Fouse
This brought back a lot of memories for me. I went to Bloody Summer Camp myself. A lot of my friends went to camps named Massawepie, Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, or Surprise Lake, but my parents sent me to Bloody. My dad thought it would toughen me up.
“I want you to have all the benefits of things I never learned – like a dozen ways to kill a man with household objects,” he would often say. “You never know when you might need it.”
He was a gentle man, but practical.
He was disappointed that I flunked out of that session after failing the portion about killing with spoons. I could never figure out which end to use. This also made me a rather sloppy soup-eater.
Dad was almost as disappointed then as he was when I failed One-Hour Martinizing. I did my best, but I could never get it below 64 minutes.
My one great camp memory is catching a pass from one Roger Staubach after his Heisman year. His fiancee* was the nurse at the camp, name of which escapes me, near Cincinnati. He dropped by to visit the gf, who was near the football field where a bunch of us had a game going. When we saw who was there. we all ran over, and somebody tossed him the football. Roger says, “Go out” and we all started running down the field. I’m ahead of the pack about 40-45 yards out and I hear a “heads up!!”, look up and the ball is coming into my hands, soft as a feather (it’s like with pitchers: some throw a light ball like Koufax; some throw a brick like Drysdale or Terry Bradshaw**). Nice guy, it was some time before the girlfriend regained possession. I would kill to find out where my autograph went.
* later the wife who Roger liked sex with as much as Joe Namath liked it. “I enjoy sex as much as Joe Namath,” Staubach quips. “Only I do it with one girl, ya know, but it’s still fun.”
** Bradshaw practically killed a TV jerk in the Burgh who insisted that he throw the guy a pass. Rocky Bleier, who was also on the show, was telling him, “You don’t want to do this”.
Damn, I envy you guys. I was sent to Camp Grenada where I was bunked next to a chubby Jewish kid who was always complaining. And every night a counselor would read to us from “Ulysses”.
Same here, I was probably a few summers behind you. I remember stitching bloody wallets and paddling the bloody canoe by day, then later sitting around the bloody campfire toasting bloody marshmallows.
But far and away my fondest memory was having a fat broad come in and jump my bones. She was a good sport, sometimes we’d spontaneously burst into the bloody camp song as we approached the finish line. It’d piss off my bloody bunkmates when they were trying to sleep, but that’s how you know you’re having fun, right?