Susan LaPann-Toohey is a happily retired teacher, wife, mother, dog lover, poet, and friend.
She uses her time to help local agencies in The Capital District work toward the preservation of green space.
She has a real love of the outdoors, in all our wonderful New York seasons, and rejoices in sharing that with others. She writes, paints, reads, plays violin, appreciates outdoor music and a good laugh with friends, and says she enjoys being able to share fun pieces such as this short story below.
Ah, Summer Camp 1968
By Susan LaPann-Toohey
Ah, summer camp. For me, during 1968, it was an isolated, woodsy, dilapidated, Adirondack wonderland I now laughingly refer to as “Catholic Girls Torture Camp.”
By that I mean, my emotional and physical endurance was constantly being tested. It was a place where I never fully slept, but also where I experienced true friendship.
During my first summer there, I found a bunkmate named Elizabeth, who in today's lingo, would be referred to as “a science nerd.” I loved our friendship beyond words. I tried not to move in my creaky old bed, so as not to interrupt, as she mesmerized me with information about plants, the human body, galaxies, and the infinite nature of space, (although to this day I still can't fully comprehend that last one).
In that dark, secluded cabin, listening to my new friend seemed far more spiritual than any Sunday mass. Elizabeth chased away my homesickness and made me forget about the heat and my multiple insect bites. In turn, I regaled her with fictional stories about the dog I was going to get, the candy I would buy at the camp commissary, and the art of making fart noises on one's arm.
After a few nights of finding it impossible to settle, our counselor called us downstairs, where we found ourselves doing fifty sit-ups, twenty-five push-ups and ten Hail Mary's as punishment for talking too much.
I can still remember the moldy smell of the cabin's living room carpet as I counted, 13, 14, 15...
In the morning, the other girls thanked us for being “the guinea pigs” in regard to “the punishment thing.”
Life at camp was unpredictable. One could never anticipate, but we certainly learned after a second night, when faced with “water torture,” the camp's expression for having to swim out to the island on the camp's lake at six in the morning.
All six of us were commanded to make this icy, early morning plunge, do the ten minute swim, pick some of the island's blueberries, and swim back. The counselor would row beside us and reminded us to watch out for the oars, so as not to get hit. She blew the whistle and we got in. Since Elizabeth was not a strong swimmer, I tried to make sure she got the safest spot behind the boat and continued to whisper, “You can do this.” Elizabeth nodded each time.
At first, things were going well. No one appeared to be struggling. We were halfway there, when suddenly our counselor uttered the words “Oh shit” and I saw Elizabeth's face blanch. Now, I have always loved a well-timed swear word, but not that time.
I turned to where the counselor was looking and saw a herd of deer swimming straight for us. My first instinct was to check on Elizabeth, who was now reduced to something I wouldn't call actual swimming and beginning to cry. I mouthed the words, “Don't die” to which she sobbed, “You don't die!” I gestured toward the back of the boat and told her to grab on as the others were doing the same.
The deer passed us within inches. We heard their huffing breath grow louder as they approached, felt the heat of it on our faces as they passed, and smelled their musk. We held onto that boat, our knuckles blue, as the herd climbed up onto
the island and ran for the other side.
After the six of us returned safely, we talked about our dangerous encounter and cried together.
It was our last night at camp. My tears were mixed with worry about how Elizabeth would survive without me and I missed her terribly already.