That Summer of Good Feeling

Those of a certain age will recall 1962 as an optimistic year, perhaps the last year of optimism in the troubled, tumultuous decade that followed. JFK and his New Frontiersmen were in charge; the GNP was humming along and Viet Nam was still a place most Americans couldn't locate on a map. The Cuban Missile Crisis lay a few months ahead, but we were still blissfully ignorant of those missile sites going up, Castro's answer to the disastrous Bay of Pigs invasion.

It was a fun time to be nineteen and working at a summer camp.

For the previous eight years, summers meant spending seven weeks at Camp Nanticoke in central Pennsylvania—first as a camper, then camper-waiter and then, going into my second year of college, as a counselor. The pay was lousy, but you got free room and board and a chance to pass on whatever wisdom or mentoring that you received as a camper. Sports oriented, the camp was an athlete's haven, and not just for the campers; the counselors competed in their own intramural sports league.

Most of the long-time Nanticokians, as we called ourselves, returned for the comradery, the friendships we made there, including the romantic liaisons, an inevitable consequence when girls and boys are thrown together for seven weeks. Well, not exactly together, because a few hundred yards separated the two camps. We shared some of the same athletic facilities (pool, ball fields, tennis courts, etc) but the boys and girls bunks weren't in sight of each other. We did have mixers, and when a camper reached the age of thirteen, he/she was required to attend.

The socially precocious among us, young, good looking boys with the gift of gab and savoir faire, did quite well at those mixers. They knew just what to say and how to say it. Shy was a foreign word to them. They could approach the cutest among the girls and ask them to dance, no sweat. Later, you might see them smooching outside on the porch with some young lass they managed to charm. The not so precocious didn't have it so easy. I know, because I was one of them. We were the proverbial wallflowers, shy but no less hormonally desperate as the so-called studs. We'd languish on the sidelines and gawk with envy.

Becky Himmelfarb, one of the cutest girls at Nanticoke, was prime gawk material. From the D.C. suburbs, her family had money (her dad was a prominent heart surgeon). Like her male counterparts, she never lacked for confidence. People blessed with exceptionally good looks seldom do. When Becky walked by, people noticed, both the boys her age and the college-age male counselors who did their best to be discreet. She had short, raven-dark hair, deep blue eyes and a smile that couldn't help but draw smiles from others. She was a cute kid who had developed by age thirteen into a sexy, super-cute tween with a body an older girl might envy. All the sudden—or so it seemed from the time she was a pre-pubescent girl of twelve to the following summer—she sprouted boobs and curves and long, shapely legs. This was the summer before Eisenhower beat Stevenson for the second time. We were both the same age, old enough to attend the mixers. No surprise, Becky drew those budding stud-muffins like ants to sugar. She couldn't sit down for more than a minute before being asked to dance. A bunk buddy of mine dared me to ask her, bet me a dollar of his canteen money that I wouldn't have the cajones to venture forth across the dance floor and do what my social betters could do so effortlessly. It took me awhile to get up the nerve, but finally I did it, thinking I had nothing to lose and everything to gain, either a dance with Becky, extra canteen money or both. But I was wrong, because winning the money was small consolation for being summarily shot down and losing what little confidence I had.

Truth to tell, I wasn't exactly a young white chick's idea of a Rick Nelson/Paul Petersen type of lady killer. I was just average looking. Okay, maybe a tad below average, what with a long Semitic nose, braces on my teeth (not unusual, for several kids wore them), a few zits and kinky hair that not even that "greasy kid's stuff" could tame. Kids used to tease me about my hair: Louis "Brillo pad" Melman they called me. But I was a good athlete, fast, strong and well coordinated, and it was the summer before the fall I started lifting weights. If I couldn't have the face of handsome Steve Reeves, I figured I might be able to sculpt my already athletic body into something approaching his. Maybe then the ladies would take notice.

But that was in the future. In the summer of '56, I was a social zero, fantasizing along with others of my ilk about the Becky Himmelfarbs of the world, or at least of Camp Nanticoke. As for Becky, she hooked up with Gill Reamer, one of the handsome young dudes who never lacked for female attention. By summer's end, they were almost inseparable, holding hands at movie night (held in an outdoor arena called The Dell) and even during Friday night services. At mixers, they'd dance exclusively with each other, smooching on the dance floor during slow numbers like The Platters' "Only You." All I could do was sigh and say, "It must be nice."

