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| Webelos provisional Campsite Sequan at Yawgoog Scout Reservation, Rockville, Rhode Island. Photo by David R. Brierley. |
The winding down of another summer on not so sweet a note—continued unemployment—prompted me to revisit my blogpost series on the summer camps I'd attended, to reminisce on simpler, closer times as well as the architecture that framed and shaped them.
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| T. Dawson Brown Gates, main entrance, Camp Yawgoog. Photo: KB1KOI. |
Camp Yawgoog, a Boy Scout reservation in Rockville, Rhode Island that I attended in the summer of '77, is notable for a type of "organic architecture" that makes Frank Lloyd Wright's stab at that style seem even more slickly suburban, in terms of not really "roughing it" with his natural resources.
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| Sandy Beach Dining Hall at Camp Yawgoog. |
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| Sandy Beach Waterfront Boathouse, Camp Yawgoog. Photo by David R. Brierley. |
Designed primarily by Rhode Island architect D. Thomas Russillo (1902-1980), the Yawgoog campus parallels some of the earth-hugging horizontality of Wright's Prairie Style and Usonian houses but is a far better example of the kind of sticks-and-stones, skin-and-bones, open-air building that makes its users more aware of the nature that surrounds them than the structures themselves.  |
| Three Point Waterfront at Camp Yawgoog. |
It does this both by emphasizing the building materials' natural resources with hand-hewn logs, posts and beams and rough, random-ashlar fieldstones, and by eliminating most of the walls, allowing sun, breezes, green views and water views to permeate the interiors so we don't lose touch with nature.
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Bucklin Memorial Building, Yawgoog Scout Reservation, Rockville, Rhode Island
designed in 1933 by architects Jackson, Robertson & Adams. Photo by J.P. Riley. |
The Bucklin Memorial Building, built in 1933 from a design by Jackson, Robertson & Adams, was our "check-in" building and our formal introduction to the informality of nature, as expressed in its log-cabin woodwork and random-ashlar stonework (somewhat reminiscent of the nature-based Medievai/Craftsman style of the Adelynrood Retreat and Conference Center in Byfield, Massachusetts, where my St. Paul's Choir sang a sumer concert, discussed in an earlier post). The broad wingspread of Bucklin Memorial gave us an open-armed welcome to the open concept of nature we were in for once we passed through its gateway.
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| Tent at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Photo by Robin Joubert. |
But the hotel-like formality of Bucklin Memorial's design had us fooled. For we were not in for the kind of luxury, or even the basic cabin housing, that I discussed in my three previous summer camp posts. No, this time we were sleeping from Taps to Reveille in canvas tents in the great outdoors, in sleeping bags on basic bunkbeds, roughing it all the way, rain or shine, to learn survival skills..jpg) |
| Tents at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. |
My tent was one of a circle of canvases around a central flagpole at Camp Baden-Powell. Named for Boy Scouts founder Robert Baden-Powell, it was a "sub-campsite" of Camp Sandy Beach, one of three camps comprising Yawgoog (the others were Camp Medicine Bow and Camp Three Point). Camp Baden-Powell was also one of the snootiest, boasting a self-righteous cheer:
"10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!
Boomeracka-B! Poomeracka-P!
Boomeracka-Poomeracka! Who Are We?
We are the Scouts of Camp (clap, clap) B-P!"
Scoutmaster Jim: "What's the best campsite in Sandy Beach?"
Us: "BADEN-POWELL! YEAAAAAAA!"
(On my first day, I was told to yell "Yeaaaaa!" whenever somebody said "Baden-Powell," so kids started saying it just to watch me react, until my tent leader Nick urged me to cut it out.)
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| Tents at Yawgoog Scout Reservation, Rockville, R.I. |
Our biggest reaction was Reveille. After a far-off bugle-call while we tried to catch our last winks, a louder call burst from the flagpole: "Everybody UP!" Bump, thump, flip, rip, shake, rattle, roll. Bombs away from the top bunks as commotion filled my tent while we scrambled and scurried to cop the "FIRST UP" award plaque at first light. "C'mon, Tent Two, let's move it!" (So long, plaque.)Pebbles and pine-needles pricked our barren soles as we fell out in front of our tent (sometimes in the rain), as the dewy air permeated our PJs and our breath was as visible as campfire smoke. "Ten-SHUN!" All erect. "Hand-SALUTE!" Right hands stationed on foreheads as the colors fluttered their daily rise up the knotty tree-limb pole (except when it was raining). Their rope was bowlined securely in place. "TWO!" Hands dropped in a chorus of thigh-slaps. "All right, inspection's in thirty-five minutes! So let's get these tents cleaned up!" Which kicked off our mad dashes to the latrine, our on-the-double donning of our Scout uniforms, neckerchiefs, caps and sneakers, and our helter-skelter scampers for the limited supply of brooms and dustpans, all at once. Floor-sweeps, trash-picks, and bed-makes became the order of the day in dread of the military-style inspection on the way.
