Camp Hargis We Hold You in Our Hearts

Everything I knew about being a camp counselor prior to this Monday I learned from Salute Your Shorts, an early 90's Nickelodeon comedy about a group of kids at Camp Anawanna. I watched every episode over and over and over, because, like most seven year olds, I possessed the ability to watch the same piece of media ten million times or until I became a teenager, whichever came first. The counselor in Salute Your Shorts was clueless and long-haired and his last name was Lee, and despite those future parallels, when I was a kid I wanted to be a camper at Camp Anawanna. Budnick and his friends had so much fun sneaking out of their cabins and horseplaying and generally defying the camp rules. But there I was Monday morning - Counselor Lee. The kids at Camp Anawanna called their counselor "Ug". At least the kids at Camp Hargis called me Mr. Nathan.

Camp Hargis sits on the edge of a man-made lake in Chelsea, Alabama. It's serene and beautiful, and you easily forget that you are only a mile from the nearest McDonald's. The children were excited to be there, especially since many of them had never spent any significant amount of time in the country. They had never even swam in a lake before, and, as one little girl noted, it was just like Piranha 3D.

Lakes, as understood by children who have only seen them in movies.

I've worked with children before, but it's been a long time. It's fun and draining all at once. I spent a good deal of time telling kids to stop doing stupid things, all while suppressing my inner desire to do stupid things. For example, the camp has lots of geese. I really wanted to chase those geese, but I didn't because I had to set an example, or something. My first instinct when I see wild animals is to chase them. I don't quite understand it; maybe it's my primal hunter shining through. But when I catch up to them, I don't actually want to kill them, or even touch them. I just wake up from a daze and think, "Why have I been chasing this armadillo? What was my plan here?"

Another example was when the boys were going to sleep in their lodge. It was the first night, and a few of the younger ones were on edge. Someone kept chanting "Ghost man walking" and scaring the others. The hilarious, stupid option was to use their fear against them by sneaking outside, popping my head into the window, and making cartoonish ghost noises and scarring their childhood. But I did the responsible thing and told them to stop messing around.

The kids were generally well behaved, but there was some struggle. They tried to stay up as late as possible and get away with what they could, and I as a counselor had to shut them down. I had to be Ug. But that's the weird thing about kids. One minute you are telling them to "no don't do that. Stop - look you're upsetting the, why aren't you listen-...put that down, hey...hey! Put that down! Just go back to bed. What? What did I just tell you!?" And then your head does a 360 and fire shoots from your eyes and your voice drops to the frequency of an earthquake. The kids are startled, but then the next minute they are asking you to play Uno and acting like you didn't just have a stroke trying to contain them.

I had a great time swimming and canoeing and hiking with the kids, though. We were to cap our stay off at Camp Hargis with a campfire, and we expected it to be raging when we arrived at the site. Instead we found a pile of logs and a cigarette lighter. “Don’t worry,” I soothed the others while ripping open my shirt to reveal a Boy Scout uniform underneath. “I was a Tenderfoot, the lowest attainable rank in all of Boy Scouts!” My first idea was to throw some damp hay on top of the logs.

“But, won’t damp hay make it harder to catch fire?” someone reasoned.

"Heed my advice," I bellowed, "for I have merit badges in pottery and pet grooming!" But yes, it was a terrible idea, and someone else grabbed a can of bug spray and made the campfire with a DEET flame thrower. Scoutmasters don't teach that.

Jeff Daniels teaches that.

So it wasn’t exactly Anawanna, but I enjoyed my time in the great outdoors of Camp Hargis. Hopefully the children will have a positive experience to look back on, and one day they can grow up and work as a camp counselor and yell things like, “If you do that again there will be no canoeing tomorrow!” Because one day you’re Budnick and the next day you’re Ug.

There are worse things to be, right?

My Favorite Days of the Week

“Are you Michael Jackson?” asked a shy, young kid. We were waiting to tour Rickwood Caverns yesterday with the children from work. I was confused by his question, and I responded the only way I know how - snarkily.