By the following summer, Gill and Becky were being called the "sweethearts of Nanticoke." Becky looked more appealing than ever, more filled out, with longer hair and a "wiggle in the walk and a giggle in the talk," as the song went. My newly grown muscles impressed my bunk mates and boosted my confidence—that is, until history repeated itself at the mixers. Becky was off limits, but there were plenty of other girls to choose from, not in Miss Becky's league but close. Like her, most of them shot me down, though, unlike the previous summer, I kept coming back for more. By lowering my standards in the looks department, I managed to score a date for the Summer End dance with Gilda Potash, cerebral and very nice. Beauty-wise, she was a 5 at best. What the hell? I was no matinee idol either.

Fast-forward to the summer of '62. I was nineteen and returning to Camp Nanticoke for the first time as a counselor. I stood a solid five-foot ten, with a couple of bodybuilding trophies under my belt (just local contests, but I was proud of them). And, thanks to bi-monthly applications of hair relaxer, my Brillo pad hair had morphed into something I could now style without breaking combs. Some zits remained, but my nose didn't look as big because my face was fuller. Becky was there too, now a counselor herself, looking great, traipsing around in her Nanticoke Staff white sports blouse and blue shorts. Word had it that she was unattached. I knew that she and Gill had broken up a few summers back. Subsequent boyfriends in subsequent summers followed, and I suspected it wouldn't be long before she'd hook up with someone else. She was still my dream girl, perhaps even more so, desirable and unattainable.

She said hi whenever we crossed paths, the same as she did to everybody she knew. I was nobody special to her, just another admiring male Nanticokian. Just as well, because I didn't return to make it with Becky Himmelfarb. Being a counselor to young teens had its own rewards, as did the athletics, showing off my new-found hitting power in softball and running stealthily through enemy territory in night games of capture the flag.

And then there were those mixers. It was strange watching boys that reminded me of my young teen self, the not so good looking among them either getting shot down or too shy to approach any girl among the bevy of comely and less than comely lasses that sat giggling on wooden benches across the dance floor. Our first one was held in early July, a couple weeks into the '62 camp season. Several bunk-loads of campers were there, including Becky's own barely post-pubescent charges—the shy ones eyeing each other warily from across the room, the more socially precocious shuffling and twisting on the hard-wood dance floor in the cavernous, dimly lit confines of Douglas Hall, essentially a big red barn used for everything from mixers and camp plays to indoor activities (like arts and crafts) during inclement weather. One of the guy counselors armed with a stack of 45s and a horn-loaded sound system acted as deejay. Seeing Becky triggered flashbacks of that time she shot me down. I could still see her shaking her pretty head no, could still feel the sting of that rejection. But the angst I felt while approaching her then was history, so I had no qualms about crossing the room to ask her how it felt to now be a counselor. Our deejay had just started spinning The Dovells' "Bristol Stomp."

"Hi Louis, asking me to dance are you?" she said. I laughed, thinking she was joking.

"Well, I—ˮ

"Great, because I've got this pent-up frustration I need to work off. These kids can drive you nuts."

If only it had been this easy back in '56, I thought as we Bristol-stomped in our way around the floor. If this was an actual dance, I didn't know the steps and neither did she. We did what the kids were doing, shaking and bouncing and twisting as best we could to the beat—she in her knee-length denim skirt, me in my long khakis.

"Thanks, I needed that," she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Our deejay kept spinning his 45s while we talked on the sidelines, raising our voices to be heard over the music. The conversation centered mostly on being counselors, then strayed into what our lives were like outside of camp, college, home life, etc.

Minutes later, when I sensed our talk winding down, I said, "I wish we could have danced together back in '56."

She flashed a curious look."So why didn't we?"

"Don't you remember? I asked and you said nada."

Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in surprise. "You asked me to dance and I said no?! I don't recall that at all. Geez, Louis, that's terrible. I'm sorry."

I believed her, for how COULD she remember among the multiple offers she got from a spate of would-be suitors? "Yeah, I did and you did." I smiled. "But don't feel bad, I'm over it." I lied, because I wasn't, not completely.

