Mike Sweeney
Terry Black and I attended Aquinas College together in the mid-70’s, sharing an enormous old frame house near campus with an assorted collection of would-be scholars; each of us infected to varying degrees with that sublime feverish insanity of youth. I could tell you stories about Terry, but then he might start telling tales about me and some of my current students may end up reading this. Suffice to say: Bluto, Otter and the Delta’s had nothing on Hop Shro, Little Moe and The Boys of the Ponderosewood.
It was spring, 1975. I had just graduated and was looking for something to occupy my summer and hopefully provide a little cash before starting grad school in the fall. Terry told me his dad worked at some summer camp “up north” and they they had an opening for an assistant waterfront director. I had absolutely no idea what the job entailed but Terry told me I would love it. I had worked as a lifeguard and my Red Cross card was still current. I had never even seen a summer camp before but I figured I had nothing to lose so I phoned this guy, Alex, who hired me sight unseen, based on Terry’s recommendation.
Two weeks later I found myself stranded in the middle of nowhere a couple hours north of Lansing. My ’64 Mercury, aka The Vomit Comet, had snapped a U-joint. I was expected at camp that day to help get things ready and I hadn’t thought to bring phone numbers so I couldn’t even call. And so, the Vomit Comet Inn became my abode for the night. They next day a smelly, sheepish, unkempt, unshaven, six-foot-four mop-head pulled into camp feeling guilty and wondering if he still had a job.
The first person I met was Mrs. Black, who immediately gave me a big hug. I am convinced she believed she had just discovered her long lost son because that is exactly how she treated me and still does to this day. Of course Mr. Black, Alex and Tess adopted me too. The other counselors: Canja, Ehlers, Norm, Mike the Bike, Judo John, Korroch and the others became like brothers. The rest, as they say, is history.
One of my duties was teaching campers to sail those little Sunfish sailboats. Now I took my job on the beach seriously, especially when it involved keeping kids safe while in and around the water. But the fact was before that summer I had never even been close to a sailboat in my life. Some kids did manage to successfully navigate the triangle course around the lake, earning a merit badge, perhaps despite my best efforts. I never could remember those parts of the boat that campers were supposed to memorize. (Is it a line or a rope?). When it came time for a test I would slip into what became my standard routine. First I would point out two or thee parts at random asking the camper to name them. Next I would draw myself up to my full height, usually towering over a foot over the camper, look down in his eyes, and ask in my most serious tone “Are you sure about these answers?” If the camper showed even the slightest hesitation I would suggest “Perhaps you had better review t! hese a little more.” I boasted only about a 50% passing rate until some bright camper figured out my little con.
My career at Camp Flying Eagle lasted all of twelve weeks; eighty-four
days. But what days! What nights! What a summer! Those moments …
those memories … of fun times and outstanding people. They are tucked away deep in my heart … not so deep that I can’t take them out and hold them when my soul needs refreshing. They will be with me always.
By happy coincidence my wife, Susan, and I have become good friends with Brad and Diane Smith, the current owners. Last summer we spent a couple of days at camp. Brad was worried that I might be disappointed seeing the camp in less than mint condition. I was so relieved to find that the property had not been subdivided that he need not have worried. I had the delicious experience of setting foot for the first time in a once forbidden area (to me, at least): The Married Counselors’ Cabin!
I don’t know, yet, if I will be able to join you all at the reunion in August. I will most certainly be there in spirit.
