... ..gay valley ....July 6, 2005   Forty years ago, I attended summer camp in North Carolina.  The camp was called Gay Valley.  The name of the camp failed to tip me off.  Neither did the realization that lanyard-weaving would be the most athletic and competitive activity offered.  I am reminded of the experience as I slide beneath the surface of my backyard swimming pool.  The climax of the summer session at Gay Valley was a water ballet.  The year I attended--the only year I attended--we performed an aquatic adaptation of Mary Poppins.  During a number called Chim-Chim-Cheree, I remember trembling in the chorus line of children that encircled the stone swimming pool filled with dark, mountain-cold water.  We stood there, music crackling from a portable record player, our sides facing the pool, our runny noses parallel to it.  On cue, we raised our arms above our heads, one hand resting on the other.  In succession, we arched our bluish bodies sideways and dove into the pool like toppling dominoes.  Once in the frigid, salamander-infested water, we completed a series of choreographed water movements that ended long before the music stopped.  The performance was acknowledged by the polite applause of counselors, a few tipsy parents, and some forest animals.  I hated every summer camp my parents sent me to, but I cannot remember voicing an objection.  The experience at Gay Valley scarred me.  Deeply.  But I can still tightly weave a cat-o'-nine-tails and, if I ever run across those sadistic camp counselors, I shall whip them. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..3d quarter index..|..next

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