CAMP STORIES/NUN STORIES are stories that were inspired by Sandra and Jane's years of being campers at St. Agnes Villa Camp. Our experiences shaped our lives. We have many memories, but what became of us as artists and writers was truly influenced by our early years at St. Agnes Camp.
POSTED July 9, 2010 | HAIR NEVER CHANGES
The summers in Richmond Hill Queens NY where I grew up were hot, dusty, sticky, noisy and bad. Our two family house had no insulation and I slept in the converted attic where the temperature was well into the 90’s all day and all night. Our house was just a few feet from the EL, a half a block from Jamaica Hospital and sandwiched in between Idlewild and LaGuardia Airports. In order to watch TV you needed to lip read. PS 54 held Summer School which consisted of knock hockey and kickball in the playground but there was little relief from the city heat. All the girls had long hair except for me.
After seeing the 1955 TV production of Peter Pan I swore that if Mary Martin could have boy’s hair then so could I. Besides, it helped keep me cooler - the shorter the better. It was good to look and feel like Peter Pan. Even though hot, my first eight years was Neverland and I was happy.
One early morning in 1957 I heard the thump at the bottom of the stairs. My mother had passed out on her way from bedroom to kitchen. The doctors agreed she had to have a partial hysterectomy and so be it. Life got back to normal but a year later it was surgery again to retrieve the parts left behind. But this time recovery wasn’t such a cinch. A big bad infection almost took her life and my father was brave enough to warn me that she might die. Thanks to who knows what, she got better, but had lost weight, energy and - there I was, little Peter Pan wanting to fly through my summer just like always.
Camp whistle & grass sample
Saint Agnes Camp in Wurtsboro, NY became the Neverland of my dreams for seven years. For the past forty five years it was a memory. When I Googled St. Agnes Villa Camp, www. cybernuns.com popped up. How very strange. Ok, so click “contact”, send the “I went there too.” email and voila, special effects - electricity and lightening, trees, fields and a lake pop out of the floor and we are in the business of VERITAS! The true stories of Sandra Filippucci and Jane Bubnis. What you read is what you get. Welcome aboard the Pirate’s Ship Peter Pan!--Jane
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I live with my ninety one and a half year old mother. After my father died I felt the pull to help her out and allow her to live in peace in her own home rather than move her to an apartment. That was twelve years ago and she is still the Queen of the House. Lately though, I have taken on the full responsibilities of being a home owner and each week I seem to have more of her personal needs to worry about.
Looking back at Camp Days, I remember my mother sending me to Wurtsboro with a plastic bag containing two sanitary napkins, two safety pins and some kind of white elastic belt. I had no idea what this stuff was for. I hid the bag under navy blue shorts and shirts in my cubby hole. I remember asking her, “What is this for?” But the answer was always, “If something happens, CALL ME.”
I felt sick and crampy. My father pulled into a gas station off of Rt. 17 and Mom and I headed off to the bathroom. A few minutes later the mysterious plastic bag was plucked out of my luggage and my first lesson on what to do when “something happens” was given. I finally got the answer to, “What is this for? ”
I call Saturday 'Stella Regina Day' because I usually cart my mother around to the grocery store, farm stand, bank, and butcher. Today also happened to be shower day. She sat naked on the shower chair and I scrubbed her wrinkled body. As I handed her a face cloth she looked up at me and said, “What is this for?” I smiled and said to myself, “CALL ME!”
-- Jane
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Sister Theobald was not helpless even though she had poor eyesight. I was down on my belly on the boat dock up to my shoulders in lake water when I heard, “Chain! Chain!” How she ever knew it was me from that distance I will never know. I swear she could recognize me in a sandstorm.
Not many of us ever got to see the inside of this pretty little cottage. We were used to the rustic cabins with exposed beams and walls, so walking into a "regular house" during the summer felt strange.
POSTED July 13, 2010 REMEMBERING SISTER THEOBALD
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POSTED July 18, 2010 LEFT ON
The 1950’s were New York Baseball’s golden years. The NY Yankees won six World Series and the Brooklyn Dodgers were still in Brooklyn. Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Roger Marris and Casey Stengel were all stars.
And for sixty years a sport invented inHolyoke MA was going strong as well.Volleyball, a cross between tennis and handball, attracted people who wanted a sport less rough than basketball. It was a sport that took off in yards and beaches throughout the country.
