Category: Personal Essays

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A Good Man Is Hard to Find

 My daughter called home in a panic over Memorial Day weekend. Her car wouldn’t start, and she was stranded up in the Texas Hill Country five hours from home. My husband’s first thought was to jump in his car and drive to her rescue. I calmly reminded him that we have roadside assistance through our auto insurance company, so it really wasn’t necessary for him to go anywhere.

After calling and verifying that someone from roadside assistance was indeed available and could be at our daughter’s location in about 20 minutes, my humbled spouse called our daughter back to let her know that help was on its way. Everything worked out for the best, and she was back at her job as a summer camp counselor about an hour later.

Déjà vu

 Her situation brought to mind a memory of a similar experience I had back in 1989 when I was working as a summer counselor for the same camp.

Every counselor is allowed specific afternoons and evenings off from the camp’s grounds to go into town and grab something to eat; to do laundry at the local washateria, The Soap Opera; and to blow off steam. If you work both summer terms, you are allowed to take an entire 24 hours off during each of the four-week terms. Your “24” is like a micro-R&R. If you plan right, you can make it into San Antonio or Austin meet up with friends, have some fun, and spend the night in something other than a twin bunk bed.

In 1989, I was dating my future husband. For my “24,” I made plans to meet him in Austin and do some sight seeing. Although I am a native Texan, I had never toured the state capitol and thought it would be fun to do that.

After spending the night in Austin, I drove to the capitol building with my then boyfriend. We marveled at the architecture of the capitol dome, walked the halls, viewed the various artifacts on display, and acted like tourists. Then we headed to a local Tex-Mex establishment, Chuy’s.

Back then, only one Chuy’s existed. It’s still there, and the food and margaritas are still awesome. The restaurant is actually an old house. Its exterior is painted in pastel colors. When you walk in, you’re greeted by a shrine to Elvis. The floors are multicolored linoleum tiles, the tables and vinyl booths are straight out of the 1950s, and garish, hand-painted fish hang from the ceiling in every room.

Beware the Banditos!

After we were seated, we ordered margaritas and an appetizer called Banditos – deep fried jalapeno peppers stuffed with cheese – and proceeded to peruse the menu.

For some reason – probably the strength of the margaritas – I couldn’t help but laugh at the name. When I graduated from college in 1986, I traveled to the Club Med resort at Playa Blanca. When I booked my travel arrangements, I was warned that I would most likely not be able to get a taxi to take me from the Puerto Vallarta airport to the resort because of several recent attacks on tourists by Mexican banditos. (Ultimately, I was met at the airport by a Club Med employee, placed on an old, rickety school bus, and driven to the resort – two hours away – alone in the dark. But that’s another story.)

I truly thought that the Club Med agent was pulling my leg. All I could think about was the old Fritos jingle, which was sung by a dancing cartoon bandito; of course, I had to sing it aloud for boyfriend!

Ai, Yi, Yi, Yi

I am the Frito Bandito

 I like Fritos corn chips

 I love them I do

I want Fritos corn chips

I’ll get them from you!

Ai, Yi, Yi, Yi

Oh I am the Frito Bandito

Give me Fritos corn chips           

And I’ll be your friend

The Frito Bandito you must not offend.

“Now, boys and girls,” he said, “you are Frito Banditos, too!”

Yes, I am well aware that this type of information is taking up space in my brain that I could use for more important things like my husband’s cell phone number.  And, today, I would never dream of singing the Frito Bandito jingle for fear of offending someone.   But that was then, and it’s safe to say my  judgment was a little impaired at the time.

Time to Go

An enchilada and a taco later, we left the restaurant. My boyfriend had picked me up at my hotel in his car, so he had to drive me back to my hotel so I could pick up my mini Toyota pick up truck (it really did look like a toy) and drive back to camp.

I was running late, so I didn’t stop to buy gas on the way out of Austin. I figured I had enough fuel to last me the two-hour drive back to Kerrville. I have never been very good with math.  My estimate was wrong:   I ran out of gas somewhere between Fredericksburg and Kerrville.

Uh-Oh

I did manage to make it to a lonely CITGO station on the side of the road. I pulled up to the pumps, relieved to find that the station was open and had an attendant on duty (this was well before the days when you could just slide your credit or debit card at the pump and pay without human assistance). I reached into my purse to get my wallet and my CITGO card only to discover that my wallet was gone!