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| Tent at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Photo by Joseph Schwendt. |
Fast-forward half an hour. We stumbled and fell out in front of our tents, all uniformed, on the clock – mostly. "All right, that's five points off for Tent Two!" (Good-bye, "BEST INSPECTION" plaque.) One by one, Scoutmaster Jim stared down each tent leader, who shouted in full salute, "SIR! Flaming Arrows Patrol ready for inspection! SIR!"
Jim entered the tent to start the scrutiny: "There are pine-needles on the floor!" (But we swept everywhere!) He emerged and pointed toward our tootsies: "There's paper down there!" (But we picked up everything!) He jiggled our tent-ropes: "Too loose!" And then: "I'm taking off five more points because of that!" He pointed to me, un-uniformed. At least the latrine squad got it the worst: "The bathroom looks terrible! Sinks all dirty, hose left on the floor!" (Don't forget the cockroach that crawled out of the toilet, which I spotted on my first day.) I broke into an impromptu cackle of giggles to relieve the letdown of blowing inspection and to start the rest of the day on a cheerier note.
On that cheerier note, we marched to the mess hall for breakfast: "Left, left, left-right-left!" "Sound off!" "One-two!" "Sound off!" "Three-four!" "Bring it on down!" "One-two-three-four, one-two—THREE-FOUR!" And so on.
The Camp Sandy Beach mess hall had the same open-concept design, just as open to the air as its interior space was, kudos to its under-roof network of hammerbeams, rafters and purlins. Because of its unobstructed openness (except for the "Blue" section in a separate space, used only when there was an overflow of Scouts), it had to be divided into sections, each marked by a color: Gold, Red, Yellow, etc., with a chart of left-to-right shifted color-names that were shifted under a picture of a Scout sitting and eating or a picture of a Scout walking with a tray, to indicate when each section was scheduled to stay seated or go get food, get seconds, bring in its plates or cups for the dishwasher, etc. This was done to keep a reasonable order in a camp situation that could otherwise dissolve into mayhem.
Which it could do anyway, like the time one kid got up to go to the bathroom, and another kid sprinkled pepper in the first kid's milk. I asked him why. "He got me all wet! And [Scoutmaster] José didn't do anything about it!" More giggles from me.
Another great space at Camp Sandy Beach was the theater, where that ever-dependable roof-web of hammerbeams, rafters and purlins yielded a roomy auditorium for a smorgasbord of camp entertainment and song on the big stage, from rousing choruses of "The Green Grass Grows All Around," "Bill Grogan's Goat," "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" (where each half of the audience tried to sing it the softest, to the point where they'd be just mouthing the words), and "I Know a Man Named Michael Finnegan" (where each half of the audience tried to sing it the loudest, to the point where they'd yell it the loudest) to umpteen performances of the same old Three Stooges sketch ("NI-A-GARA FALLS! Slowwww-ly I turrrrn! Step by step! Inch by inch!") and a lot of same-old others.
And, of course, there were those chats with Jim the Moose, a talking, guffawing wall-mounted cervidae that hung by the stage, provoking cries of:
"We want the moose! We want the moose!"
Evolving into:
"We want the moose!"
"SHOT!"
"We want the moose!"
"SHOT!" (What were they talking about? He already was shot, and mounted!)
The amphitheater, modeled loosely on the Theatre of Dionysus in Greece but taking advantage of a natural incline to create stadium seating descending to a sunken stage overlooking the lake, was the other great Scout-gatherer. Sunday worship had a vivacious minister ("Jeremiah, Peter and John!" in rhythm), and the Yawgoog Choir sung flat unison renditions of hokey old hymns like "The Old Rugged Cross."
But the evening talent shows were a blast. I remember a rousing performance of "The Monster Mash," an Abbott-and-Costello vacuum-cleaner-sales sketch (starring yours truly), and four older guys barbershop-singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme, segueing into a cackling chorus of "Old McDonald" ("M-O-U-S-EE-I-EE-I-O!").
