“And don’t forget to come back some day” “For you girls belong to Hagan, and Hagan belongs to you.” Remember
Remember was the song that counselors sang to the departing campers before breakfast on a change over Saturday. The CITs responded with a rousing rendition of “I don’t wanna go home . . . .” The symbiosis between the place and the girls who attended Hagan and between the campers who grew up to be counselors will never be taken away, although we can’t go back thanks to an ill-advised government idea to provide drinking water for Greater New York City, which never came to be. The place we called our summer home with cabins and waterfront is gone, lost forever. It remains only in the minds of the girls who learned to love it and in their eternal relationships with one another. Hagan was more than a place. It was a state of being.
I first heard of Camp Hagan from my parents. My mother was among the first campers to attend Camp Hagan, Shawnee-on-the-Delaware in 1937 when the camp opened. We sang a song about Peter Paul Hagan, who donated the land to create a girls camp. My father attended the brother camp, Camp Miller, for a number of years. My three brothers, all younger than I, attended Miller for a few years, but they were Boy Scouts who went off to become Eagle Scouts. The camps on the river never held a place in the hearts of my parents or brothers as it did in mine. I never truly understood why it meant so much to me until decades later, but I always knew that it was the dearest place on Earth.
I was nine years old (1959) when I first went to Camp Hagan. In customary fashion, my parents had a huge argument the morning before we left our home in Oley, PA, to drive up to camp. Consequently, my parents each drove in his or her own car. My father, with me in his car, was in the lead and drove into the parking lot at Camp Ministerium (Mini) on River Road. I was disappointed with what I saw. My mother soon pulled in behind us to shout that this is not Hagan. Back on to River Road we went and soon pulled off onto a dirt road bounded by lush trees, bushes, and vines. Suddenly on the right, the land opened up to beautiful playing fields bound by brown cabins with white trim and green roofs. I instantly was smitten. This was the place I would call my summer home for the next twelve years. The camp director, Fran, greeted us on the gravel, tree-lined driveway and told us that I would be a camper in Junior 3. I was just a two-week camper that year, but I could not wait to return the following summer.
Before I had a chance to return, however, I overheard my parents and grandparents talking about a dam project that was to flood the Delaware River watershed, including the Lutheran Church camps. I was terrified at the age of ten as to what would happen in the future. During my early teens I didn’t hear much more about the dam project. It was only when I was a CIT that the reality that Hagan was to be moved from the river set in. The Lutheran synod had acquired land at Bear Creek and plans were underway to move Hagan, Mini, and Miller to that location.
I did go back to Hagan in 1960 and one brother went to Miller. We saw one another during brother-sister hikes that were organized every Wednesday. I was a camper in Intermediate 6 and the year after that in Intermediate 8. Every year that I returned I did so with greater anticipation, anticipation of the things that I would do and the activities and customs that were unique to Hagan: play and dress uniforms, ties, the way to make a bed and put folds toward the door. We took a swimming test–in the Delaware River–and our ability to swim was designated by the color of our bathing caps: white star, white, white advance, red, yellow, blue, and green. Hardly anyone made green camp, but there were a few outstanding swimmers among us. In addition to the activities, I looked forward to seeing campers and counselors I’d met in prior years. How disappointing it was to learn that a favorite counselor had not returned.
I can still visualize the entire camp from all angles, especially from the spot where I spent rest hour or awoke early in the morning. During my JC year, I often awoke to see the mist rise from the river. The JC tent, or Bee Hive, was at the top of the steep bank overlooking the river. I can still smell the pine trees, the dry wood of the old cabins, the arts and crafts materials, and the distinctive fragrance of the dining hall. The well water had a unique taste that took me a day or two to like. The river had its own smell, but it was clean. When we left the water there was no lingering chemical smell or stickiness. We washed our hair in the river; mine has never been so clean. (Of course, when my mom was a camper, there was the smell of horse, too.) Did I mention that there was no electricity or hot water in the cabins? One toilet for twelve people? No screens on the old-fashioned shutter windows? No matter; we loved it.
I experienced many firsts at Hagan from seeing my first shooting star to smoking my first cigarette. I also learned many things: how to build a teepee or log cabin campfire, the difference between poison ivy and Virginia creeper, the rules and skills of many sports and games, how to make a lanyard, and how to swim. Swimming was my main thing, as I passed both junior and senior life saving in the river and went on to become an aquatics counselor. And we were competitive in all things from inspection scores, to entertainment skits, to tournaments. And it was all right to be competitive. We always cheered the other team. And we sang, morning, noon, and night. We had a song for every occasion. Because we went to vespers and church on Sunday, we sang hymns from the old blue hymnals, most often in multipart harmony. Angelic voices.