It was at that moment that my formerly wonderful day turned to dog poop.

After my initial panic subsided, I remembered that I had taken my wallet out of my purse and placed it into the glove compartment of my boyfriend’s car before heading into the state capitol building. Yes, I realize now that it was a stupid thing to do, and for the life of me, I cannot recall why I thought someone would mug me while I was inside with my boyfriend, who is 6’ 7”.

I did, however, have $5 worth of postage stamps in my bag.

“Great!” I thought to myself. “I’ll barter these for $5 in gas. That will be enough to get me back to camp. I can then borrow some money for additional gas from a fellow counselor and fill up on my next afternoon off!”

And That’s How I Met Curtis Green

 I got out of my truck and went inside the station. I explained my situation to the attendant. He told me that he couldn’t trade gasoline for postage stamps. He would, however, be happy to loan me enough money to put enough gas in my tank to get back to Kerrville.

I was so grateful! I thanked him profusely for his kindness and then asked, “Could I also borrow 50 cents for a can of Sprite? (This was an old fashioned gas station, which sold paper road maps, engine belts, and oil. It was not fully stocked like the gas stations of today.)

The gentleman (he truly was a gentleman) said, “Yes, of course!” before handing me some change for the Coke machine.

I asked him to write down his name and address on a piece of paper and promised him that I would send him the money within a week. He said he wasn’t worried about it and sent me on my way.

I still remember his name: Curtis Green.

Safe and Sound

I finally got back to camp. I was late, and the Camp Director was standing outside in front of the dining hall waiting for me. I explained what had happened and why I had not been able to call and let everyone know I was on my way. I knew I was in trouble.

“That’s a great story,” she said. “I tell you what – I won’t dock you any time off for being late, but you have to stand up and tell everyone in the dining hall what happened to you after dinner.”

“That sounds fair,” I replied, before heading into the dining hall.

Fortunately, one of the divisions was out on its assigned overnight activity, so the entire camp wasn’t there to hear my story, saving me some embarrassment.  But camp being camp, the story got around.

Later that night, I was able to use the pay phone in the Counselor’s Lounge (this was well before the advent of cell phones) to call my boyfriend collect and explain what had happened. He promised to send me my wallet the next day.

My Care Package Arrives

A few days later, I received an enormous box emblazoned with a Dos Equis logo – it was obviously from a liquor store. Nothing at all embarrassing about that, right?

Inside, I found a virtual treasure trove. My boyfriend had mailed me my wallet along with enough Jolly Rancher candy and other junk food to keep all of the counseling staff on a sugar high for a week! He had also enclosed a handwritten letter, which I still have today. On the back of the envelope, he had written the following message: “Jerry Jeff Walker said he would quit drinking until the Ayatolla died. No one has seen Jerry Jeff for a week.”

This was all news to me. We didn’t have the Internet, laptops, or cell phones back then, and there were no televisions or radios on camp. It had been this way since I was a camper. I still remember standing on the front lawn with my parents, my fellow campers, and their parents as we listened to Richard Nixon give his resignation speech to the nation over the camp’s PA system – it was August 8, 1974. The parents were there to take us all home.

I don’t know if the Jerry Jeff Walker anecdote is true, but it was very funny to all of us at the time.

I Made Good On My Promise

On my next afternoon off, my friend and I went into town, where we bought Pop Tarts and picked up a $5 money order, which I mailed to Curtis Green at the address he had provided.

I never heard from Mr. Green again, but Houston is the world’s biggest small town. The last time I told this story at a party, one of the women listening said, “I know Curtis Green! He’s my cousin.”

So, you see, a good man isn’t that hard to find after all.

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Halcyon Days: The Wonderful Summer I Spent Teaching Canoeing on the Guadalupe River

When I was growing up, I was given a tremendous gift: for one month every summer I got to go away to camp. The camp I attended, Heart of the Hills Camp for Girls, is located about four miles from Hunt, a tiny town in the Texas Hill Country. It was only four hours by car from my parents’ home in Houston, Texas, but it was a world away. My fondest childhood memories are of swimming in and canoeing on the South Fork of the Guadalupe River, a clear yet deeply green body of water that is as cold as that beer your dad used to get out of the fridge after mowing the lawn.

I was a camper for five years. After my first semester of graduate school, which nearly killed me, a friend asked me where in my life I had been happiest. The answer was immediate: CAMP!   The friend suggested that maybe that was where I should go when the spring semester ended to take a much-needed respite from the rigors of the ivory tower.