I also fondly remember a performance of "The Mortgage on the Cow," where the actors bobbed up and down in common rhythm by their knees as they said, "Hey, Joe, you're lookin' mighty low!" "We ain't got the money for the mortgage on the cow!" "Sob, sob, sob-sob-sob!" Then someone said, "I just shot the cow!" which relieved them of their financial obligations. That may have been my favorite of all the sketches I saw at the camp (in part because it was performed only once; the others were done so often we got sick of them).
Another memorable sketch, also performed only once, involved Scouts arriving at the Pearly Gates of Heaven, presenting their Scouting records (how many Merit Badges they won, etc.) to the gatekeeper, and being denied admission to Heaven (like being rejected at a job interview). One timid Scout reported one Merit Badge and a long but undistinguished Scouting record. "What camp did you go to?" asked the gatekeeper. "Camp Yawgoog," said the Scout. "Come in. You've been in hell too long."
The high point of the amphitheatre – not hellish in any way – was a group performance of the 12 Points of the Scout Law. Scoutmasters led groups of Scouts by torchlight to far off in the woods, each Scoutmaster standing for one of the 12 points. When all were dispersed, on cue each section shouted one by one, so all could be heard all over the reservation:
"TRUSTWORTHY!"
"LOYAL!"
"HELPFUL!"
"FRIENDLY!"
"COURTEOUS!"
"KIND!"
"OBEDIENT!"
"CHEERFUL!" (my group)
"THRIFTY!"
"BRAVE!"
"CLEAN!"
"REVERENT!"
Of course, none of us was all those things. This was all for show, and maybe some hope that we would act that way someday, once we became Scoutmasters. But until then, a typical day at Camp Yawgoog went like this:
"Hey, Todd, tell us how babies are made."
Silence from me.
"We'll throw this rock at you if you don't."
Frozen silence, as I stood there, like a deer caught in the headlights, staring at the big hard rock clutched in his fingers and the thousand-yard stare in his eyes. I finally walked away.
"Nah, we're only kiddin'."
"Where do you think you're going?" snapped an adult voice.
"Over there," I said meekly.
"Don't cut through a campsite."
Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place!
A typical night, even after the "Taps" bugle call resounded softly from afar – as our cue not to bump or budge an inch in our bunks, lest we get ourselves out of the running for the "QUIET AFTER TAPS" award plaque – could be: "Oh, I got wicked bad diarrhea!" followed by fake flatulence from Ben, our tent clown, followed by giggles from me, which only encouraged Ben to keep the clowning going, which provoked Nick to tell me to stop laughing, which ultimately provoked Scoutmaster Jim to say outside, "Fall out in front of your tent." Another lecture on proper behavior from Jim, and another award plaque opportunity squandered.
But seriously, folks: Were there any Yawgoog Scouts who followed at least some of the 12 Points? Were there any positive models to follow? By all means. One caring kid once told me, "I hate it when you're teased."
Another, John Hill, became my treasure-hunt partner as we scoured the camp for the buried treasure we were informed of John was as resourceful as the image of a Boy Scout could be, carefully navigating our way through the wilderness as he followed the clues. As a result, he dug up the treasure chest. Expecting it to be a pirate's booty of gold coins or Pieces of Eight, we were dismayed that it contained a mere certificate of congratulations for finding the treasure: "You will be awarded Sunday." The award? Just another congratulatory certificate. Plus another I got for sticking out an early-morning Polar Bear Swim in the lake that shivered my timbers like you wouldn't believe.
Not too bad a way to end my two weeks of Scouting – two minor awards, two positive Scout models, and, yes, a few Merit Badges. (Which I had to pay for. They weren't just pinned on me.)
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| Amphitheatre at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Photo by David R. Brierley. |
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| Wilderness at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Photo by George K. |
Note that I didn't say as much about the architecture of the Yawgoog Scout Reservation as I did about that of the other three summer camps I elaborated on in previous posts. That was because Yawgoog had the least amount of architecture of all of them, in its goal to deprive its campers of the comforts of home, school, summer homes and cushier camps they hailed from and teach them the Scout-fit wilderness survival skills amid the trees, the undergrowth, the grass, the soil, the heat, the rain, the sandy beach (hence the camp's name), and the lake we were given, as the Scouts' Native American models of yore had to learn through the ways of their tribes. This time, the wilderness was the architecture.
Thank you for visiting. I welcome your comments!
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