I’ll be the first to admit, although I loved to play any sport as a child - stick ball, softball, baseball, hockey, dodge ball, kick ball and bowling – I was never a star. I never got picked first, second, third, fourth or fifth for any team unless that was the maximum number of players you could have. You see, I was the awkward left handed kid.
Sister Conrad had a feeling something needed to change in order for me to have a better camp experience. After I was sidelined again and again Sister Conrad decided it was time for a little pep talk. Walking around to the back of the Intermediate Cabin she showed me “The Net.” Standing on one side she popped a twelve inch round white ball over it in my direction. I hit it and it went over to the other side. Simple. No right or left hand was left out of the move. Perhaps I could learn this sport. Why not? I didn’t see a bench and felt there was nothing to lose.
I had never heard of the sport of Volleyball before nor held one of those spheres of white. But the more I played I learned I was born for the serve. An ambidextrous sport, you batted the ball that came your way using both hands, with fingers extended skyward, over the net to the opposing team. The teams rotated, rotated until each team member became the server. After a while I realized that the server's place was my Mecca. I had a left hand advantage.
My forearm is so strong and accurate and I can put that round white ball anyplace I want. And my teammates know it. I can spike, block, pass, set up the attack and go in for the kill. It’s the only sport with language that gives me power. I’m on the court with my two biggest opponents - Susan McLaughlin and Kathy. Susan’s the “Best All Round Camper” and Kathy the tallest kid in camp. Susan serves to my side. “Boom.” The ball hits me in the temple and knocks me to the grass. Silence. Then we rotate. My turn to serve from behind the baseline.
Kathy is on the other side of the net stretching her spine to grow even taller. I serve right at Kathy. Kathy uses her special forearm pass. I run to the net and spike that thing right to the ground in between Susan and Kathy. Cheers!!! An Olympic Gold Medal? Nah. Not an Olympic sport yet! Just Jane playin’ on a Saturday with her friends and gettin’ some respect!
The key to my success on the Volleyball court was this. Confidence in myself, finding something I could do well and doing it, and having someone who believed in me. No sense trying to be the lousiest player on the baseball team or the swimmer who could swallow the most lake water. Using this as a template for my adult life it has made me a confident Bereavement Counselor, Retreat Director, Fund Raiser, Volunteer Coordinator, Human Resource Administrator and yes, THE BEST LEFT HANDED WOMAN GOLFER in South Hadley. Perhaps it is no coincidence that I live just across the Bridge from the Birthplace of Volleyball and the Volleyball Hall of Fame - Holyoke, MA.
--Jane
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POSTED August 5th, 2010 A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
Sister Rose and Father Al were our movie conspirators. God only knows where they got the cracked and flickering films that they showed us on Friday nights in the Rec Hall and, God only knows how they kept that clacking projector alive at all. The campers sat on folding chairs or on the floor in front of the screen while Sister Rose and Father Al threaded the film onto the rollers of the projector. Once that was done a counselor blew her whistle and the room went silent. Sister Terentia flipped down the light switches, and the film began to roll.
-- Jane________________________________________
POSTED August 8, 2010 SOME LIKE IT...COOL
If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back? Steven Wright
If you’re going to talk to me about global warming you better talk fast because I am melting faster than a glacier. The summer of 2010 is one of the hottest on record in New England. My car thermometer registered a staggering 114 degrees last week in the parking lot at work and my back yard looks as if it went up in flames shortly after. The brown patches outnumber the green ten to one. I’m afraid all of the propane tanks in the neighborhood are going to explode on the same night sending hot dogs skyward like the rockets’ red glare.
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POSTED July 12, 2010 THE SAINTLY SISTERS OF SAINT AGNES CAMP
I am not saying anything bad about nuns. Sure I’ve had my hand sliced by a metal ruler, erasers thrown at me, been humiliated at the blackboard and made to sit alone in a classroom without lunch because I left it at home. Not a big deal. I don’t hold it against “them.” Not all of them. There comes a time when you just have to say, “Get on with your life! They are all DEAD!”
The nun stories I want to share will be stories of the women in white who helped shape my life and guide my spirit in the hills of upstate NY.
In 1959 I was ten. I watched Castro take over Cuba on our fourteen inch Zenith. The Sound of Music was playing on Broadway staring my original, androgynous hero MARY MARTIN now playing a NUN! And I was on my way to singing in different hills – the hills of Wurtsboro NY. Oh, and then there was Barbie. She was born that year but I think I left her tied up to a toy tank in my back yard as we chugged up the Thruway in our ‘48 Dodge.
