Not a week goes by when I am not reminded of Camp Hagan.
I attended the camp for 11 years, from the time I was 8 years old, until I was 19, from 1957 to 1967. I was a season-long camper, a CIT, a JC and a counselor. I am one of four girls, all of whom attended the camp. Some joked the CH on the uniforms signified Camp Hartman.
My career was as a School Counselor, and working with those students for 30 years constantly reminded me of the struggles of high school, and how Camp Hagan made that an easier road for me. I learned independence by being away from home. I learned confidence by experiencing and succeeding at new challenges. I made lifelong friendships, true friendships. Not superficial ones often found in adolescence. I currently volunteer at an elementary school populated by disadvantaged children. I wish I could send them all to a Camp Hagan.
Summer rain pounding on my screened porch roof while I lie in the hammock reading. Cold August mornings on Lake Ontario while fishing with my husband. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. A camp song that spews uncontrollably from my mouth at the mention of an obscure reminder. My granddaughters’ questions and interest about this obsession from my youth. The sight of a truck carrying canoes to the river, which runs through my small town. Adolescents jumping into that river from an abandoned bridge. Constant reminders.
I was slightly aware as a teenager how odd most people thought it was I spent my entire summer in the Poconos. I was more aware as an adult when people would respond after an explanation of my summers, “Your parents sent you away for the whole summer?” I replied “I WANTED to go.” And recently a former colleague told me she thought years ago it was the cruelest thing for my parents to have me gone for the whole summer. Until she had a granddaughter who attended a summer camp. She said, “Now I get it.”
It wasn’t cruel. It was the greatest gift they ever gave me.
Why We No Longer Use Candles in the Tents!
When I was a 1st year CIT, I was in a tent with my dear friend Kari Brubaker, and Lee Hitchens, the Head of CIT’s. One night after taps, Lee was out with friends and Kari and I went to the shower house to brush our teeth. Soon we heard stomping feet running past the shower house. I flung open the door and said “What is going on?” I was greeted with “Your tent is on fire!” I turned to look and sure enough, flames were engulfing our tent.
I ran, as others were doing, to get the small bucket filled with water kept in each cabin. I think it was Senior 7 before I reached a bucket that hadn’t already been taken. As I ran to the tent, I’m sure most of the water sloshed out of the bucket. I was in such a panic. I saw other adults trying to pull the tent off the frame, since putting the fire out with these small buckets was absolutely impossible.
As I neared the tent, I saw my eldest sister Carol, and being the self-centered teenager that I was, I ran up to her and yelled over and over “We’re going to get killed! We’re going to get killed!” She, being older and more compassionate, thought I said “Someone could have been killed!”, and she answered “No, don’t worry, no one was hurt!” Clearly I was more concerned about my own hide getting into trouble than I was about anyone’s injuries.
In those days, we would melt candle wax on the top of our CARDBOARD chests of drawers (jerries), stick a candle in and wait for the wax to dry to hold the candle. This night, I stuck the candle in and left for the shower house. The wax didn’t hold, the candle fell over onto my bed, and it smoldered until my bed caught on fire.
Staff members were called back a few times during the night because of periodic smoldering flames. Most of our possessions were fire or smoke damaged. We bunked in with other CIT’s, and candles were no longer allowed in the CIT or JC tents.