THE WONDER YEARS II – CAMP EXPECTATIONS

CAMP, LOTS OF CAMP

The Church of the Nazarene divides states and regions into districts. We were in the Central Ohio District. The district owned several acres near Columbus, Ohio that we all called The Campground. There was a large tabernacle, dormitories, cinderblock duplexes used for summer camps and lodgings during the annual two weeks of Campmeeting, and a number of individually owned cabins scattered throughout the grounds. Our parents owned one of these cabins.

It wasn’t much. One long, narrow room with two sets of bunkbeds on each side at the rear, separated by curtains from the front of the cabin. The front room contained an old refrigerator, a cabinet/counter on which sat a Coleman camp stove. There was a sofa, mom and dad’s bed, and a single bed under the front window that was our sister’s. This also doubled as seating. There was a window on the front and rear walls, and on each side wall. Not glass windows, mind you, just screens. Wooden window covers that matched the wood siding of the cabin, hinged at the top, were propped up by various lengths of wooden sticks depending on how much window you wanted open, dropped and “locked” with a wingnut when gone or at night.

The cabins did not have plumbing. We were fortunate that ours was not far from the community restrooms and showers. And, not far from the tabernacle either. We could sit on our cement slab front porch and listen to the choir sing and preacher preach—which was convenient for those of us who really didn’t like going to church every day, twice a day. Me.

Back in the day, before Columbus became the sprawling metropolis it is now, The Campground was out in the countryside off Morse Rd. Our cabin backed up on a large pasture that often held a herd of cattle. I liked laying on one of the top bunks watching them graze and would get excited when they came close to the fence. I would sometimes go out and try to entice them to come closer by offering some plant or grass I’d pulled up.

For two weeks every summer, The Campground hosted Jr and Sr summer camps. We grew up going to summer camp there, at least I did. My brothers might have let farm life take over. The District encompassed Central Ohio and parts of West Virginia. I made friends from all over.

One week of camp I dated Adria Gamertsfelder. Jr campers weren’t allowed to display any PDA. So, Adria and I developed sticking. Instead of holding hands, because we weren’t allowed to, we each held one end of a stick with our hands just touching in the middle. It caught on with other campers.

I truly treasured summer camp. The friendships. The counselors. I sang in the choir. One year, we could buy little plastic house building kits. I loved them. Some of them went home with me, to be used as fodder for my firebug leanings. After scorching mom’s rug in the living room, I could no longer erect my houses on a piece of cardboard when burning them down.

At the end of camp one year, mom came to pick me up. While there she also wanted to clean and close our cabin up for the season. Parting with the friends I’d made was one of the first times I remember experiencing bittersweetness. It had been such a great week with old and new friends, and now it was over. I think I lay on one of the beds and cried.

A year or two later, I returned to the Campground as a member of a singing group made up of high schoolers from around the district. It was to be an infamous return.

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WE HAVE EXPECTATIONS

In the early 70’s, the Central Ohio District formed a singing group, the Impact Team, officially called The Expectations. The group was made up of teenagers from around the district, mostly juniors and seniors in high school. I suppose I found out about the group at summer camp or perhaps they sang at Marion First. However it was, I auditioned for them when I was a junior and became an Expectation.

There were 13 of us that year: Kim , Jerrie, Debbie, Carol , Linda and Cathy (sisters), Lisa, Steve, another Steve, Doug—who came in as a replacement for someone who dropped out—Jeff, Jim, and Me. A couple of the guys and a couple of the girls had been part of the group the previous year, the rest of us were newbies. Little did we know what we were in for.

We spent a week of training camp at Mt. Vernon Nazarene college—now Mount Vernon University—the summer of ‘73, under the group direction of Steven Fowler, and musical direction of Virginia Cameron (known to us as Ginny), music professor at MVNC. As much fun as Ginny was, our rehearsal schedule was arduous. We had a lot of music to learn and not a lot of time. So, every day was 5-6 hours of rehearsals. By Wednesday or Thursday, we were downing bottles of Chloraseptic to sooth our throats. There were other benefits to that, too. Since training camp took place during the summer, our first outing was set for the summer camps at the District Campground.

There was a tradition at The Campground of stealing the clapper out of the bell that sat on the roof of the main office building. This bell was used to signal start and end times for various activities— breakfast, chapel, lunch, dinner, lights out, etc. The office building was a low, one-story building, so accessing the roof was not too difficult…for those with a will. We were all staying in cabins just down the row of buildings from the office. To protect the guilty, I don’t think I should reveal who the instigator was—actually, I don’t remember whose idea it was. The guys in the group decided it would be fun to make off with the clapper and put it at the head table in the dining hall for breakfast.

Sometime around midnight, when all was calm and quiet, we took to the rooftops, going from one to the next until we reached the office building. Removing the clapper was an easier venture than we’d anticipated. The bell was merely set in a metal bracket, the clapper easy to just unhook and remove.