There were thirteen ten year old girls in the Junior Cabin located on the left side of the camp. We were ending our babyhood in a very cool place. The Juniors were not rebellious, loud, angry. We were sweet, took our naps during rest period, picked up the dust bunnies from the floor every morning and every morning passed inspection.
The Nun assigned to our cabin listened to the call of God and became a Dominican Sister. Good thing. She was four feet tall, hunched back, coke bottle glasses, came from Germany, smelled of bees wax and sauerkraut and called me “Chain.” Her name was Sister Theobald, OP. Order of Preachers. And she loved us. She would have made the best Mom except for…well never mind. When our gym suits and sox (pined together with safety pins) came back to us from the laundry they were usually wrinkled from the hot industrial dryer. Sister Theobald loved to iron. Along with ironing all of the nun’s habits, altar linens, sheets, and vestments she ironed all of our clothing each and every week. We were the envy of the camp - the only campers to have pleated skirts. When you walked into the Junior Cabin the steamy, starchy smell of that hot iron was adrift in the air.
That year the Lice Infestation made a hero out of Sister Theobald. Fine tooth comb in one hand, liquid lice killer in the other she meticulously RAKED through our thirteen heads with that comb not once but twice. All the while I could hear her singing a very quiet German lullaby.
Clean, neat, God.
-- Jane
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POSTED July 13, 2010 THE OFFICE
Sister Theobald was not helpless even though she had poor eyesight. I was down on my belly on the boat dock up to my shoulders in lake water when I heard, “Chain! Chain!” How she ever knew it was me from that distance I will never know. I swear she could recognize me in a sandstorm.
My parents were very good to the nuns in the off season. Many a Saturday morning the phone would ring just as my parents were finalizing their weekend plans. "Mr. Bubnis? Sister Theobald needs to get fitted for shoes. Mr. Bubnis? Sister Terentia needs to visit her brother who is ill. Mr. Bubnis? Can you take us out to lunch?" Mom and Dad never said "no." So I got to see Sister Theobald often throughout the year. To return the kindness, I became Sister Theobald's chosen one.
I was on that boat dock trying to rescue my life saving can of 6-12 bug repellent. It had fallen into the drink while I exited the row boat. All the other campers were on their way back to the cabin, but I was one inch away from that can at the bottom of the lake.
Having gone to camp without it the first year proved disastrous since the mosquitoes took a liking to my eyelids most every night. Three days into my first year at St. Agnes and I had to call my parents to ask for whatever it was that could keep them away. This year I was fortified with several cans alongside my extra tooth brush in the cubby hole so I decided to leave this one for the frogs and heed Sister Theobald’s call.
I looked over toward the “Office” where she was standing and all I could see was a sail of white cloth in the wind. Her white cotton stockings were exposed to the thigh. If it wasn’t for her oxford “nun shoes” she would have been taken aloft like a pigeon.
When I arrived at her side she took me by the hand and led me into the main office – Sister Terentia’s Fortress. Many a homesick camper exited through the door of this office into a waiting car never to be seen again. But I was far from homesick.
Not many of us ever got to see the inside of this pretty little cottage. We were used to the rustic cabins with exposed beams and walls, so walking into a "regular house" during the summer felt strange.Baskets of clean laundry lined the living room and barely audible music played on the radio. Cute little gingham curtains fluttered in the breeze and I loved it. Sister Theobald sat me down at the dining room table, a place reserved only for Sister Terentia and her brother, Father Al.
Father Al was the camp chaplain. He said Mass, heard confession, offered Benediction, said grace before meals. He lived in another summer cottage next to the chapel. He was the exact opposite of Sister Terentia who was the camp administrator. She was tough, feared, respected. He was happy, a jokester and light hearted. Sister Theobald served them both. After all, she was called to be the servant of servants.
Father Al was famous for his hikes, ghost stories, camp fires and eating. It is not a surprise that as us city kids were at camp losing weight, he was there gaining.
(Ok - We interrupt this little story to bring you the history of Peanut Butter according to Jane. Peanuts – George Washington Carver, Charles Shultz, Billy Carter (sorry, that was beer), Jimmy Carter, Plains Georgia, PETER PAN (all the better) and Jelly – grape, Welch’s, purple, delicious.
Before I was ten I never even knew about PB &J. It was something to be thrown out, traded or eaten by the kids who were poor. I had my first peanut butter and jelly sandwich at St. Agnes Camp. Heaven on white bread. A little square of delicioso surrounded by crust with jelly bleeding through squashed bread in wax paper - all stuffed in a little brown bag. Best brought on hikes, stuffed in pockets and eaten as often as possible. Apparently, Father Al thought the same.)
