On the rocky shores of Lake Fairlee,
Stands a bungalow that’s dear to me.
Sunbeams seek its portals early;
Moonbeams shed their luster pearly.
Water laps a gentle lullaby;
Pines are sentinels that reach the sky.
Breezes wave a gentle sigh,
For you Lochearn Camp.
My older sister wanted to be an actress. She did not care about going to college. She did not want to join the Junior Women’s Club. She did not want to go to debutante dances. But most of all, my sister did not want to go to camp. I wanted all of those things, but most of all, after visiting her there, I wanted to go to Lochearn Camp.
Established more than 100 years ago, Lochearn was––and still is––a bastion of righteousness and tradition. Prospective families are no longer interviewed in their homes as they were 65 years ago, and the website now shows signs of racial and ethnic diversity, but back then, campers were white, preferably Protestant, and from “good” families. My father heard about Lochearn from a fellow commuter on the train from New York City to our town in Connecticut. The camp was everything he aspired to for our upwardly mobile family (prestigious, exclusive, expensive), and he decided my sister would go.
As we pulled our Country Squire into the parking lot, counselors in crisp white blouses and navy blue shorts, with Lochearn Plaids draped across their chests, scurried to carry my sister’s trunk and help her to her cabin, I felt a rush of desire. I wanted to wear the uniform my sister hated; I wanted one of those plaid sashes; I wanted to be part of this community of shiny–faced girls and perfectly orthodontured smiles.
My sister lasted one season and refused to go back, but a few years later, it was my turn. The trip to Lake Fairlee, Vermont, from Stamford, Connecticut, was eight hours of narrow windy roads, so my parents opted to send me via the camp train. Packed with campers going to destinations all over Vermont, the train was hot and overwhelming, but we sang camp songs, shared snacks, picked up gossip––which were the best cabins; who were the best counselors–– and made early claims on friendships. By the time we reached White River Junction where a bus waited to take us the rest of the way, we were giddy with a combination of excitement and exhaustion. At each stop we sang to the departing campers:
“Camp Farwell (Aloha) (Brown Ledge) (Norway); Camp Farwell.
We are singing, our praises ringing.
We will never find your equal;
Camp Farwell, here’s to you.”
Lochearn was just as I remembered it. The grounds were perfectly manicured, the lake sparkled in the sun, and the cabins looked fresh and inviting nestled along paths through the woods. Years later, I would bring my own daughter and then my granddaughter to Lochearn, and each time, I was struck by its image of pristine perfection, the traditions I remembered from the middle of the last century continuing generations later.
There were four girls in our cabin, plus our counselor, Greta Perkins, a beautiful blond we called Perky. My memory of her is fuzzy; she was an adult to our circle of four kids, cool, a little distant. I can still picture the other girls in my cabin, but not their names. I wish I could––they were my sisters for four weeks, cohorts in late night chats, sneaking smuggled candy and cookies, comforting, consoling, and cheering one another. One of the girls, I think her name was Cheryl, and I became best friends. We signed up for activities together, sang a duet in the talent show and were waterfront buddies.
Our swimming skills were indicated by the color of our bathing caps, red, yellow or green. To earn a yellow cap, you had to be able to swim 250 yards, tread water for five minutes, dive under eight feet of water and retrieve a rock, dive from the diving board, and finally, be flipped over in a canoe fully clothed, remove your sneakers and tie them to the canoe, turn the canoe upright and climb back in. I was a skittish swimmer, but I was determined to shed that red beginner’s cap. The waterfront counselor rooted me on through each phase of the test over the first couple of weeks of camp. I was never prouder than when I could squash my hair into a hard–earned yellow cap.
The cabin next to ours had six bunks, and during free periods we would sometimes join the girls next door to play games or listen to music and dance. Their counselor was the opposite of Perky; Janna was friendly and fun to be around. She took a real interest in us, teaching us to dance, talking to us about our activities, cheering us up when we were bored or homesick. She was the one who convinced me I could pass the swim test and patiently taught me how to succeed at each skill.
One day she wasn’t there. We didn’t know where she had gone; she just wasn’t there, and she didn’t come back. Our questions were met with vague answers. One of the staff took over her cabin and the days rolled on. Shortly after, Cheryl and I were called before the camp director and told we were not to hold hands or walk with our arms around each other anymore. Why? I felt blindsided. Mine was a family of huggers and hand–holders; I didn’t understand why there was suddenly something wrong with that, why I was being made to feel ashamed. We asked Perky, and she said we should try to be friendly with everyone, not just each other. We thought we had been.
Cheryl and I remained friends, though now at arms’ length. I swam and dived in my yellow cap; I learned to swing forehand and backhand; I trotted and posted and cantered; I made a little coil bowl; my arrow hit the bullseye––well, almost. Not much really changed, and then we hugged and cried and lugged our trunks and ran into our parents’ arms and parted ways. I didn’t go back the next year. My father discouraged it––by then he was drinking heavily and having money problems, and I was over camp, happy to hang out at the nearby beach with my friends.
It was some years later that my mother told me my favorite counselor had been sent away on suspicion of being gay––fired and shipped out. By then I knew what homosexuality was, though I certainly hadn’t known as a little girl at camp. It all seemed unfair, but I admit I didn’t give it much thought. By then, I had my own issues, and that had been a different time. Now though, I wonder what exactly comprises “suspicion of being gay.” Was it the way she wore her clothes, the liberal college she attended, a stray word she let drop when she was out in town with the other counselors? Had one of the uptight preppy 20–year–olds complained that she wasn’t the right type? How did the director confront her? How had she responded? Ashamed? I hope she held her head up, proud of who she was, whoever she was. All I know for sure is that I thought––we all thought––she was the best, most dedicated and most respectful of all the counselors at Lochearn Camp that summer.
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