“Do I look like Michael Jackson?”

He thought a moment.

“Kinda.” Touche, little kid. Touche.

The tour actually went pretty well. The children were well behaved and seemed to enjoy walking through the narrow, meandering paths of the cave and seeing the formations. A group of the kids were fascinated by taking pictures of themselves “planking” on the boulders. For the unhip, planking is a new craze sweeping the internet where you post pictures of yourself laying horizontally in strange places. Really. That’s it. You lay like a board on things that you normally wouldn’t. It looks silly, especially if you’re viewing it out of context with just a stiff body on some random object. That’s why I’ve created the next new internet craze - a game where you try to decide if it’s Planking or a Homicide®:

Answer Key: A) homicide B) homicide C) double homicide D) boating accident

After the cave tour, we swam, and then I changed back into my jeans and t-shirt. I somehow lost my pair of socks while in the bathroom, but it was no matter. I had more important things to worry about, like getting to Atlanta on time to see two of my favorite bands – Thursday and the recently reunited Taking Back Sunday. I discovered these bands around the same time in high school, and they opened me up to a whole new way of connecting to music. They have been huge influences on me and a lot of my friends, especially Taking Back Sunday. We would sing along to every lyric from their first album, and we tried to emulate their sound in our garage bands. To many of us, they were The Beatles.

Pictured: Beatles fans forming a mob outside of my apartment for that comparison

Taking Back Sunday’s lyrics are biting and sarcastic, and they perfectly encapsulate the angst of being a teenager. Their music is driving, and it breaks into soaring choruses. Thursday’s lyrics are more poetic and complex, and their music is a controlled frenzy. Both bands have matured along with their audience over the past ten years, but I knew they would be playing some of their old stuff. Sixteen-year-old Nathan would have been very jealous.

Accompanying me on this trip was Cameron, who is also a big fan. We met Alex, Justin, and Luc at the venue, and we eagerly piled into the crowd at Center Stage and watched the first two crappy bands. I think headliners purposefully put crappy bands in front of them to make their performance seem that much more awesome. At least I hope so, because I am currently available to open for any major-label musicians touring this year (I’m looking at you, Taylor Swift. Not too intently, though, as mandated by your restraining order.)

Cameron soon retired from the floor to the stadium seats, otherwise known as the Lepers, Elders, and Weenies Section, having two out of the three qualifications. Thursday came on stage, and the pit opened up. I took the opportunity to weasel closer to the front. They are always very energetic live, and the crowd was singing along and moshing. It was about this time that I felt something on my ankle. I reached down to investigate and felt a lump under my pants leg. My socks! I hadn’t lost them, I had been merely wearing them under my jeans for the past few hours. I didn’t know if I should awkwardly pull them from my pants and put them on my feet, or hold them in my hands, so I just decided to keep them where they were and hope no one noticed anything suspicious bulging around my ankle.

Thursday’s set ended, and the crowd was growing impatient for the headliners. It would be worth the long, hot wait. Taking Back Sunday are behemoths on stage. The crowd was a jumbled, rioting, singing mess, and I was happy to be right there in it. I was sixteen again, belting the words to “Cute without the E” and “You’re So Last Summer”. Adam Lazzara, the lead singer, did his signature microphone swings and tosses effortlessly, and if he ever missed a lyric there were hundreds of voices there to fill in. They played for an hour and a half, and when it was over I was covered in sweat, most of which wasn’t even mine. Cameron and I got into my trusty Saturn and headed for home. It was about midnight when we left Atlanta, and both of us had to get up early this morning for work. It was absolutely worth the trip though, even if we are struggling to stay awake today. Because you're only young once.

 Me and Eddie Reyes, guitarist for Taking Back Sunday, seeing who can wear the tightest jeans. Eddie won.

