew into an inaudible whisper telling me I could be better, could be something more. My brief encounter with religion the year before had been flavorless. But here amid the cloud-piercing peaks and star-spattered skies, that whisper grew into an indescribable hunger.
Osceola had a voluntary “Ragger” program, a de-militarized equivalent to Boy Scout merit badges. We were invited to make a voluntary vow, something between us and God alone. Jeff declined. But I decided to stop saying the “bad words” I’d adopted in emulation of cool kids I didn’t actually like. I was given a blue scarf (“rag”) to wear as a symbol of my vow, and then led blindfolded to a place called Raggers Point, where I could sit and pray.
Which I had no clue how to do. I watched the clouds for a while, and then promised to stop cussing, or at least say, “I’m sorry” each time I did. No Charlton Heston voice boomed, “Gee, that’s swell, Mitch!” No almighty finger wrote, “Happy to hear that!” Heck, I’d have settled for gibberish like the stuff Jeff and I mumbled in our sleep. But there was nothing—only that hungry whisper.
I was proud of my (short-lived) curselessness, but ticked at God for skipping the ceremony. And so I eventually learned to feed that hunger with other things, like girls, and music, and dreams of fame.
