Miriam Hitchcock (Crawford) Remembers Girl’s Camp

I was ten years old my first summer at camp. For our camp uniform, Mom would order 3 pairs of red and 1 pair of white Bobbie Brooks mid thigh poplin shorts with a zipper and button in the back and crisp seams in the front from Dunavant’s Department Store in Huntsville, AL. Dunavant’s also carried the Camp Dunroamin logo T-shirts that were a part of our uniform. Just pull on your white bobby socks and lace up those new white Keds and you were ready to represent Camp Dunroamin to strangers. On special occasions we were required to dress in uniform. Visitors Day, which was at the end of the third week we were there, we dressed up, also when we were traveling . The last week of camp we would all file into a school bus from Lincoln County and head to Fall Creek Falls for a three day camping experience. That area was very familiar to me, so I felt as though I was almost back home. For the next two summers I would repeat my camp experience.

On your first day of camp you were assigned to a clan. These clans, Chiggers, Knats and Fleas, would compete against one another for the entire four weeks of camp. The clan garnering the greatest number of points by month’s end was thrown a party by the two losing clans. Hence, everything became a competition. Daily each camper could turn in 25 points for her clan score if she did her morning chores, made her bed, brushed her teeth at the outside water spicket, attended all her classes and didn’t spill her drink at any of the meals. Bonus points could be earned by individuals who were observed being helpful. When Mr. Jimmy would return from town with groceries in his ‘58 Chevy station wagon, any camper within ear shot of the gravel road in front of his office would come running to be helpful and unload. Seems like I was always somewhere else and seldom ever earned extra points. It looked to me as though the same sweet, overachievers would just happen to be at the right place at the right time to deserve the extra points. Clan competition was also a way to boost your team score. After supper each evening we held clan meetings in our own secret place. Here we handed in our points for the day, received our chore assignment for the next day (it might be sweeping porches, or straightening the rocks that lined the woodland paths, or, heaven forbid, cleaning the library—our outhouse). At this time we also practiced for our clan song or play that would have to presented on the appointed night. Almost daily, there would be games where we would compete against each other. On rainy days, it might be an indoor scavenger hunt at the Pavilion.

Each morning, after our daily flag raising ceremony and pledge to the flag we would attend our assigned classes in rotation. My first class was often swimming. Growing up on a farm, where your swimming lessons were in either a watering trough, or a leech infested pond, well, let’s just say that I was not as prepared as most of the other girls with proper swim strokes. I often developed a stomach ache before that class and would be sent to the infirmary. I learned that nerves and dread could create a stomach ache. But usually I had to stick it out. Before entering the water, each camper would strip down on a concrete patio open communal area out deep in the woods, (we thought it was private until one year, we noticed a preteen boy from up on the hill out in the woods watching us. I wonder how long that had been going on before we noticed?). Each girl was required to jump in front of the cold-water-only shower head and soap up with a washcloth, rinse, and then suit up for the swim class. The smell of Dial soap today takes me back to that shivering experience that would instantly require my exuding great gasps of air from deep within my lungs to counter the cold water flooding over my little body. I say flooding, but if I remember correctly, I would often just put my foot in for the flooding part. For the rest of my body, it was more like a quick run through a sprinkler accompanied by a token effort at washing the rest of me. Put on that Janzen whole piece bathing suit and it was time to climb the rough hewn limestone steps to the concrete pool. Wow! was that water cold at 9am. We were instructed by Red Cross certified counselors. Jump into the deep end and give them 15 bobs to begin with. In those days, everyone was required to wear a rubber swim cap with a strap under the chin that snapped to the other side. We all looked like we were ready for the Olympics. Over the weeks, some of us would learn a pretty impressive water ballet that we would perform on Parent’s Visitors Day. After working really hard my first year, I passed the Advanced Beginners level. Second year, I passed Intermediate. My last year, I just wasn’t strong enough to pass the Swimmers level, so I was awarded another posthumous rank of Intermediate. I remember struggling to tread water in the deep end while Miss Debbie would count time on her watch. That watch had to be running slow. How could anyone possibly tread water for 10 minutes, even if she was singing “The stars at night, are big and bright, clap, clap, clap, clap, deep in the heart of Texas? The sun is bright, the world’s alright, clap,clap,clap,clap, deep in the heart of Texas?” The song was intended to help the time pass quickly. It didn’t work for me. As an adult in McMinnville, I finally attended summer evening classes and gained the skills required to pass my Swimmers test. A personal goal fulfilled. Upon exiting the pool at Dunroamin, we would stand line for the routine of alcohol in the ears to avoid ear infections.