I applied for a job as a counselor and was promptly accepted; one of my childhood counselors now owned the camp with her parents and was happy to have me back. As I had many years before, I went out and bought a trunk, dress white shorts, white t-shirts, and white Keds tennis shoes for Sunday; 10 pairs of socks; 10 pair of underwear, 5 bras, two pair of pajamas; two bathing suits; the requisite number of pairs of running shorts; a pair of running shoes; twin sized bedding; 2 beach towels, a laundry bag; stationery; and stamps. I was ready to go – or so I thought.

All counselors were required to spend a week of orientation and training for their assigned classes before camp started.

Counselor orientation was a lot like I imagine boot camp would have been had I been so inclined. We rose to a recording of a bugle. We went to flag raising before breakfast and said the Pledge of Allegiance with our right hands over our hearts. We ate family style in a large dining hall, slept in bunk beds, and turned in at 10:00pm to the sound of Taps blaring from the loudspeaker. It was great! Nothing had changed from when I was a girl.

I had been selected to head up the canoeing department, so I spent orientation earning my Red Cross certification as an advanced canoeing instructor. During the day, I spent my time putting canoes into the water, paddling up and down the river, swamping canoes and then struggling to climb back into the righted craft, and putting the canoes and paddles back into their racks before heading off to classroom style lectures on camp traditions, rules of etiquette, motivation, personal speaking, and caring for children before doing it all over again.

By the end of the third day, thanks to canoeing class, I had bruises the size of small dogs on my thighs and forearms. It sounds awful, but it was the most fun I had in years. I spent my days in the sun on and in the cool waters of the Guadalupe. I spent my afternoons and evenings making new friends. I had no papers to write, no papers to grade, no errands to run. I didn’t have to go to the grocery store, pay rent, or clean my apartment.

For both terms that summer, I taught five canoeing classes Monday through Saturday.  My favorite classes were in the morning before the heat of the day set in and the campers were rested and ready to go on an adventure. Very few cars went by the river during the day, so you could hear the birds singing, the frogs chirping, the voices of the waterfront staff and their campers in swim classes, and the rush of the rapids upriver.

Early on, we taught the girls various basic strokes from the safety of the canoe dock. Kneeling on bright red square life jackets, the girls learned how to paddle forward, how to paddle backward (you have to lean a little to do it right), how to draw water towards themselves with the paddle, and how to push water away from themselves with the paddle.

By the end of the first week, the girls were tired of the canoe dock and were ready to get into the canoes and go somewhere!

At the start of each class, the canoes had to be taken down from their holding racks. My co-counselor and I would pair off the girls for that day’s lesson before taking the long, cool aluminum canoes off their racks. We’d each pick boat up by the gunnels at the midpoint of the canoe and carry it to the water, always mindful not to slip on the mossy concrete of the dock. Once there, we’d flip the canoe upright and place it in the water before helping a pair of campers climb into it.

Getting into a canoe can be a dangerous business; we were always very strict about canoe discipline. My co-counselor would hold the stern of the canoe tightly against the rubber lining the dock while I held the canoe tightly at the bow. We would watch intently as, one at a time, each girl stepped lightly into the center of the canoe boat before bending her knees slightly and carefully walking slowly backwards to her assigned spot in the stern or forwards to her assigned spot in the bow.

This can be tricky when you are wearing a bulky life vest, but we followed the safety rules to the letter. No one got access to the dock until she had selected a vest off the long cypress racks and had picked up a paddle.

After both girls were seated in their positions, my co-counselor and would give the canoe a gentle push to get it out into the water and underway. As the saying goes, lather, rinse, repeat. We would repeat the exact same steps until every camper was in a canoe.

My co-counselor and I would join the campers in the last two canoes launched. We were always very conscious of gross weight and selected our crews accordingly, classes as a passenger in each girl’s canoe. We’d each lower ourselves into the center of the last two boats and sit cross-legged on its cool, smooth bottom. One camper was assigned to paddle up the river on the right side of the boat while the other paddled on the left. They would switch positions and sides on the way back.

After leaving the safety of the dock, the girls would turn their canoes around and paddle down river to Rat’s Bridge, a low river crossing that was essentially a driveway constructed across the river. When the girls got to within about three feet of the bridge, my co counselor and I would walk them through the steps necessary to turn the boat parallel with the bridge. Then they would use the draw stroke they had learned to move the boat to the side of the bridge. Once there, Id climb out of the canoe and hold it tightly to the side of the road while the girls clambered out.