Suppressing giggles and proud of our accomplishment, we headed to the dining hall, keeping an eye out for any adults patrolling the grounds as security guards. It didn’t take us long to find a window that was unlocked. The window, which opened out, didn’t open very far, but enough of an opening for slender, teenage boys to slip through. Or would have been had we made it that far.

Jeff, the leanest of us all, was appointed to go through first and then someone else would hand him the clapper. On his attempt to slither through the opening, he let his weight down on the window glass. There was a loud cracking sound. The rest of us scattered like ducks from a shotgun blast.

We went in different directions, one by one finding our way back to our cabin. The adrenaline had drained away, the laughing ensued. Until Jeff made it back. He was not happy at all that we’d abandoned him there, sitting on the window trying to get himself out of harm’s way before anyone showed up.

We, of course, had to admit our guilt for the stolen clapper and the broken window to our director the next morning. Steven was not amused. The entire group was removed from Camp, never getting to sing for the campers. Lesson learned…it’s all fun and games until someone breaks a window. Something I still laugh about to this day.

It was not long after this event that the powers-that-be had the bell encased in its own secure housing.

We became a tightknit group, friends as well as vocally. Despite the shenanigans early on, we quickly developed a reputation for excellent music, dedication, and ministry. We were more and more in demand, traveling to at least one church every-other-weekend. We would generally go in on a Friday or Saturday. Saturday might be afternoon outreach along with the teen group from the church. Then that evening, fun and games and singing for the teen group. We had special games and songs just for them—none of which I recall. Except for…one of us sitting next to one of the teens, jumping up and shouting, “Kiss you, I don’t even know you!”

Sunday morning would be our concert before the whole church. It was well programmed, with some of our own personal testimonies, introductions to various songs, anecdotes from our time with the teen group the night before, all leading up to an alter call should the pastor want to do so. We accomplished this with an arrangement of Don’t Be Left Behind. As the song winds toward its conclusion, we would drop out one by one, turn our back and walk away from the front of the platform, finally leaving Steve Cockran to sing the final line, “Don’t be left behind.” It was very powerful, very emotional.

The Assistant Secretary of the Interior at the time was a Nazarene from Ohio. He knew of us and invited us to D.C to tour churches there. What a trip for high school juniors and seniors. A couple of us stayed at the Secretary’s house, others hosted by members of his church. He had a daughter, Rachel. She and I hit it off. It’s not like we dated, but everyone knew there was something going on between us. We saw most of the need-to-see monuments and sites while we were there, but I don’t remember any of our performances.

We lost a few of our members after my first year as they aged out. But auditions added newbies to the group. We maintained the quality of our singing and programming, and our reputation.

In 1975 we were allowed to sing at summer camps.

Training camp was as rigorous as ever. In addition to learning new songs, we also learned and rehearsed a new musical, Show Me Jesus. It was a young, hip sort of thing with orchestrated tracks. Christian soft rock. I was tapped to play the lead, even though Gary Morgan had a better rock sounding voice. It was to be part of our programming for youth groups at the churches we visited.

I think the first time we presented Show Me, it was a weekend in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a fairly new church there, in a renovated old barn and stable. It was awesome just rehearsing in that barn. I no longer remember how it went. Most memories of that weekend revolve around me wrecking my brother’s car—a 1958 Pontiac, a boat of a car.

We had just left rehearsal at the church. I was driving with three or four of the other members of the group. We were following a lead car to a home where we were to have lunch, maybe dinner. They had turned, but because of a couple of cars in front of me, I wasn’t sure what street they’d turned on. I was looking to the right to see. The car in front of me stopped. I didn’t see that and plowed into the rear end of the little Pinto.

I tried turning the car off, but the engine wouldn’t shut down. I didn’t know what was happening, but fearing the worst, yelled at everyone to get out of the car. Pretty nerve-wracking. The radiator of my car, my brother’s car, was punctured and leaking fluid in the street. It didn’t look like the Pinto sustained too much damage. Fortunately, we were going slow. The police said we were lucky. The other car had just filled up and had a full tank of gas. Otherwise, he said, there could have been an explosion.

That night, after our performance, I had to call home to tell them about the accident. Dwyte answered the phone.

“Dwyte? Is mom or dad there?”
“No, just me, why?”

I had to tell my brother “to his face” that I’d wrecked his beautiful old car.

Each year the group voted to award the E Award, for Excellence—as a singer, a friend, and a leader—to one of their fellow members. The first year I was an Expectation, it went to Steve Cockran. The second year, the others bestowed the E Award on me. Humbling.

Those two years with the Impact Team were great, valuable years in my life. I gained more singing and performing experience. I made good friends. I did a lot of traveling, seeing new places and things. And I ended up at college with most of those friends. Doug and I became roommates.