Among the baskets of pillow cases and sheets on the floor there was one filled with "mending." My mother never mended anything so it is a mystery that I even recognized a sewing basket, but there it was in the middle of the table.
“Chain, help me thread this needle.” Apparently it took the eyes of an eleven year old to accomplish this task. Good thing no one ever told her but by age seven all of my childhood mentors had given up teaching me anything that required dexterity. I was a left handed klutz in a right handed world. In school I was forced to write with my right hand, but at camp no one knew and no one cared. “I have to move the button on Father Al’s trousers. Too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” She watched, and was carful not to be impatient when it took me a few tries to get the button thread to go through that little hole. “Thank you. You are a good goil.”
Moments later we were sharing milk and cookies the likes of which were never seen by a St. Agnes Camper. If Sister Terentia had counted out the cookies in the morning I wonder if she wondered where they went? Looking back though, I think that Sister Theobald could have managed that little needle all by herself. But it was such a beautiful day, in the beautiful hills, during a beautiful summer. Perfect for sharing some quiet time with a friend.
Safe in the Sacred Sewing Circle.
-- Jane
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POSTED July 13, 2010 REMEMBERING SISTER THEOBALD
I can’t tell you how many things were wrong with her because all that was exposed was her face from the bridge of her nose to her chin, and her hands. The thick white habit couldn’t hide the bump on her back and it was obvious that her feet pointed east and west. Her crooked smile revealed her crooked teeth and her thick glasses made her eyes look like giant mud pies.
She was so short that it wasn’t long before I could look down at her head covered in the black veil. The bones of her head were crooked too.
I don’t know how many floors she washed with Pine Sol, how many habits she bleached with Clorox or how many toilets she scrubbed with Dutch Cleanser. But every one of those tasks was written in the cracks of her hands. She never hesitated to hug us and to touch us.
I received an email from the Archivist of the Dominicans of Amityville today. "Unfortunately, we have nothing in our files relating to the camp or to listings of Sisters who served there.”
How sad.
-- Jane
POSTED July 18, 2010 LEFT ON
The 1950’s were New York Baseball’s golden years. The NY Yankees won six World Series and the Brooklyn Dodgers were still in Brooklyn. Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Roger Marris and Casey Stengel were all stars.
I’ll be the first to admit, although I loved to play any sport as a child - stick ball, softball, baseball, hockey, dodge ball, kick ball and bowling – I was never a star. I never got picked first, second, third, fourth or fifth for any team unless that was the maximum number of players you could have. You see, I was the awkward left handed kid.
The ball fields at St. Agnes were a place of freedom and fun but I couldn't leave my left handedness back in Queens so the torture continued. The team captains always chose me last. It was a given that I could easily strike out or miss catching a fly ball. If there was a bench I spent most of my time there, but at least I got some fresh air.
Sister Mary Conrad, OP, was the cabin nun in our Intermediate Cabin. Unlike the nuns who were around all summer to keep control of the campers or to spend quiet time studying or reading holy books, Sister Conrad was a social being. She liked being with kids. Tall, tanned and wearing the signature rimless glasses she was young, athletic, and could not stand to be idle. She was often seen standing behind home plate with her white habit tucked into her black belt yelling, “Yer out sweetheart!,” or rowing in a race around the lake with oars hardly making a splash.
I had never heard of the sport of Volleyball before nor held one of those spheres of white. But the more I played I learned I was born for the serve. An ambidextrous sport, you batted the ball that came your way using both hands, with fingers extended skyward, over the net to the opposing team. The teams rotated, rotated until each team member became the server. After a while I realized that the server's place was my Mecca. I had a left hand advantage.
My forearm is so strong and accurate and I can put that round white ball anyplace I want. And my teammates know it. I can spike, block, pass, set up the attack and go in for the kill. It’s the only sport with language that gives me power. I’m on the court with my two biggest opponents - Susan McLaughlin and Kathy. Susan’s the “Best All Round Camper” and Kathy the tallest kid in camp. Susan serves to my side. “Boom.” The ball hits me in the temple and knocks me to the grass. Silence. Then we rotate. My turn to serve from behind the baseline.
