What It Was Like Read Free Page B

times. But I was happy to let him chatter on – it was really too early in the morning for me – and I learned a lot about Camp Mooncliff and the summer that awaited me.
    â€œThat’s Jerry Mays, the H.C.,” Marcus muttered, nodding in the direction of a tall, sharply crewcut man in a Mooncliff varsity jacket and pressed chinos. “Boys’ head counselor. He’s basically . . . OK.” Marcus said “OK” grudgingly. “The Marshaks love him ‘cause he keeps a lid on spending, so we all have to learn to live with him, as long as we’re living in the Moon-shak.”
    â€œI can do that,” I volunteered. I wanted to seem eager and agreeable, and I was . Looking around at all the other counselors, I judged that most of them appeared to be a couple of years older than me. (I was, after all, hired as a “Junior Counselor.”) They all seemed very wholesome and alert and well prepared for the summer. I was going to make every effort to be likewise.
    I am no fan of long bus rides, and if you add in a soggy tuna fish sandwich and warm orangeade, you get some idea of my inner/outer circumstances on the almost-three-hour trip to Mooncliff. Marcus sat next me and talked, almost non-stop, the whole way. I must have dozed a little during the ride – in fact, I’m sure I did – but I learned more of Marcus’ inside tips about being a counselor at “the Moon-shak”: how to manage my free periods when I got them; what the best bars in Boonesville, the town nearest to Mooncliff, were; how to bribe your waitress, who was a “Boonie” (the Mooncliff word for “townie”), in the Mess Hall for better service and seconds; where the best place was to take a girl if you wanted some privacy – the Quarry. All during the bus ride, the girl counselors did a lot of singing and clapping. Camp songs, college songs, Beatle songs, Motown songs, Byrds songs, folk songs. From “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore” to “Puff, the Magic Dragon” and some songs I didn’t know.
    â€œGet used to the singing,” Marcus whispered. “That’s Mooncliff spirit.”
    â€œSpirit” turned out to be a big thing at Mooncliff. People were always being encouraged to get or get more of or get the right kind of “Mooncliff spirit.” I found out later that “Mooncliff spirit” meant different things to different people.
    Not quite three hours later, including a quick bathroom stop at the Red Apple Rest on Route 17, the big bus wheeled slowly off the narrow two-lane blacktop road in a wide turn. Crunching gravel, the bus drove through the front entrance to Camp Mooncliff, marked by a huge green-and-white painted sign, in a frame made of real logs. We were there, at last. Everyone cheered, including me, as the bus rambled down the long entrance road through the dark forest. I was very ready for this bus ride to end.
    When I finally stepped off the bus onto Camp Mooncliff soil, it felt like I was stepping onto the Earth for the first time. It took me a moment to get my balance and it was bright so I had to shade my eyes, but the ground under my black Keds felt good and solid. Squinting, I stood away from the bus as the swarm of counselors who knew what they were doing sorted the luggage from the bus’s lower storage compartment.
    I had seen the slide show in Stanley Marshak’s basement, but there is nothing like the reality of being there . And, to honor reality and be completely accurate, Camp Mooncliff was spectacularly beautiful. I’m not a nature freak or a Boy Scout or anything, but I know beauty when I see it: the bluest, clearest sky; a large hourglass-shaped lake surrounded by lush, green hills; long, graceful lawns; green grass and trees everywhere, with flowers of different colors all along the neatly tended gravel pathways; lots of white buildings, trimmed with green shutters and doors, spread out