Atlanta is the Dirty South

I spent this past weekend in Atlanta. Not that I don’t love Birmingham. I mean, she’s great. We’ve spent a lot of years together, and she’s been there for me during some hard times. It’s just that, well, things have gotten…comfortable. I guess maybe the excitement is gone, and Atlanta is fresh and intriguing. And after all, I am only a man.

Temptress

The first thing I did while in Atlanta was go to Six Flags White Water, where I faced my fear of heights. The Cliffhanger is a towering water slide that requires the use of oxygen to climb its peak. It also has a 90 degree drop and lips about as deep as a standard cereal bowl. I had been considering The Cliffhanger all day, and suggested to my brother Aaron that we check to see how long the line was. This was meant to make myself sound brave, as I was confident that the line was very long and would therefore deter us from staying. As we ascended farther and farther, passing Sherpas that had fallen by the wayside, it became apparent that the wait would not be long. We hit the back of the line, and before I could decide to chicken out a large group of kids piled behind us. At this point it was either go through with the slide or walk back down, passing a different 9-year-old with each step and meeting their condescending gaze with my cowardly eyes. 

Okay, okay. Geez…

So I waited my turn, slid over the edge, and then immediately regretted my decision. As I approached terminal velocity, the spray created a field around my body like a shuttle re-entering the atmosphere. I was fairly certain that my shorts would be vaporized and I would be delivered at the foot of the slide naked as the day I was born. Somewhere along my rapid descent, though, I started enjoying myself. I arrived at the base alive, clothed, and exhilarated.

The next day in Atlanta, Aaron and I went to eat at the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. It’s a unique mix of fresh produce, fish, and various cafés. I had heard that one of these cafes sells chitterlings (pronounced chit-lins), a Southern dish that I have always wanted to try. I perused the produce section first and saw a bag of what I thought was white rocks. I asked the produce lady what it was, and she informed me that it was dirt. Sure enough, it was labeled “Georgia White Dirt,” and also “Not intended for human consumption.” I then asked her what you do with it.

“You eat it.” Oh. Of course.

I joked around with her, not sure if she was serious. She assured me that people really do eat it and offered me a sample. Never one to back down from trying new delicacies, I accepted, and she opened a bag and broke off a piece. I eagerly put it into my mouth and then made a face.

“This tastes like dirt!” I exclaimed. I’m not sure what I was expecting, since I was told it was dirt and it came from a Ziploc bag labeled “dirt” and the manufacturer tried their best to keep me from eating it, but somehow I thought it was going to taste like something other than dirt. I asked, “Why the #$@& would anyone want to eat this!” only nicer and without vague expletives.

She replied, “You know how when you have a sucker and you drop it in red clay and then you eat it and it’s all crunchy?” This was the single most perplexing and insane question that anyone has ever asked me.

I nodded my head.

“It’s like that.”

It also makes a great soup that some people call "mud".

Confused and hungry, I was ready to replace the terrible taste of dirt in my mouth with the terrible taste of pig bowels. Unfortunately the café that sells chitlins was closed. I settled for salmon instead. Nice, safe, delicious salmon.

That night I went to an Atlanta Braves game with a friend who was nice enough to give me his extra ticket. I watched the Braves beat the Orioles 5 to 4, and I witnessed a grand slam by David Ross. I remembered watching David Ross hit a grand slam at the last Braves game I went to, and after some internet research I found out that those two grand slams were the only ones he has hit in his entire 13 year career in the MLB. Now, I’m not insinuating that I had anything to do with these grand slams, but I am strongly suggesting that Mr. Ross hire me to sit beside him in the dugout of every game as his personal good luck charm.

I am also strongly suggesting that I looked like Joseph Gordon Levitt when I was younger.

And so my fling with Atlanta came to an end. It was a fast and enjoyable weekend, but I was looking forward to getting back to Birmingham. The pace is slower here, and our dirt is dark and in our front yards, the way God intended. But I can’t say for certain my eyes won’t stray again. Until next time, Atlanta. Until next time.