The key to my success on the Volleyball court was this. Confidence in myself, finding something I could do well and doing it, and having someone who believed in me. No sense trying to be the lousiest player on the baseball team or the swimmer who could swallow the most lake water. Using this as a template for my adult life it has made me a confident Bereavement Counselor, Retreat Director, Fund Raiser, Volunteer Coordinator, Human Resource Administrator and yes, THE BEST LEFT HANDED WOMAN GOLFER in South Hadley. Perhaps it is no coincidence that I live just across the Bridge from the Birthplace of Volleyball and the Volleyball Hall of Fame - Holyoke, MA.
--Jane
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POSTED August 5th, 2010 A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
When my father was a child in the 1920’s and ‘30’s he lived and breathed the movies. My grandparents were more than happy to have him out of the house on a Saturday afternoon so they would give him the ten cents for a ticket just to shoo him away. When they couldn’t afford the dime my father would get out his shoe-shine kit and stand on the street corner. Polishing five pairs of shoes got him the money to see features like Tarzan the Ape Man, The Great Ziegfeld, Morocco and Cimarron and especially movies with those funny men, The Marx Brothers. The Cocoanuts, Animal Crackers, Monkey Business, Horse Feathers, Duck Soup. For my father, life in the theater was a lot better than life at home. When he wasn’t in the hospital having surgery on his withered polio leg, he was at the movies. When he wasn’t carrying his drunken father home form Coney Island, he was at the movies. When he wasn’t getting piano lessons like his younger sister, he was at the movies.
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| Marx Brother's House on 134th Street, Richmond Hill, Queens, NY |
When I was a child growing up in Queens we just so happened to live on the exact same block that the Marx Brothers called home in the 1920’s. My father thought that was a great legacy. It’s no surprise that when I was able to at least stand my father took me to movies. And I dare say it wasn’t only to entertainme. When my mother started washing her hair on a Saturday morning it was the cue to head off to the Savoy Theater on Jamaica Avenue to see twenty one cartoons and a triple feature. We were both out of her bobby pins and curly hair and into a world of escape.
Most of the humor of a Marx Brother’s movie was lost on the little kids. We loved to see Harpo chase after the girls and honk his horn but the sharp witted dialogue was too much for children. My father was always laughing in the aisle but I was content to be with him and to munch on Sugar Babies or French Burnt Peanuts.
When I was ten, summers were no longer fun for me in Queens and for seven years summer camp became my life. It was quite good fortune for me to find out that, at St. Agnes Camp, there was movie night! The 1960’s brought fame to Hollywood with films like Psycho, To Kill a Mockingbird, West Side Story and Lawrence of Arabia, but at our camp first run features were never shown.
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| Rec Hall |
Did Father Al call my Father?? Was there a secret meeting to discuss the funniest movies of all time?? What was that up on that screen? The Marx Brothers in A Night at the Opera!
Groucho: And now on with the Opera. Let joy be unconfined. Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor.
Audience of campers: No laughter.
Nuns and Father Al: Laughing in the aisle.
Lassparri: Never in my life have I received such treatment. They threw an apple at me.
Groucho: Well watermelons are out of season.
Audience of campers: No laughter.
Nuns and Father Al: Laughing in the aisle.
Groucho: Was that a High C or a Vitamin D?
Audience of campers: No laughter.
Nuns and Father Al: Laughing in the aisle.
Halfway through the movie the “Babies” and “Juniors” were asleep on the wooden floor. When it came time to switch the film to the second reel, the counselors gently scooped them up and carried them off into the night to their cabins and little cots. The rest of us were allowed to buy another six cent candy bar and to return to our chairs for the rest of the movie.
That night I chose the Sugar Babies. When the second reel of film began winding through the series of rollers and lights went out I moved to the vacant chair next to Father Al.
Officer: What is that bed doing over there?
Groucho: I don’t see it doing anything.
Audience of campers: No laughter.
Nuns and Father Al: Laughing in the aisle.
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| Savoy Theater, Jamaica NY |
Me: Sitting next to Father Al and eating Sugar Babies, remembering the Savoy and hearing my Father laughing in the aisle.
-- Jane
POSTED August 8, 2010 SOME LIKE IT...COOL
If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back? Steven Wright
My neighbor’s pool is solar heated and they haven’t been able to swim in it since June because the water temperature will cause instant sterilization and they are trying to start a family.
A heat wave is at least three consecutive days over ninety degrees. A heat stroke is me mowing the lawn any time after 9:00 am.
Crazy, I know. This is New England. You would think anywhere south of DC would be having this problem but this year we are competing against Texas and Death Valley.
