Personal
Personal reflections, comments about things I've been doing, etc.
Summer Camp
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 13:54Summer time, and the living is easy . . .
I knew this place I knew it well . . .
Can it be that it was all so simple then . . .
It’s life’s illusions I recall . . .
Say the words “Summer Camp” and a flood of thoughts, memories and feelings come flooding in, and perhaps we would be wise to explore some of them.
Yesterday, as I drove to a client’s office, Frank Deford was offering his commentary on National Public Radio about summer camps. For him, they were wonderful places where you spent time outdoors learning such essential skills as making potholders. Now, it seems, many of them are highly specialized resume building camps, quarterback camps and the like.
So, I thought I would try to dredge up some of my memories of summer camps long ago. I have vague recollections of a camp in Williamstown, where I grew up. It was a day camp and I only have the vaguest of memories. There was the pond where we swam. There was arts and crafts. I think I learned to play steal the flag there. Beyond that, I don’t have much for memories.
The first overnight camp I went to was Camp Takodah in New Hampshire. It was probably after third grade and I stayed there for a week or two. I remember the cabin, a large field, making a trinket box with a bronze portrait of an Indian chief on top. I remember the lake. I think we had buddy tags, little markers we would hang on a board to indicate who our buddy was in the pool. This was to make sure that every camper had at least one other person paying constant attention to them as they swam.
The whistle would blow for a buddy break, and we needed to find our buddy and raise our joined hands in the air. If you weren’t with your buddy you lost your swimming privileges.
Years later, I would go to Camp Chesterfield, a Boy Scout’s camp in Massachusetts. I was in Troop 9, a troop that enjoyed doing lots of things together, but wasn’t really focused on advancement. One night at camp Chesterfield, they were talking about some insect borne disease that had made a few people very sick at a camp in New Hampshire.
I remembered a girl at school who had contracted Eastern Equine Encephalitis and had substantial neurological damage as a result. I wondered if it was Eastern Equine Encephalitis they were talking about. I wondered if the camp was Camp Takodah. It put me into a funk which others took to be homesickness.
There were other years that I went to day camp. I think a lot of it was because my parents’ marriage was falling apart and they needed some place to put the kids during the tough times.
So, no, the memories, for me of summer camp aren’t all that idyllic, their I still recall, and perhaps long for, their illusions.
Which brings me up to today. Last night, Kim and I went to parents night at Camp Mountain Laurel. Fiona is camping there and loving it.
The head of the camp looked very familiar, and I finally remembered, I had had a good discussion with him at a party up near Hartford as he was just leaving a job up there to come down to run this camp. He is young and idealistic. The staff he has surrounded himself with is all young and idealistic as well.
At one point, all the counselors, parents and kids sat in a circle in the pavilion. The counselors were all wearing red t-shirts which said Staff on the back, and then below it, “Professional Role Model”. It was great to see a bunch of people committed to being positive role models.
Each person was asked to say a little something; the kids were to speak about what they liked most about camp and the parents about what their hopes for the kids at the camp were. Unlike the quarterback camp that Frank Deford spoke about, the kids and the parents here were not interested in resume building. The closest anyone came to that was hoping that their kids would become better swimmers.
Perhaps some of the people there were looking for a little time away from their kids as they dealt with their own problems, but the most common sentiment expressed by parents was a desire that their kids would have a fun time, a great summertime experience outdoors as part of a happy childhood.
The counselors, several of whom are teachers during the school year, spoke about the importance of developing and nurturing friends, about kids learning more about their commonalities and what it means to be part of a caring community. They talked about the importance of this kind of learning, which gets lost in the world of standardized achievement tests. Some parents talked about coming to this camp when they were younger.
It was all so idealistic, a small local day camp, where people cared about one another, where they cared about enjoying life and not just getting ahead.
As I write this, my mind drifts back to politics. Who do we have on the political landscape that will help us return to these ideals of caring for one another, enjoying life and not just struggling to become wealthy?
Perhaps this is a good way of thinking about the ‘beer primary’. The idea of the beer primary is to ask which candidate you would must enjoy having a beer with. Perhaps what we really need is to judge our candidates on which one would be the best counselor-in-training, the person you would want to help twist the pipe cleaners to make your simple little butterfly., the person you would most want to share your snack with at the rickety old picnic table in the aging pavilion.
No, it wasn’t all that simple then, and it isn’t now, either, but perhaps, if we can all recall a few of life’s illusions, a simpler life, a more caring life, a day at a local day camp, we can help make a few of those illusions a little more real.
