Holey, moley! Where'd the summer go, huh? One minute, I'm bitching about not getting an invitation to the Royal Wedding and the next I'm bitching about not getting invited to Kim Kardashian's big shindig.
The lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer are finally drawing to a close. This week I actually have to go back to work; I'm not complaining, mind you. It's just that I won't have as much time to read/comment on your posts. While, at the same time, complaining to Mrs. Penwasser that I didn't have enough time to cut the grass, prepare dinner, wash the car, do the laundry, make the bed, fix the garbage disposal, water the garden, arrange my socks, flush the toilet, or bathe.
Anyway, the life of Riley (gotta meet that guy) comes to an end very shortly. But, I first thought I'd take us all back to those halcyon (I love that word!) days when it wasn't my wife who accused me of being a slug, but my mom.
Whaddya say? Let's go to camp!
|Seriously, I'm going to save up |
and buy me that mustache
In the 19th Century, a man named Henry David Thoreau spent two years at Walden Pond in Massachusetts.
|Shoulda ate more than nuts |
and berries, Henry
His rhapsodic description of this idyllic wooded site sparked a hopeful glimmer amidst the gloom of the early Industrial Revolution. Writing wistfully of the glories of nature, he enthralled those who would seek bliss among the trees.
Evidently, he’d never been to Quinnamuc Wilderness Reservation.
|Archery range. |
Ha, ha. Very funny.
Nestled in the wilderness of northwestern Connecticut, Quinnamuc was a hundred acre enclave catering to the youth of the Archdiocese of Bridgeport. Promoted as a refuge from the evils of the secular world, it drew heavily upon tenets of the Catholic faith. This, I suppose, explained the Simon Peter Fishing Lodge and the holy water fonts at the Saint Sebastian Archery Range.
Although, I think the Joan of Arc Campfire Sing-A-Longs were in poor taste.
Each year, as July slid sleepily toward August, Spags and I joined likeminded lemmings from St. Stanislaus for a week basking in the aforementioned glories of nature juxtaposed against a panorama of ecclesiastic rusticism.
That we had about as much fun as Jesuits at a booby bar was beside the point.
The first day was the worst as this when we actually came face-to-face with The Great Outdoors.
And Father Karl. On loan to the camp, he was our “Senior Activities Programmer” or SAP.
The SAP remained with his group throughout their stay. He coordinated activities schedules and maintained liaison with the camp staff. He was also there to help us develop an appreciation for the wonders of the natural world and ministered to us in all crises of faith or bedwetting.
|Could someone close the damn door!?|
Plus, he kept us from using frogs as wiffleballs and tossing firecrackers into the latrines.
“Great, now my summer is complete.” Spags whispered crankily as Father Karl, nattily dressed in flannel shirt and baggy khaki shorts, bade us welcome.
“Ah, Al,” Father Karl smirked, “good to see you. I thought I heard your father’s car at the camp entrance."
While Father Karl greeted the rest of our group, we glumly scanned the campsite. It slowly dawned on us that we had once more made a horrible mistake. Over the past year, we’d forgotten how much we hated this place.
However, since my father barely slowed down as he pushed us from the car, we knew we were stuck.
As legions of mosquitoes saw “Open For Business” on my forearms, Father Karl cheerily announced that it was time to head to the Fishes and Loaves Mess Hall for supper.
“Because,” he breezily said, “the Lord loves a healthy appetite!”
As I sourly looked at a campsite which would make a Spartan call the ACLU, I decided the Lord wasn’t too fond of electricity, though.
To be continued....