Momentarily she was distracted by one of her campers. Then, turning back to me, she said: "Okay, since we're going down memory lane, do you remember when your bunk, instigated by your counselors I learned later on, attacked my bunk in a panty raid back in the summer before Sputnik?"

I did recall the raid but hadn't realized that Becky had been one of those ten girls screaming in surprised glee as we dashed in and out of their bunk with our grubby little hands full of underwear on one cool, very early August morning. She laughed when I offered to give her panties back. Then, leering at me, she said, "Don't worry, there's plenty more where those came from."

Just then our deejay began spinning the Shirelles' "Dedicated to the One I Love." "I love this one," she said, and then grabbed my hand and pulled me on to the floor.

While I'm far away from you, my baby, I know it's hard for you, my baby...

Our bodies barely touched as we made light conversation for a minute or so. Then she pulled me close and dropped her head on my shoulder, the way she once did with Gill Reamer. That got the attention of some kids who laughed and snickered. Half in jest, I said, "Maybe we shouldn't dance so close. We're being watched."

Becky pressed her perky boobs closer against my chest. "Let 'em watch. I mean, it's not like we're being indecent or anything." Then she started to sing along: "Each night before you go to bed, my baby, whisper a little prayer for me my baby..."

Seized by daring impulse, I dropped my hand over her delicious derriere, and waited for the inevitable protest. However, much to my surprise, I heard nary a complaint uttered from her heart-shaped, white lip-glossed mouth. On the contrary, she smiled and pressed her groin against mine. "Seems like you're enjoying this as much as I am," she said. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but you couldn't snatch my panties tonight even if you wanted to."

"No? And why is that?"

"Cause' I'm not wearing any."

It was then that I thought it prudent to create some distance between us and resume holding her around her waist. My cock was starting to stir from its normal somnolent state, and if we hadn't crossed the line into indecent territory yet, we were getting there fast.

"I gotcha going there, didn't I?" she said with amused satisfaction, an obvious reference to my stiffening cock.

"Dance sex isn't in the camp counselor guidelines," I said. "We're setting a terrible example."

Becky took that comment in the tongue-in-cheek way I meant it. "I know. Isn't it wonderful?"

When we left the dance floor, she said, "Well, I hope I just made up for rejecting your invite to dance all those many moons ago."

I smiled and nodded. "You did, thanks."

Rick Handleman, my co-counselor and another Nanticoke vet, teased me about what he saw. "You're moving up in the world, Lou, making it with Princess Becky. Shit, man, I remember back in the day when chicks wouldn't look at you. Now you have the camp prom queen squishing her tits against you."

"Just an aberration," I said as we both stood on the boy's side, arms crossed, watching the kids dance. "After tonight, she'll forget who I am."

Not meaning to be gratuitously self-deprecating, I meant what I told Rick that night. I still felt that Becky was out of my league. She'd see me around camp, be nice as usual, and that would be that. We counselors were too busy to develop close romantic ties anyway. Not that it couldn't be done. As a camper, I saw counselors coupling off. But now, as a counselor myself, I realized it took a highly developed sense of time management to pull it off, not to mention somehow finding the privacy, no mean feat in a camp with all those kids and staffers. Of course, that assumed that Becky was even interested—not something I'd bet on.

I did look forward to speaking with her again, an opportunity that arose during a co-ed swim period. The girls and boys rarely mingled in their sports activities. But once in a while they did as happened a week later. As usual, Becky got lots of eye attention from the male counselors and the older campers as well. Owing to my muscularity, I got my fair share too. Physique-wise, bodybuilding had catapulted me above the teen throng, the majority who didn't pump iron three times a week as I did. People noticed, including Becky. Wearing a colorful striped two-piece, her dark hair pulled back in a pony tail, she came up to me as we were standing poolside, watching the kids play.

"I knew you were a fine athlete," she said, "but when did you become this he-man?" She flexed her biceps in a mock pose. I'd been lifting weights for the past five years, and found it strange that she was just now taking notice. I told her it didn't happen overnight, and left it at that.

"Something else about you is different too," she continued. Then she looked up. "It's your hair, isn't it?" I smiled. "You used to have hair like, well, a Negro, no offense." I admitted using hair relaxer. She found that amusing, not in a condescending way, more in the way of why a guy would even bother. If she thought straighter, softer hair made me look better, she didn't say. I thought it did, and maybe she did too without fully realizing it. Ergo the attention she paid me in Douglas Hall.

