Summer camp

After talking with my dad last weekend, it seems I had several misconceptions about him while I was growing up.

We had a large family: four boys, one girl, two dogs, and a green parakeet that ate hushpuppies off Dad’s head. The first misconception was the reason we had a garden every year. I thought it was for additional food to feed the family. Come to find out, this was not the reason Dad spent so much time in the backyard.

It was true that Dad had a lot of mouths to feed and not much money. That’s why every year he had a large garden. The backyard at 110 Flamingo Street bellied out into a swamp. Dad always had his garden in the large, open, sunny space just in front of it. The dirt was black as soot pots, and just about anything would grow there.

He’d spend 30 minutes every night and hours out there on the weekends working, pulling weeds, staking up the tomatoes, stringing up beans, picking the vegetables — all to feed his hungry family.

Or so I thought. Seems Dad had plenty of money to feed us after all. He told me the truth last weekend. He spent all of that time in the garden just for a little peace of mind – and a few moments away from the problems associated with bringing up four boys and one girl.

The second misconception was even more startling than the first — the real reason why we were all in competitive sports.

For five years, the entire time we attended Briarwood, home of the mighty Buccaneers, we went from football to wrestling and to track with not a three-day break between them. “Stay in sports year round, and you’ll stay in shape year-round,” Dad always said.

Staying in shape wasn’t the real reason for him wanting us to stay in sports. He said that when we were in sports, life would be more pleasant around the house. After eight hours of school and two hours practice, we were too tired to do anything but shower, eat, do homework, and go to bed. None of us had any energy left over to argue, fight or get into trouble.

During the summer, things were different. We had plenty of free time, and plenty of time to get into trouble.

For example, one summer, us four boys – Big Brother James, Twin Brother Mark, Older Brother Richard, and I — were playing down by the swamp. We found an old tractor tire half submerged in the mud. We dragged it out, cleaned it up and took it to the top of the hill. One of us would push it down the hill while the rest of us played Dodge the Giant Tractor Tire.

This lasted all afternoon until James got what seemed to be his greatest idea yet: The Giant-Tractor-Tire-Ride game.

He said, “I bet one of us can climb inside and roll all the way down the hill and not get hurt. As long as we keep our heads, arms and legs inside the tire, we’ll be okay.”

I asked, “What if we hit the rocks at the bottom of the hill?”

“It’ll be all right; the tire’s made of rubber so you’ll just bounce off. Trust me, you’ll be safe and won’t get hurt.”

James always said, “Trust me, you’ll be safe and won’t get hurt,” right before someone did, that someone usually being me.

Before I could say anything else, he climbed into the giant tire and rolled down the hill, hit the rocks, went airborne, landed, and rolled another 10 feet before stopping just short of the swamp. James was laughing when we reached the bottom of the hill, none the worse for wear from his ride. We all took turns inside the giant tire and were having the best time of our life.

That is, until The Sister came out. She stood at the top of the hill and asked, “What are y’all doing? Can I play?”

We told her that we were playing Giant-Tractor-Tire-Ride and if she wanted to play, she must promise not to get hurt. We told her to keep her head, arms, and legs inside the tire until she stopped rolling, and she’d be fine. She climbed into the tire, and I pushed her off.

From the top of the hill, we watched in horror as she reached the bottom, hit the rocks, went airborne, and slammed into a tree on the edge of the swamp.

The tire fell over, and she broke her ankle in two places. She wailed so loud it sounded just like when Mark rolled over our cat’s tail with his bike.

My brothers ran over to help her out of the tire and carry her back to the house. I walked down the hill to the edge of the swamp and picked out four switches for Dad.

That was the last summer we had a lot of free time. For the next five years, Dad sent us to summer camps.

The Boy is back from college for the summer now and has nothing to do. He’s too old to send to camp, so I sent him to EMT school and got him a gym membership. He’s really tired, but nice to be around and doesn’t get into trouble. Maybe Dad had a good idea after all.

Are you sending your kids to summer camp this year? Only a short time left to make those all important reservations.