(This
essay by Alan Stamm appeared with his others on the Catskills Institute website,
but the link to it has become inactive.)
Innocence recalled
Our
memories of dew-glossed, sun-dappled mountain mornings seemed even more distant,
and more cherished, after
Can it be that it was all so simple
then?
Or
has time rewritten every line?
Childish naivete, of course, painted our world in bright colors even in an era of Cold War tensions, fallout shelters and comical classroom air raid drills. But can summer campers now have the same sheltered sense -- realistic or not -- of security, protection, order, permanence?
We now
recognize how and why our '50s and '60s vision was filtered through the gauzy
lens of parents, teachers and camp directors with fresh memories of dark,
dangerous years. Many had been uprooted, losing homes, family members and
innocence.
For
this first-generation American, camp summers began just a dozen years after the
end of World War II, when “camp” meant something else entirely.
Survivors’
efforts to shield our generation blended with attempts to convey the importance
of patriotism, the value of democracy, the need to embrace our American-ness.
They had brutal reasons not to take this land’s benefits and safeguards for
granted, and they sure didn’t want us to.
Never
was this clearer than at the Catskills flagpole rituals, which resonate more
meaningfully now amid our national trauma.
While
appreciating the words and messages of God
Bless America and the Pledge of Allegiance with fresh relevance, we can
imagine that Stern Summer Camp directors Ellen and Gerry Bucky considered the
morning and dusk ceremonies as vital as breakfast and dinner -- nourishment for
young Americans who had reason to savor the land of the free and the home of the
brave, even if we didn't grasp why yet.
In
the secular atmosphere of our camp, where prayers were heard only at Sabbath
services, another form of worship provided bookends to the daily routines of
recreation, arts and crafts, athletics, letter-writing, musical rehearsals and
exploring. The flag that waved on a hill in front of the pool -- a banner
raised, lowered and folded by campers of all ages -- represented a new start for
the relatively recent immigrants who were our directors and parents.
It represented, theoretically, liberty and justice for all . . . one
nation, from sea to shining sea.
We
endured, mostly, these daily routines and refrains with varying degrees of
impatience or memorization. How less hokey they seemed during the post-9/11
months of lapel flags, Fourth of July-style street scenes, taped-up newspaper
flags, red, white and blue TV logos .
. . Old Glory everywhere from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans.
How
comforting, during that autumn of angst, to know the words to our anthems and to
recall singing them in the Catskills, as well as at school.
Gradually, lastingly, we absorbed lessons of pride in our birthplace, our patriotic songs and our flag (“don’t let it drop”) – feelings that swell anew for reasons no one could have imagined during those peaceful Pine Bush months at our summer home, sweet home.