The water was very shallow on either side of Rat’s Bridge and so clear that you could see actual dinosaur tracks left millions of years ago in the soft limestone. We’d sit and watch minnows swim about and water spiders scamper across the water in the shade of the giant cypress trees. I’d help the girls select the flattest pebbles they could find and we’d practice skipping them across the glass like surface of the water. After a few minutes of resting and playing around, it was time to head back to the canoe dock.

Once again, I’d hold the gunnels of the canoe tightly against the worn concrete of the road while the girls entered the canoe one at a time. The camper who sat in the bow on the way over to Rat’s Bridge paddled in the stern on the way back. She would enter the canoe just at the center next to me, placing her hand on my back for support before carefully placing first one foot and then the next on the silver rivets in the center of the canoe. Then, holding onto the gunnels, one hand on each side, she would carefully walk backward to her position in the stern while I watched, a mother with her cubs.

Then it was the partner’s turn. She would perform the same, slow ballet of short careful steps up the spine of the canoe until she reached her spot in the front.

Once the girls were in their spots, I would hand each of them her paddle before carefully climbing into the center of the canoe. I’d use my paddle to push us away from the bridge and then walk the campers through the steps of turning the canoe: one girl would make a wide sweeping motion with her paddle from bow to stern on her left while the other girl used her paddle to make a wide sweeping motion from stern to bow. Tiny whirlpools, created by the motion of the paddles in the water, spun harmlessly with each stroke.

Once we were back in the middle of the river, we’d head back, each girl reaching forward with her paddle to dip it into the clean, clear water before pulling it back, taking it out of the water, feathering, and then cocking the paddle for the next stroke.

The girls always preferred to ride in the stern of the canoe because the person in the stern is responsible for steering, making small corrections with her paddle to ensure that her boat did not end up on a crash course with the bank.

All too soon we would arrive back at the canoe dock, where the girls would both perform draws on the far side of the canoe to push us sideways to the dock.

When the canoe was snug against the wood and rubber lined dock, I would get out of the boat and once again hold it steady while each girl carefully exited the canoe. No one was ever allowed to simply stand up, turn, and hop onto the dock. That spelled catastrophe. I’m proud to say that no one slipped and cracked her head open or slipped and fell into the river when getting in and out of a canoe on my watch!

I’d teach two classes in the morning before lunch. After lunch, to beat the Texas heat, all campers took naps during siesta. It was a very civilized way to live. After siesta, the bugle would sound and the campers would stream out of their cabins to the Village, where they would pick up the afternoon snack, a piece of fresh fruit, a granola bar, or even on special days, a Blue Bell ice cream treat.

I’d head down to the waterfront, walking through the long, high concrete culvert that had been installed under the highway many years before I was born to provide girls safe access to the river, which was located across the two-lane highway from the campgrounds.

The great great grandchildren of the Daddy Long Leg spiders who had lined the roof of the tunnel when I was a girl waited silently as the campers, rested and with veins awash with sugar, ran through the tunnel. It was a tradition to scream the entire way, although no one was really afraid of those spiders. I often ran my hand along the cold, rough wall; it never ceased to amaze me how cool it was inside that dark but safe space. After a few steps, you could see it: the vivid green waters of the Guadalupe shaded by the century old cypress trees. It was like a siren’s call.

Once out of the tunnel, I’d turn left, walk down the concrete path lined with cypress branch guardrails, and head back to the canoe dock, where I’d run through the morning’s lesson with the afternoon class. It was a wonderful time.

Last summer, I’m proud to say, my daughter spent her first year as a counselor at Heart of the Hills. She went to camp for seven summers; my sojourn was limited to five. She was an Archery instructor, a sport she excelled in as a camper. Before she left, I told her, “You’ll work harder than you ever have and have more fun than you can imagine.” And you know what? She did. She signed her contract for 2017 before packing her car to head back home.

NOTE:  This was previously published on the Heart O’ the Hills Camp blog as “Canoeing Days Seem to Be a Dream <3” at http://hohcamp.com/2017/05/02/canoeing-days-seem-to-be-a-dream/

My daughter is enjoying her second year as a counselor this summer; this marks her tenth year (!) at Heart O’ the Hills.

© Leslie Kennedy Adams 2016