A Boy Scout Camp

December 29, 2009

A poem or, a thought for today; a preamble if you will or maybe just a ramble this is depending on what you read into this group of words.

While living in a different part of northern California then I had a few times before, and more than a few years ago, one of the many times back ‘n forth to that lovely state, a very good friend and I visited a place that seemed out of the ordinary; it was really an extraordinary and a historical encounter. Sutter Creek ran right through the property; that creek being one of the places the gold miners of the 49ers discovered gold.

I’ve titled this poem, ‘A Boy Scout Camp,’ knowing full well that the place we visited had nothing to do with the Boy Scouts other than the fact is that sometimes a Boy Scout troop from any number of places would have either an afternoon or an over night stay; multitudes of humanity never even knew where it was or that it even existed; at least at that point as I recall. Now? Who knows?

I loved the rustic place for lots of Mother Nature reasons, and visited there often; many times because a family I used to hang out with, lived and worked there in the smallest, little travel trailer you can imagine a family of 7 with a big dog and sometimes other friends stay over’s.

Needless to say, it was more than crowded but the family was a loving one and most times everyone got along really well. The Hearns and Jones’s was the family and later on in one of these posts I’ll probably include the poem I’ve written about them as well as a story or two about who these people were. Michael ‘the dad’ and Kathy ‘the mom’ were quite the couple. Great parents they were and two people who raised or are still raising really, 5 great kids…but that’s a later post. In any case, this is the present and this is:

A Boy Scout Camp

A Boy Scout camp it wasn’t
Although at times it felt like it might have been in history
What it was really was a religion’s retreat
A place where out of town believers
And at times specially permitted, locals would congregate to
Camp, picnic, sunbathe, boat, sleep, swing and swim;
Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, mostly all welcomed
Depending on the over lords whim and of course
The pittance charged was not sow fat but thin.
Campers traversed meadows, dense landscape, rolling hills
Extolling dales, gravel paths; a weathering deck with rails
Which overhangs a summer’s slow running brook
The spill over from the dammed up dam began and shook
The runoff from the petite streams before it;
Channeling shimmering rocks, leaves, branch debris from trees
Into, at the lowest level near bye at least what they called Sutter Creek.
Yes, the same one where gold was discovered decades before
And still is, a little at a time, in unknown, undisclosed exultations;
Perhaps along its bank and in its slow deep, too faster shallow meanderings.
The rustic cabins where we slept were teeny ‘n preemie tiny
Cubicles with kneel down lofts, the beds not soft
The crawl ladder led the young to adventures past or fantasy future’s rung
Thin blankets held over from many nights of others dreams passed
To the now curling in them; a miniature sleeping space with charm
Protected us from animals, not bugs, running water reigned,
Winter temperatures fell; summer’s heat was soared after noon.
Cabin’s had a little comfort at least, although our sleep was never that sound.
I tossed and turned, churned closest to the wall of move over pleas.
Sneeze and we’d scare a bug from its nest, a knot on the low whish ceiling.
All the acreage administered by a church group from Houston
Supported and invested by their members and mostly
Endowed by the inventor of the touch screen; so I’ve heard.
A kinder, considerate landowner and multi- millionaire man
Who was the son of the odd couple in the house on the hill
The obvious one to the left on the way towards the cabins
The one with the husband who surveyed the woods
His moving surveillance cameras you’d never think, “Who could be
Hidden in the trees?” Camera’s mounted too high end the sides of poles - sleeze
He keeps watch over everything that doesn’t and does move
Including unsuspecting bathers changing clothes, groove
In what they thought was serenity in the bush
If you met him you’d notice both his hands had hooks
I never asked why or how that happened
All i know about him is that he used to be a probation officer
The overlords stayed awake too late with the aid of odd named pills
They rise every day in a dazed stupor, close to lunch spells
Always appearing to strangers as sort of
A kind man and wife stay at homework teaming
At spiritual times invited people for dinner, or Thanksgiving
Saying prayer before every meal, speaking in whispers
Their smile professed they’re the best of the best
Until or unless you were one of the one’s who
Were unlucky enough to be under their employ
Or one of the unfortunate creatures in their who cares
Who gets fed or how would they drink today episodes
That’s your job if you dare to care - and you will when you stop ‘n stare
And hold time with any animal that came to you for help.
Their private park setting was an escape from the cities
Of hellacious noise, the stifling heat that encompasses asphalt
This pastoral bliss with rolling paths, climb twists was a place not to pass
Where those who endured the unbearable week were welcomed
Kissed by the alms of Mother Nature speaking soothing sentiments
Where the tree’s gift of rhythms played on each others branches
Shook their mingling leaves in touch with harmonious breezes
Most of which were eucalyptus and smelled pungently so
The man – made dam was the best idea when one can
Survey the land surrounding everything within its earth sand shores or
While gliding in one of the fiberglass two person paddle boats
Leisurely experiencing an ultra murky green glistening pond
I remember one time we were there fond of the wild things
Floating through the mysteriously moving lily pads
That well fed deer just jumped out from the trees
And on to that little island in the middle – then she
Just stood there regally watching us as we approached in
A slower than slow boat to China drifting
Feat, still - in order not to frighten her away
She was beautifully calm and inquisitive to our view
As we drew nearer, she scrambled back through
To the density faster than she had appeared
Pond surprise! Another fish jumped out of the water
From its resident depths to see what had stirred
Do you remember at sunset how beautiful the sky was?
Do you remember the blues of the heaven’s…
The slow fade to black as the day drifted toward late
And we paddled in our own rhythm to moor at the dock and
The photo you took of the little green lizard on mmy shoulder?
I do… and I also remember how we strolled through
The night, snails pace - holding each others heart and hearing the
Gravel under our gait on the way towards that bench
The one seemingly placed for a panorama of spectacles - loving life
The same one that over-looked a smooth glare of
The pale glowing moon mirrored on the glossy green sheen
Do you remember how we sat there in shadows silence
And in awe of our vacation views drifting away from stormy life - blues?
Yes, we were welcomed by the birds songs, the nights hush and the
Squirrels long, inquisitive gatherings and especially
To natures multiplied shades of stillness, of tranquility and of peace
Do you reminisce, do you picture bliss with any of this?
I do miss these things … and you.