Our little camp was nestled in the hills of Wurtsboro, NY. Fresh, clean mountain air. I don’t ever remembering being hot. We spent the mornings on the Rec Hall porch assembling our popsicle stick picture frames and pot holders. And in the afternoon we headed off to the lake in our bathing suits and bathing caps to swim, jump and dive into the ice cold spring fed lake.
In the 60’s the only hot I remember is Some Like It Hot, Raisin in the Sun and Come On Baby Light My Fire. But August in the mountains was different from August in the city and in the Connecticut Valley where I now live.
The days and nights were perfect. Well – the days were perfect, anyway. In August the sun must have taken a turn toward Autumn because I remember a definite change in climate after sundown.
The little knotty pine cabins had no insulation. What the days were like outside was what the days were like inside. Same with the nights. An eighty five degree day was fine inside and out but a fifty degree night was murder.
Each of our cots was equipped with a top and bottom white sheet and one wool Army blanket sufficient for the first six weeks of summer but absolutely insufficient for weeks seven and eight.
At dinner the chill was already in the air and at flag lowering our bare arms and legs resembled chicken skin. “Day is done. Gone the Sun…” and all I could think of was tucking myself under that blanket, slipping out of my shorts and tee shirt and changing into my flannel pajamas and sox. By now we had perfected the Houdini–like trick of changing under the covers. Thirteen campers hidden under blankets wiggling out of one outfit into another.
But sleep was impossible when all of my muscles stiffened up in order to preserve whatever heat had baked into my body that day.
Our cabin nun that year was the timid and shy Sister Marion. She was not the least bit pushy but she cared about our comfort. After hearing teeth chattering for a few nights she got creative and like a spy who came in from the cold collected all of the extra Army blankets from all over the camp. She may have even raided the guest house trunks to see what she could find.
On a particularly cold night while all of us were covered passed the eyebrows in wool she came around with her special delivery. Cot and camper after cot and camper were additionally covered by one two three four extra blankets. The crushing weight of all of that wool kept us from floating away on the night air. As we drifted off into sleep with the faint smell of moth balls wafting through the cabin none of us looked forward to returning to the city and the still unbearably hot sidewalks of New York.
We wanted this dream to last forever.
-- Jane
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POSTED December 1st, 2010 WAX BEANS
It is Thanksgiving 2010. I am at my neighbor’s house. We share this special day of giving thanks with each other every year. Thanksgiving dinner, turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, butternut squash, brussel sprouts. A traditional New England delight. Somewhere between “pass the potatoes” and “mmmm this is good” I notice the absence of a distasteful little delicacy detested by adults and children alike – wax beans. During this pause I get a tiny little hit of nostalgia and a giant flashback. Wax beans were featured only briefly at dinner in the Dining Hall at St. Agnes Camp.
As the Workers picked up our plates and returned them to the kitchen I sensed that a plan was already being formed to make “Waste Not Want Not” a motto to live by for all campers past, present and future.
The following day at 5:30pm the Workers delivered a delicious meal of roast chicken, creamed corn and a clump of yellow mush smelling exactly like the wax beans of yesterday. “EEEEEEWWWWWWW” cried the campers! Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Gallagher appeared in the doorway, wide eyed and incredulous. A half an hour later the Workers picked up our plates and scooted off to the kitchen. We were all dismissed as usual to the flag lowering ceremony and ground clean-up. But that evening the lights remained on in the kitchen way after dark.
At breakfast on Tuesday all of us campers were given quart sized plastic containers and told that the blueberries were ripe for picking. We were led up to the fragrant hill covered with wild blueberry bushes around eight inches high. Our chore was to pick the ripe wild blueberries and eat some too. We were told that Mrs. Gallagher had a wonderful dessert planned that we would remember for the rest of our lives. So we all went to work picking and eating and by lunchtime our fingers and lips were all blue. In addition to being kissed by the sun on a warm and breezy August day we had filled up all of our containers and happily skipped back to camp to wash up and play jacks on our cabin floor for a few hours after lunch.
At 5:30 that evening the usual cracking 45 rpm recording of “Come and Get Your Beans” sounded through the loud speaker attached to the roof of Sister Terentia’s office. This evening that song would have a particularly significant meaning.
With a broad smile on her face Mrs. Watson declared, “Blueberry Cobbler for Everyone!” All eighty campers, sixteen counselors, ten workers, and eight nuns rose from the chairs in the dining hall and thundered a huge cheer in the direction of Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Gallagher.
Wax beans, warm, weird, wonderful.
-- Jane
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