Down the road a piece...

It's funny, but I don't really have any outstanding memories about Thanksgiving except the times when my parents, my brother and I would venture from PA to Long Island, NY to spend the holiday with my aunt and uncle and there 7 kids, and my grandmother.  All I can say is that it always ended with all the cousins and my brother going out on the town after dinner while I(being the youngest), got stuck at the house, with the grown-ups. Good times.
I can share with you good memories about Indians, though.  The Native American kind, for all you politically correct people out there.  However, back in the 70's, they were just Indians, and my summers in Michigan were spent in Ojibwa territory at Camp Batawagama. The name is Ojibwa for "land between two lakes", the Chicagoan Lake and Indian Lake. It was there, in the beautiful woods, where I learned to whittle with my pocket knife, braid, shoot an arrow with a bow, dig a trench, pitch a tent, collect fire wood, start a campfire, make mountain pies and ate s'mores. I hiked, collected bugs and wild-flowers, and made all kinds of crafts.
I bought orange and grape Crush (in the bottles) and other junk food from the canteen with the money my parents gave me and gladly shared it with other campers. It was in the lake that I earned my advanced life-saving certificate, learned to scuba dive and row a boat and canoed off with my cabin mates and counselor for an overnight camping trip across the lake where we scared ourselves silly around the campfire listening to ghost stories.  And it was there at that blessed camp where I  got eaten alive by mosquitoes and deer flies, survived poison ivy, learned about nature and Indians and learned to cherish every folk song that we sang from the camp's songbooks after dinner.
Eager young campers would arrive on Sunday, get their cabin assignments, and then spend the next week making friends and learning to love the outdoors with the guidance of their camp counselor. Every morning, we'd all be awakened by a bugle blowing reveille.  We'd all get dressed and then meet at the front of the mess hall for the raising of the flag.  Every night, at dusk, we'd do the same thing for the lowering of the flag.  And then we'd sing "Taps" acapella, and later that night, when we were all in our beds, the bugle would send us off to sleep with the traditional version, reminding us that the day was done and all was well.
 Every day, for every meal, a cabin was responsible for "KP" duty; setting up the tables for mealtime, serving the other campers, and then cleaning up. No kid seemed to mind that they were actually doing chores. I know I didn't. I was just happy. We always started meals with the Doxology ("Praise God from whom all blessings flow...").  After lunch there was mail call, and we all anxiously waited for letters and care packages from home.  The best part of the day though, was after dinner, when we got the songbooks out and shouted out requests to Mr. Schulze, the Camp Director.  We'd sing songs like "500 miles", "Blowin' in the Wind", "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."  My favorite was the camp's own song:
                               "Down the road a piece,
                              in the middle of the woods,
                              there's a youth camp, Batawagama.
                              Down at Indian Lake,
                              there's a camp that takes the cake,
                              it's the youth camp, Batawagama.
                              Now, if you want to swim or sing a song,
                              here's your second home,
                              just as sure as your born...
                             So, hail(hail), hail(hail), the gang's all here,
                             at the youth camp, Batawagama...
                             oh, B-A-T-A-W-A-G-A-M-A!"
Every Thursday evening, after dinner, we all got dolled up for the camp dance. There we learned to square dance, do the Mexican Hat dance and chicken dance, learned to polka and do the broom dance.
We all had a great time and no one was left without a partner.
Fridays were what made the camp what it was; the best camp on the planet. It was the night of the initiation of all new campers, held deep in the woods and officiated by an authentic Ojibwa Indian Chief.
After dinner, and if you had been a camper there before, you were given an Indian name and had your face painted to reflect that name. Then, after nightfall, the entire camp would gather on the shore of the lake, in quiet anticipation of the arrival of the Chief, in formal headdress, standing tall with his arms folded, in a canoe that was had a lit torch on the front of it being steered by an authentic Ojibwa warrior. In the distance was the beat of a drum...bum...bum...bum as the fiery canoe came into view.
Campers were not allowed to speak; it was a very sacred event that was to be respected.  When the Chief was on dry land, he spoke something in his native tongue, and then proceeded up through the camp,
and to the torch lit path, guarded by elder campers (you had to be 16 to be one). One by one, we all silently followed behind.  If you were caught talking, the "guards" would take you aside, and you wouldn't be allowed to attend the ceremony. But that never happened; are you kidding me? Miss the best part of the week? No way, not me.  I did as I was told and was led to a large opening in the woods with wooden benches surrounding an "altar" of wood that was blazing with fire and smoke.
Then the Indian Chief would dance around the fire, chanting and singing in his native tongue; it was magical and totally real.  This went on for a while, but when it was over, all new campers got to put a feather in their headband and could get their faces painted next year.
I truly loved those summers at camp. I still know most of the words to the songs I learned and sang every day. I thank God for those memories, for those experiences of wonder and discovery. I have to admit, that when it comes to Thanksgiving, I don't really think about the Pilgrims, but rather summers in northern Michigan, among the land of the Ojibwa and Indian Lake.
(scroll down for part 2)