During the twenty minutes of counselor-only swim time, we stood together, water up to our necks, our arms stretched out on the pool deck, chatting away. It surprised me that she planned to join the Peace Corps after college. I didn't think she was the altruistic type, more interested in collecting jewelry than helping the impoverished in Africa. And it surprised her that I was a pre-med student, not the Phys Ed major she had me pegged for.

"That's funny," she said, extending her legs for some frog kicking.

"What is?" I said, watching her smooth, lovely calves and high arched feet churn up the water.

"Seeing somebody for close to a decade of summers but not really knowing them. Know what I mean?"

"Sure, but then camp is somewhat of an artificial setting anyway. I mean, we're not exactly the same people here as we are at home."

She stopped kicking, pulled her arms from the deck and faced me. "You're right, I agree. So what's the real Louis Melman like when he leaves Camp Nanticoke?"

"Guess you'll need to visit me to find out," I said, playing along with what I assumed was a flirty tap dance. "I live in Baltimore, only about forty miles from you."

She lowered her beautiful blue eyes and smiled. "Well, I just might do that. Meanwhile, I guess we'll have to settle for a Meet and Greet. Is it a date?"

Meet and Greet was a once a week, early evening, informal social event held in The Dell. Anybody could go, though it was more of a buddy-up for campers and counselors alike to mingle with potential significant others sans the distraction of the usual camp activities. I was hardly a regular. In fact, in all my years at Nanticoke, I'd gone exactly once (to see Gilda Potash). The idea of meeting Becky there was something out of a wet dream.

I accepted, of course, showing up in chinos and a madras shirt, my brown, processed hair parted neatly on the left side. Becky, in a yellow dress and green blouse, showed wearing a yellow ribbon in her hair, set with bangs and a flip curl in back. My confidence level was higher than it had been years ago. Still, there was something surreal about this—me, Louis Melman, who'd been shot down at a mixer by Princess Becky now meeting said princess at Meet and Greet per her invite.

Couples milled about The Dell's wooden stage, while others, like Becky and I, sat on a bench, one of many painted a fading red set in neat rows. No surprise, she looked her usual adorable and sexy self. I couldn't help but steal glimpses of her bare thighs, toned, tan and satin-smooth, and it was all I could do to contain myself from suggesting that we enter the so-called "passion forest," the grove of tall pine trees that shot up majestically in back of the stage where camp couples went to neck.

Our conversation picked up where we left it at the pool, albeit in more detail. I was leaning toward orthopedics for my medical career, I told her, an almost obvious choice given my athletic endeavors. She was an education major, she revealed, with a minor in music. She'd been playing piano since age five, could play sonatas by many of the giants, including Mozart and Chopin, her favorites. "I'll never be an Alicia de Larrocha," she said, "but I do okay. My goal is to join the Peace Corps, then teach elementary school, not make it to Carnegie Hall."

I thought back to what she said about not really knowing your camp buddies. Becky Himmelfarb, a classical pianist, interpreter of Mozart and Chopin? I had no idea. It didn't fit her image. More accurate, it didn't fit MY image of her. It certainly made her even more desirable, gave her a sense of depth that I'd been totally blind to. Few people at camp knew she played piano. "I've kept it mostly to myself," she said. "You and maybe three other people from camp know, and you're the only one still at Nanticoke."

Gill Reamer, her old flame, had been one of those people, she said. I asked her why she chose to tell me, someone she'd barely known until the recent mixer. She got pensive and shook her head. "I'm not sure. Maybe it's because, I don't know, I thought you'd appreciate it, would have the right sensitivity to appreciate it. It's not because I'm trying to brag or impress you."

I chuckled. "Well, you failed miserably, because I'm more than impressed, I'm blown away by it. I'd love to hear you play sometime."

She nodded. "Okay, but it will be a private concert with an audience of one, and that's you."

"So how 'bout now?" I said, noticing it was getting dark. "Douglas Hall should be empty this time of night." The piano in Douglas Hall, the camp's only piano, was a dusty old thing that dated from who knew when. On occasion, when walking by, I'd hear some camper playing "Chopsticks" or "Heart and Soul." One time I heard one of the counselors playing the theme from the movie "Exodus."