A midsummer’s night dream
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Sat, 06/21/2008 - 09:43The seminal disinformation was lost.
All that remains is the transaction.
This phrase came into my mind as I tried to make sense of a weird dream I had this evening.
It was in a strange city, part New York, part Washington. It mostly took place at some sort of museum or grand gathering place on the West Side of Central Park. Yet the feeling of the building was of a Washingtonian ambassadorial mansion, with wide sweeping staircases.
There had been a party inside. During the early parts of the dream I was at the party, yet the detailed memories of the party departed before the dream ended. I have vague recollections of being upstairs. Like the city and the building, the party seemed to be drawn from many sources. It was partly a black tie event, like an opening at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, partly some sort of political event with overtones of ambassadors gathering, or perhaps an after the inauguration party, and partly a party from my high school years at the ABC house.
ABC is A Better Chance. It was a program at high school years ago, where students from poor neighborhoods came to live at the ABC house and go to our local high school. When Deval Patrick started running for Governor in Massachusetts, I wrote a blog post about the ABC program. As I think about the dream, my thoughts go from the ABC house to Deval Patrick, and ultimately to Barack Obama
The folks at the party were mostly grown up versions of people I knew from elementary school and college.
One woman borrowed my cellhone. Another my wallet. They were both former high school classmates. I was left with nothing as I waited for them to return. Kate Heichler was there. As I waited for the women with my belongings to return, I explained to her what was going on. Later, as I continued to wait, Kate explained the details to Amy who was passing by.
For people who are not regular readers of this blog, Kate Heichler is an old friend of mine from when I first lived in New York City, close to thirty years ago. We went to the same church and with the folks from that church went to many events together. She has since become a priest. Her first day as a seminarian was at Christ Church, Bethany was also my first day at Christ Church, Bethany, two days after Kim’s mother died. This was a little over a year before Kim and I got married. Since then, Kate has become priest of a church in Stamford, a few months before we moved out of Stamford. Amy is my ex-wife. She went to the same church as Kate and I.
People came and went in horse drawn carriages, and eventually, my wallet was returned and I found myself in possession of a large balloon tired bicycle.
There was a wicker basket on the front of the bicycle. Inside the basket was a manila folder. The folder contained important information, some sort of important documents on standard sized paper. It also contained a ten dollar bill. I was still waiting for the woman with my cellphone to return. I was waiting with many people to depart from the parking circle in front of the mansion.
I turned to talk with another person, and found that the folder was now missing. It was then that the phrase came to mind:
The seminal disinformation was lost.
All that remains is the transaction.
I’m not sure what that seminal disinformation was. I suspect it was one of the documents in the manila folder. The ten dollars was gone, but at least I still had the bike. A taxicab, also waiting to depart cut, in front of me. The driver said angry words at me, which I mostly ignored. I was more interested in the discussion with other people waiting, with trying to get my cellphone, and with waiting for things to open up so everyone could leave.
My mind became stuck on the phrase,
The seminal disinformation was lost.
All that remains is the transaction.
I tossed and turned, half awake, and finally came down stairs to record as much of the dream as possible.
Before I return to bed, I glance at my emails and delete a bit of spam. One message was about the U.S. destroying information about detainees at Guantanamo. A couple other emails are about Avery’s graduation.
Avery Doninger is the young woman who graduated last night from Lewis Mills High School in Burlington. She has been embroiled in a court case with the school district over a blog entry she wrote at home one evening. There had been a battle between the students and the administration over scheduling for a concert at the school. Avery and some of her classmates sent out emails to encourage parents to contact the school administration about the issue. The school administration reacted negatively and told Avery and others that the concert would be cancelled. Avery called the administration douchebags and encouraged others to contact the school administration to piss them off even more. Avery was barred from running for class office, but the students wrote her name in anyway, and she won on the write-in vote. The school refused to recognize the results of the election. Things escalated and it has ended up being fought out in the Federal Courts.
Some of the recent issues around the case surround emails that the Principal sent which violated school policies and Federal laws and resulted in a two-day suspension without pay. Emails obtained by Freedom of Information requests indicate that this has been a recurring pattern.
Was this some of the seminal disinformation that was lost? Was the information about Guantanamo some of the seminal disinformation that was lost? Was it something combination of both or something else?