After swimming, I would walk up the hill to the tennis court. Carrying my wooden tennis racquet in tow, it was firmly secured into a square or x-shaped press to keep the head from warping, I was ready to be instructed in proper form for forehand, backhand, serving, and learning basic tennis rules. I was never one of the best, but the skills I gained there have followed me and led to my love of the game today. On the circular path leading back towards the main camp was the archery range. You always wanted to get the leather protective strap on your left inner arm before shooting or you would be sorry. I’ll have to say that I was not too bad at archery. After lunch my afternoon classes would usually be badminton and arts and crafts. Those were located side by side. Badminton was fun. I haven’t played that in years, but I loved it. I have heard that my name and address is on the wall in the craft cabin to this day. I don’t remember writing it there. I am sure that would have been an infraction worthy of point loss. I could always say, [and probably did] that someone else wrote it there. It is interesting that I, or whoever did it, included my home town. Although Rock Island is actually just a small community rather than a town. One thing we were required to learn and pass off for points at camp was being able to recite each camper’s name and hometown. Elaine Eslick, Pulaski, TN, Libby Motlow, Lynchburg, TN, Patti Vogel, Cullman, AL, Laura Lester, Pulaski, TN. Those are a few of the names that come easily to mind for me. In the art cabin we would make gimp creations. Learning how to plaid with four strands of gimp and cover a metal clothes hanger taught me a specialized braid that I would use on my daughter Kelly’s hair years later that no one could duplicate. The braided hair would wind up round like a rope rather than flat. Pretty neat. We also made key chains, round reed baskets and tried our hand at mosaic ash trays. My creative eye was slow to develop, so the fruit of most of my efforts wound up in drawers somewhere once I returned home. In the afternoon, we would have some free time to do whatever we wished. Swimming for fun usually won out.

Meal times were the best. Our large, round, black southern cook, Annie Mat, could cook like no other. When the bell would ring for mealtime, we would hurriedly wash our hands at the outside water pipe, then assemble in line outside the dining hall. I think we rotated our place in line by lodge, upper, middle, or lower. We would always sing our grace in rounds before entering the dining room. “For health and strength and food and friends we give thee thanks Oh Lord” repeated three times, then an Amen at the end. Breakfast was sometimes small boxed individual cereals. I liked Sugar Smacks or Sugar Pops the best. Other times we would have scrambled eggs and bacon or sausage and toast, maybe pancakes and canned peaches or pears. A few times we would have Annie Mat’s homemade biscuits with butter and jelly. Wow! Were they good. A few of the older girls would get into biscuit eating contests to see who could down the most. If I remember correctly, something under 20 was the record while I was there. We would be assigned a table to eat at for the week. Over the course of the month, you would have sat with and gotten to know all of the campers there. I think there were about 30 girls per year. The food was served family style with about eight people per table. We usually drank water or milk. If you knocked over your drink or broke a plate or bowl, you lost points for your team. One of my favorite meals was affectionately named Gearish Goulash. This was a concoction, something like Spanish rice, only with macaroni. The mixture of ground beef, green pepper, onion and tomato, along with whatever spices she used I have never been able to duplicate. Macaroni beef sauté has been my closest effort. Sunday dinner was always the same, chicken and dumplings, noodles, dressing, vegetables and some wonderful dessert. We usually had a dessert once a day. Annie Mat’s pies were especially delicious. Her apple rhubarb pie was to die for.

I can still remember the greatest surprise of my first year at camp. Many of my friends in the middle lodge were comic book fans. I had never bought a comic book in my life. My parents would not spend money on that. The other girls would share so I learned that Archie and Veronica wound up being pretty cool. On the Sunday that my parents would be allowed to visit, I was laying around reading the comics. It was really no big deal, if my parents came or if they didn’t. I had made it fine and we would be going home in a week anyway. A lot of the girls had been homesick, but not me. Some had even been longing all week to see their parents at last. Sheesh, what wimps. Where was their backbone? They must be tied to the apron string and all that stuff. I thought I would walk outside, just in case my parents did come. Way down the gravel road, I recognized my Mom and Dad walking my way. Something strange overcame me. I began running as fast as I could toward them, crying as I ran. I threw myself into my father’s arms as he reached out to pick up my petite ten year old frame. I didn’t know I had missed them! I didn’t know how precious they were to me. I couldn’t understand the tears that just kept flowing after they had to go back home. In just a few short hours they were covered in chiggers as were the rest of us. Something surprising happened to me that day. I didn’t know I had those feelings within me. I’m glad I learned that. I am now in my later 50’s and my Dad is 87. I have never forgotten that moment, and neither has my Dad.

I did alright in the classes, but the social area is where I was deficient. I remember telling a new camper that I met on my last year there that she would like me at first, but after she got to know me she wouldn’t. I didn’t like myself a lot on those early years, so it followed that I had trouble being a good friend to others. I tended to evaluate most situations from the angle of ‘how can I come out on top and get what I want’. I see that in some of my grandchildren now and know where they get it. I hope that over the years, I have modified my behavior to be more pleasing and genteel when it comes to others. That has been my goal anyway. Those early years at Camp Dunroamin taught me many things I have never forgotten. I am quite sure that if I had not been quite as disagreeable a child, like little Mary in The Secret Garden, I would have enjoyed the total camp experience and my childhood much more. It is amazing, what a lasting influence that camp and those summertime experiences have had in my life. Maybe my Mother somehow knew that would happen. Maybe she wasn’t just thinking of all the things she could do if she got rid of me for a month after all. Maybe she was wiser than I ever knew. I’m thankful that she was. Thanks Mom, and thanks Dunroamin for all the memories.

Miriam Hitchcock [Crawford],
Rock Island, TN, Camp Dunroamin 1962, 63 and 64.

Camp Dunroamin was created by Third Act Films, who produce video biography and commissioned documentary productions.