The structure and the predictability of a summer at Hagan was invaluable to me emotionally. As I alluded before, life was not so stable at home. At Hagan the only surprises were an evening swim or an ice cream treat, and the schedule never changed unless commanded by a thunder storm. Long after my last days as a counselor, I learned that other girls found the same type of security at Hagan.
Hagan was wonderful because it was about us girls. We didn’t have to defer to any boys or men. Several of the camp directors were married, and I remember lunch on the first Saturday of my second year when the husband, who was the co-director, got up to make announcements. I thought to my little self, why is he here. Hagan is for girls. We did everything for ourselves. We were physically strong because we had to be. We carried athletic equipment, hiked with packs for miles, and carried canoes up the long stairs from the waterfront. There was no gender inequality or a glass ceiling.
By my fourth summer as a camper, I was on the senior side of the campus. I started in Senior 1 and progressed to Senior 4, 6, and 8. It wasn’t until I was in Senior 8 that I was more than a two- week camper. I was allowed to attend Hagan for a month when I was fifteen so that I could earn my life saving badge. I managed to earn the badge, but in the process, I got so much more because I stayed for a month. I met the most incredible girls and renewed friendships and had many leadership opportunities. I was encouraged to apply to be a CIT, but my parents said “no.” Money was tight. My time in Senior 8 ended during the middle of the camping season. About a week after I got home, the phone rang. Some of my friends managed to get to the phone in the kitchen to talk to me. Something about that call helped my mother to understand that maybe I should be permitted to apply to be a CIT. I applied and was accepted. Thanks to help from my grandfather, I was a CIT and then moved on to be a JC and in seriatim counselor in Intermediate 9, Senior 5, and Senior 7. Life was good as a counselor. I was an overgrown camper teaching younger girls to love Hagan and how to swim. But Hagan as a place for girls began to change toward the end of my Hagan life.
Plans for the move to Bear Creek continued. When I was a CIT, we spent two weekends visiting the future home of the river camps. The schedule at Hagan also changed. Until the late 1960s, campers came and went on Saturday. Counselors had a day off every week. (When they were absent, CITs and JCs filled in for them.) The change resulted in campers going home on Saturday, and new campers arriving on Sunday. Campers who were staying on were supervised as a group. Counselors were off from Saturday until Sunday. The same change took place at Miller. The hitch, to me, was that the campers at Miller and Hagan were brought together for the overnight — and a Miller counselor was in charge! We Hagan women were not longer in charge of ourselves.
External forces were at work as well. The federal government was buying up the property along the Delaware River north of Shawnee. Residents had left their beautiful stone summer homes and squatters had moved into some of them. Miller was the first river camp to go. In 1970, it was announced that in 1971 Miller and Hagan would be together as one on the Hagan campus. I decided not to return to Hagan after 1970. What would happen to “don’t forget to come back some day”?
I never returned while Miller and Hagan were together on the river. I went to a reunion of my mother’s camp friends. I kept in touch with some of my camp counselors and friends, one of them was maid of honor in my first wedding. I was lucky someone found me and informed me of a camp reunion about five years ago. I went some-what hesitantly not knowing what it would be like to see people whom I had not seen for forty years. Tears flowed. We loved one another still and had so many memories to share. I’ve continued to attend biannual reunions and more. We laughed and cried and had such good times remembering, taking another canoe trip, singing around a campfire, and eating s’mores. Last fall I reconnected with a number of women who were in my CIT group. We could finally discuss how terrible our CIT head was and why. It was something we never discussed or were able to acknowledge at camp. I’ve also reconnected to the woman who is just about the best person anyone could have as a friend. I am at peace having reconnected to her. She and her family were so wonderful to me; it’s as if they knew what I was lacking.
So maybe I can’t literally go back some day to the wide playing fields surrounded by pine trees, a mountain, and a river. The place is devoid of the buildings that were once there. The outdoor chapel altar remains and one can find the trees that surrounded the council fire. But I can go back to the people who mean so much to me. They are Hagan, and I am Hagan. The bonds among us are unbreakable. We belong to Hagan, and Hagan belongs to us; we belong to one another, and we carry the Hagan spirit wherever we go.