I also received several emails from the Group Psychotherapy mailing list I participate in. One of my interests is in Social Dreaming Matrices, which takes the Group Relations tradition and adds the sharing of dreams, not so much from dream interpretation stance, but more from exploring the associations that people have to each others dreams and learning from these associations.
There is a lot on this dream to associate to, and I am most curious about others reactions.
I wrote much of this upon waking up and stumbling downstairs. I went back to bed. My strange dreams returned. In my subsequent dreams, there were some mass executions taking place. People were gathered in a large stadium and notable people were being executed first. I was too be executed, and my elder brother was supposed to execute me. I stared him in the eyes and he flinched, unable to kill me. I ended up being let off on some sort of double jeopardy clause.
As I think about this dream segment, I thought about our retaining a lawyer to file for bankruptcy and the financial difficulties my brother has gone through. I thought of a discussion at a party last night, where the hostess spoke about an opportunity she had to meet a wild tiger that she felt was attempting to hypnotize her. There is plenty more to unpack on this, as well as long posts to write about our financial situation. Yet,
The seminal disinformation was lost.
All that remains is the transaction.
Inch by Inch - Fiona End of School Concert
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Mon, 06/16/2008 - 17:56
I recorded the concert in small segments on the digital camera so I could upload them quickly. I had thought of combining them into one longer segment, but they are good the way they are. So, you can look whichever segments you are most interested in.
The kids walked in and took their places to 'Greatest Love Of All' by Whitney Houston.
I believe that children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be
Their first song was Zip De Do Dah followed by Inch by Inch(an old favorite of mine, which is why I show it as the first clip).
This was followed by Take me out to the ball game and Arabella Miller which was interrupted by applause. (This is the second part.)
They then sang Supercalafragalisticexpialadotious,
Skidder Mirink, Grand Ole Flag, I'm a little teapot, Memories, Time Together.
They departed to Pomp And Circumstance.
EntreCard’s Ulysses: A prologue
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Sun, 06/15/2008 - 23:09It is often said that enough monkeys typing for a sufficient period of time will produce the works of William Shakespeare. I sometimes wonder if they would produce the work of James Joyce first.
People have then gone on to compare these monkeys to bloggers and noted that the work of the blogosphere is nothing like to work of Shakespeare. However, if you look closely enough, you might be able to find hints of Joyce.
It has been over twenty years since I lived on a sailboat in the Hudson River next to New York City and read James Joyce’s Ulysses. I don’t remember the details all that well, but one part has stayed with me. It was Judge Woolsey’s ruling on lifting the ban on Ulysses. There was this wonderful section that goes:
Joyce has attempted -- it seems to me, with astonishing success -- to show how the screen of consciousness with its ever-shifting kaleidoscopic impressions carries, as it were on a plastic palimpsest, not only what is in the focus of each man’s observation of the actual things about him, but also in a penumbral zone residua of past impressions.
Ever since reading that, I have pondered the plastic palimpsest. These days, I’ve wondered about it in online writing, in the political blogs, and in the blogs that I find on a typical day wandering around, not Dublin, but the Blogosphere.
My cyberwanderings have shifted over the years. For a while, I primarily used BlogExplosion and related sites as a means of strolling from one blog to the next. Then, there was a period when I followed the recent readers as enumerated by sites like MyBlogLog and Blogcatalog. Now, when an interesting tweet shows up on Twitter, I follow the link. I still use these sites from time to time, but currently my wanderings are directed most substantially by EntreCard.
I look at sites of people who have dropped cards on me. I look at the most popular sites; those that are most popular overall, and those that are most popular in categories that interest me. I look the sites of the most prolific droppers; those who have dropped many cards on me, as well as those that have dropped many cards on others who list their top droppers. I look at sites where I am running, or have recently run advertisements, paying particular attention to those sites where my advertisements have been most successful. I look at sites that have chosen to run ads on my blog. From all of these sites, I follow the advertisements to other sites and before I know it, I have visited my daily allotment of three hundred sites.
All of this forms a plastic palimpsest which I would love to capture. June 16th is Bloomsday, the day that Leopold Bloom wandered the city of Dublin. Can I capture any of my fleeting impressions and weave them into an interesting story? Perhaps not of Odyssean or Joycean stature, but interesting nonetheless?
It is already Bloomsday in Ireland as well as much of the EntreCard world. For me, Bloomsday doesn’t technically start for an hour, and then there are the long hours of the night, so I shall sleep and see what I can write in the morning.
Flags, Witches, Islands and Other Stuff in the Family Tree
Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Sat, 06/14/2008 - 07:20Flag Day, 1977. It was a strange day in a strange year for me. A few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, my last grandparent died.
