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Dear Couchie:
As you probably know, I have been writing to your father over the last three or four years. It's fair to say that we've become pen pals. In 1999, the Chief even answered one of these letters.
Since 1962, I have been itching to tell you about an incident which both scared and surprised me. It involved you. No, it is not about a dressing down you administered because of some inter camp misdemeanour I had committed. Actually, it was a wake-up call that changed my whole perspective on you.
In 1961, when I was a 19 year old counsellor, Jack Eastaugh was assigned as my CIT for my cabin's trip. Publically, my cabin group and I accepted the assignment with good grace. Our private reaction is best kept private even today. As the trip unfolded, we realized how wrong we had been in our initial assessment of Jack.
My 1962 cabin group included four or five boys who had been in my care the summer before. They were a tight group and we all knew one another's limits. They also remembered the summer of 1961.
Now you're probably wondering why I'm talking about 1961 and Jack Eastaugh. That's because, in Statten wisdom, I received another CIT assignment in 1962 which set my cabin group to wondering. Your son John was to be my CIT for a twelve day trip. What, my cabin asked, did you do to earn camp brass last year and an owner's son this? Crossed my mind too.
As with Jack Eastaugh, the actual experience with John was far different than the anticipation. John was game and funny and willing and very, very woodsy. The group regelled and included John in its fabric over our 12 days together.
We had a food drop at Brent where there was a telephone. John made a call and reported that you had invited us en masse to spend the last night of our trip with you and Dr. Harry at Nominigan. And, we would be fed a standing rib roast. All right!
After the dinner date was made, the weather turned on us. We got wet and cold and then the wind shifted to the west and blew out the clouds. But, we had been slowed up by the weather and the need to take shelter.
The morning of beef day dawned bright and windy. We had a problem. We were well north of Canoe Lake. Even if we pushed very hard, we would be obliged to paddle south through Canoe Lake between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m. on the last night of our trip. We had visions of being cornered by Jean Buchanan in the Imp or worse by Dr. Tay in the Zaragozanza. Even worse, we imagined that our passage through Canoe Lake so late in the day could put you in a bad position and, ultimately, jeopardize our roast beef. At least we had our priorities straight.
As fate would have it, our three canoes slipped though Canoe Lake as the camps went in for supper. We paddled behind Little Wap unnoticed - no mean feat in three orange canoes.
When we arrived at Nominigan, you and Dr. Harry welcomed your son warmly and extended the same affection to the rest of us. If we looked as ratty as I think we did, you didn't let it show.
You and the Doctor presided over one of the best dinners I ever ate. The beef was tender and it was rare. We told stories and we laughed and we shared our adventure with the two of you and, in the process met the side of you that gave wing to the bluebird that was your Camp.
That night, we all had private rooms and slept on real mattresses. We dreamed of Yorkshire pudding and sweet brown gravy.
We left you both at a respectable hour late the next morning and paddled into Camp after lunch with the usual bravado of a returning trip. Only those with an educated eye could tell we were slightly rounder in the belly than the other returning trippers. But, Couchie, no one could detect the shift in all of us for having spent time "en famille" and experienced what few of our contemporaries ever did.
Make no mistake, Couchie, we still had a healthy fear. But after Nominigan, it was leavened with affection - a lot of it.
An admirer,
Bill |