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Steve Cunningham writing - As more humorous memories, stories with a twist, word-play or outrageous accounts of camp or campers congeal after 40+ years of idleness, and are told on the HBC Blog or otherwise, they will appear here.

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September 29,2009 - From Winston Wood

      In the mid-60s, campers ready to move on from Four Square had another way to test their competitive chops, a cut-throat word game called Zoom, Schwartz, Perfigliano. It was a kind of verbal tag in which those words were briskly parried around a group of players, the aim being to eliminate your opponents by getting them to mess up on the rules that went with each word until you alone remained victorious.

      Jeff Levi initiated me into the game, though I suspect that as with most things clever in camp in those days it originated with the theater counselors, who seemed to have lots of time to kill before crashing out scripts for the Saturday night tent plays. As I remember it, each round started with everyone in a circle and the "server" looking at someone else in the group and exclaiming "Zoom." That guy would have to respond with a "Schwartz" or "Perfigliano" -- if he re-Zoomed, he was out -- directed at someone else. If you were Schwartzed, you had to re-Schwartz the guy who Schwartzed you but he couldn't Schwartz you again, and a Perfigliano required you to turn your head quickly away from the person you were Perfigliano-ing. Again, if you messed up, you were out and the game started again. With all the barking and twitching, we must have looked like a Tourette's Syndrome support group.

      For years I considered this just another weird and wonderful institution unique to Hyde Bay, like the 8-inch Regatta, hot rocks and the legend of William Clark. So imagine my surprise when one of my godsons came home one Christmas from the University of Wisconsin crowing about this great drinking game called Zoom, Schwartz, Perfigliano. The concept was the same, although there were more words in the mix -- One was Mazda, which equalled three Zooms, I think, and so was Twizzler which required you to spin around-- and each round was proceeded by everyone downing a shot of Jagermeister. (Wouldn't Bob Pickett have loved that.) With further research I learned they also play a version of the game at Stanford, with each word having a corresponding dance step.

      If anyone out there knows how this all got started at camp it would solve one of the great mysteries in my life. And while you're at it, who's this guy Perfigliano?

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John Mercer writing -- My brother, Tom-tom, was recalling the other day that Heb Evans did not only tell ghost stories around the campfire, but also told long jokes, usually word-play jokes, one of which was something like this:

      “The farm boy said he only wanted two things in life — a pet to call his own and an outboard motor to go fishing. Well, he couldn’t afford a motor, but he found a pet. It was a corn borer to whom he gave the name Motor. Through the long, hot days of summer they were constant companions. But with the cooler days of autumn on the way, one day as they passed a cornfield, Motor disappeared. The young boy became frightened, then frantic, as he looked and called to his pet, all without success. He turned homeward at dusk, sad and broken hearted. Early the next morning, however, the boy returned to the field, his eyes a bit misty. He called and called, and suddenly there was a slight noise from a a tall corn stalk to his right. The sound grew louder, and the boy smiled with happiness — there before his eyes, out bored motor.”

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Robbie Gerlach June 6, 2009 Blog.

      This weekend I visited Cooperstown and our beloved Hyde Bay. It was a glorious summer day with a good breeze blowing across the lake.

      I am especially thankful to have known Moldy, Betty and Rusty, but have many fond memories of . . .

      The train trips from Mount Vernon Station, Baltimore with Mr. Hilliard, through New York City and the Bus Trip to Cooperstown. “How Many More Miles Mr. Hilliard?….”

      Climbing the gorge up to Lookout mountain, where we enjoyed the greatest view of the lake and had breakfast for 30 out of a 24” Frying Pan.

      Big Mr. Henry “Ain’t no more, Aint’ no more (pancakes),…. Next Sunday,…..Next Sunday.)

      Helping Bergy Bergstrom with the glassing of Comet 3168.

      Building the crazy contraption out of conveyors to slide down into the water. What did we call it,….? The “Mouldy Rail?”

      I was a camper in the early – mid 60’s and enjoyed what must have been the best years of the camp.

      By that time, the Archery and Tennis were in full swing, the Equestrian program had been established for several years.

      And there were lots of other activities, however having caught ‘Sea Fever” in previous years, upon arrival at camp in 1967, my entire mission was to get out in a Comet sail boat. Although the councilors did their best at morning sign up to encourage me toward a variety of activities….. I spent every possible moment on AND in the water. Of course this meant passing a series of swimming challenges of increasing difficulty.

      First the swim to “The Raft” and back.

      Then, to “The Tower” and back.

      Next…. To the point.

      And finally….. From Clarks Point back to camp.

      So, that is is not surprising that within a week, I had developed a severe sunburn and flaking skin.

      Fortunately, Betty knew just what to do. She provided a ‘magic’ cream that eased the pain and told me to stay out of the sun for a week. A WHOLE WEEK??!!!@@#@#$

      Fortuntately, Mr. Hilliard’s ‘Shop’ had an incredible assortment of plaster casts for ‘slip’ molding, as well as a wide variety of materials and projects for any interest.

      The stories could go on and on, as I am sure you know.

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Tom Lynn writing — March 19, 2005 Blog

      It was great to read about the life of an Ethical Culture camper. I distinctly remember how mysterious it all seemed “down the shoreline.” The thing I most recall, though, is the rumor/myth that was shared among my fellow campers when we were first starting to feel our male hormones “awaken.”

      The story was that the swimming at Ethical Culture was done in two separate shifts: one for the boys and one for the girls. Not particularly fascinating in and of itself. However, what compelled us to squint and strain to see in the direction of ECS was that these shifts were — most assuredly — swum in the nude! Oh, how we 12 and 13 year olds were so sure that we had occasionally glimpsed … something! How exotic and continental those ECC campers surely were! (Where were the binoculars when we really needed them?)

      Ps - When I mentioned this to my father, he said that they had the same belief in his day. He said that some of them had even paddled a canoe down toward ECC and hidden themselves in the trees to get that same glimpse that I was wishing for 30 years later! (I wonder if this rumor was purposely passed down from the older boys as they eventually found it to be untrue — Woolly Ants, anyone?)

      Pps - Oh, FYI: I was only looking during the supposed “girls’ shifts” — not that’s there’s anything wrong with those who looked during other “shifts.”

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Steve Cunningham December 31, 2004 Letters

      "Ah, the memories of paddling against choppy waves; horse ligament and saddle soap; sail fabric snapping in the wind; eating bacon on Nebo; bleeding on the rocks of Trenton Falls; having to pee in the middle of the night but being too scared to leave the tent for fear of “The Monkey’s Paw;” peeing out the side of the tent; paddling against relentless winds; fresh milk in a glass tumbler with cookies; ripping the pages from comic books for toilet paper; blood blisters from improper use of “Big Bertha” on the shuffle board; bruises on the wrestling mat; Mouldy City; paddling against the current; being bitten by green “deer flies;” staring transfixed into the heart of the bonfire; sneaking to the girl’s camp down the road at night; droplets of condensation forming on metal pitchers of ice-cold red “bug juice;” the candy line; setting off cherry bombs with time-delayed cigarette fuses; the solid heft of a wooden tennis racket; flacid tennis balls; looking everywere for the “Hot Rock;” mowing the outfield; trying to grasp a greased watermellon; waiting for the next reel of 16mm films to be queued; the Cardiff Giant; crunching on rock-candy at the Farmer’s Museum; cold hands and snowballs at Snow Gulch; having to (ugh) write home…"

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