Being seventeen was a challenge. My parents were getting a divorce. Life around home was rough. By the end or my junior year of high school, I had already racked up enough credits to graduate, so I skipped my senior year and went off to college early. The way my high school handled it, I needed to complete my freshman year of college and then return to graduate with the people who had been my classmates for so many years.
My younger sister hated me for leaving. It was pretty rough on her as well. I told her that if you are sitting on a block of ice and managing to melt the ice, then maybe it is worth it to stick around, but if all your doing is freezing your ass off, then it is probably time to leave. I felt I was freezing my ass off, and not really doing anyone any good.
During my freshman year at college, I received a letter from my mother. A girl that I had been interested in, in my unsophisticated geeky sort of way had disappeared. This was in the days before instant communications of email, and our family had always only used the telephone for emergencies. It never occurred to my mother that this might be an emergency to me. I had kept my romantic interests to myself and I don’t think my mother knew how attached I was to the missing girl, or what such a disappearance would do to the addled brain of a bright, messed up teenager.
A month later, I received another letter from my mother. They had found Rocky’s body in a ravine a few towns away from where I had grown up. My mother included newspaper clippings of the funeral. College was a ten hour drive away, so there was no way that I could have made it to the funeral anyway, but I was hurt that I didn’t get a chance to say my final goodbyes with my classmates.
Then, at the end of the school year, I did receive a phone call from my mother. Her father, who had been fighting Parkinson’s disease for many years finally died at the end of May. The school year was over, so I scrounged around to find a ride to his funeral. I think it was first time being a pallbearer.
Somewhere during this time period, I attended my high school graduation, which was a very awkward affair. I had been gone for all of my senior year. I didn’t really know all my classmates that well any more, and I had begun the changes that college brings.
So, Flag Day, 1977. My mother was at my aunt’s house. She was helping them deal with the aftermath of my grandfather’s death and care for my grandmother who had been quite ill for a long time as well.
The phone rang. I don’t remember exactly who answered the phone, I think it was me, or who said it, I think it was my eldest brother, but we were all there and we all knew what the phone call was. As I mentioned earlier, I grew up in a family that only used the phone for emergencies. We knew my grandmother was very sick, so someone said, “Grandma died”, before the phone was answered.
Sure enough, it was my grief stricken mother, letting us know that Grammy had died. On top of all the other losses in my mother’s life, she was now an orphan. She hadn’t been able to talk over her problems with her parents much during their final years, but now, it was final and she wouldn’t be able to go them for comfort ever again, the way she had when she was younger.
My father’s parents died before I was born, and being next to the youngest child of the youngest child of my grandparents, being from a family that didn’t travel much and rarely got together with my grandparents, this loss of connection with a previous generation was much more detached than what it was like for my wife when the last of her grandparents died. Kim’s grandparents lived in the next town over, and she regularly went to their house to swim, to eat, or just to hang out with her extended family.
And so it is Flag Day 2008. For some reason, my grandmother came to mind last night. Over the years, I’ve been interested in genealogy and have built up a good database about my ancestors, including the dates of their births, deaths, and marriages. Being the fact checking blogger that I am, I wanted to check the details, make sure that I remembered things right. Yes, the database confirmed that Grammy died on June 14, 1977.
My ancestors were early settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This means that there is a lot of genealogical data about them, and many of them have been traced back to their first arrival in America in the early 1600s. My grandmother was of the Eastman line, a line traced back nicely to Roger Eastman, and early settler about how much work has been done. He arrived in America on “Confidence” in 1638. Roger is my 8th Great Grandfather. His grandson, Captain Ebenezer Eastman married Sarah Peaslee. Sarah’s brother John married Mary Martin. Mary Martin was the granddaughter of Susannah (North) Martin, who was executed in Salem Massachusetts in 1692 on the charge of witchcraft. Somewhere else in the Eastman family tree is Daniel Webster.
Sarah Peaslee’s mother was Ruth Barnard whose great grandfather was Thomas Barnard. Thomas was one of the original purchasers of Nantucket in 1659, although apparently Thomas never visited the island.
So, I have spent the hours before Flag Day 2008 learning a little more about my family history, and through it the history of our country. There are witches and islands in our family tree, and many other great stories as well, yet most importantly, all the stories from today, from thirty-one years ago and from three hundred and fifty years ago make up the fabric of our lives, a rich tapestry with various rips and stains.
