Memory Mile
TDWG reunion happened this weekend. Quite a few of you, perhaps even the majority, will have no idea what I'm talking about. Back in the day, when I was an adolescent growing up within the Anglican church, the diocese placed a woman by the name of Catherine Pate in charge of coordinating youth ministry stuff. At the time, the diocese had ownership of a summer camp on Lake of the Woods which was, in fact, the best place on the planet ever. On top of the regular camping sessions, Catherine began to organize other things. One of these things was Three Days With God, or TDWG as we all fondly remember it. Every Labor Day weekend, a number of us yong whippersnappers would pile into a Greyhound bus (oh yes, we got a Greyhound. None of this school bus camp bullshit for us.), and head out to the island for what was undeniably a hell of a time. Music, while still commonly Jesus-themed, was far more uplifting and toe-tapping than the dreary pipe organ extravaganza any church-goer is used to. Fun and games were designed with actual fun in mind. Even the religious talk was actually interesting. I can honestly say that these camps were some of the best things that happened in my adolescence. I got a few friends, a best friend, and a hell of a lot of good memories.
After a few years it came to an abrupt end. Catherine moved on to work for the government, and those who would replace her were utterly unprepared to fill the space. The island camp was long since lost on account of the diocese not really having much in the way of money. Many of the youth who had been the core of this camp community were moving on into adulthood. Several of us, myself included, had distanced ourselves from the church entirely. The new coordinators were left with a blank slate and virtually no help from the diocese to get things going again. Eventually things like TDWG faded into memory. The old youth moved on into real life and all its uninspiring glory, and the new youth were left essentially invisible.
Cut to two-or-so months ago. An enterprising member of this old group of campers, name of Dan, caught a moment of inspiration and called Catherine. Apparently, since ten years had passed since the first TDWG, there simply HAD to be a reunion. The problem: all of these people have scattered to the four winds, and contact is no longer as simple as it once was. The solution: Facebook. A few people organized it. A few people responded. In the end, a few people found themselves gathered at Camp Arnes. Ready for a trip down memory lane.
I’m not sure what I expected. My memory has never been the best, so the many many MANY activities we once did didn’t immediately spring to mind. For some reason, I was expecting us to get together, chill out a bit, and dawdle down memory lane. There was no dawdling. We were thrown quite forcefully down memory lane, with demonstrations available to make sure our recollections were completely accurate. This meant that, after Catherine went up against our initial lack of youthful exuberance and enthusiasm, on account of us no longer being youthful or exuberant, we experienced the same sort of program that we had in years past.
The big difference was the availability of a pool. We had specific times booked in the camp’s indoor pool, and we made full use of them. I’ve spent more time swimming in the last three days than I have in the last five years. Beyond that, we had some fairly traditional camp activities. There were things that required running around (this took some getting used to), there were activities of art and craft, there were sporty relays. There were many things that one would expect to be planned for a bunch of kids and teenagers. Certainly, a group of young adults couldn’t be expected to go through these motions, could they? Oh, we would go through the motions. Of this we were assured. What was more, we would LIKE it. And, to be perfectly honest, we did. We were lacking in energy and generally pessimistic to begin, but by halfway through Sunday we were wholeheartedly clinging to the past and sucking ravenously on the sweet nectar of memory.
Of course, this was Three (two, really) Days With God, so there was bound to be a portion that was focused on God. Several, even most of us had barely been in a church in five years, so I imagine there were some misgivings about people’s comfort level. Fortunately Jaime, the same vaguely hippie-ish priest who always gave us our lessons in religiosity, was on hand. He’s always been able to make the old stories and lessons relevant in some way. He never stuck to the surface but kept digging until he found something that would matter to the people he was talking to. It was as good as always.
As I expected, there was a reason why so few people came. It was the same reason why many of those who did come had almost decided not to. As I said, there were many of us who weren’t all that religious in our habits nowadays. There were apparently many more who weren’t religious at all. There were also a great number (pretty much all of us), who felt quite acutely the lack of attention we were being paid by the church, and felt like this was just going to be a snatch at the past and would be forgotten again just as swiftly. There’s quite a bit of bitterness going around with regards to how things ended. There’s also quite a bit of cynicism when it comes to the possibility of any sort of change on the horizon. To many people it’s over, and it’s easier for them to keep it in the past. We discussed this at length, and one conclusion drawn was that just because the diocese wasn’t holding onto us didn’t mean we couldn’t hold onto each other. If nothing else ever comes of anyone’s efforts, but these old connections are really reformed and our old community comes together again even the slightest bit, I will consider the reunion a success.
This morning was gray and dreary. At one point it was also rainy. After our morning swim, we figured most of our outdoor activities were going to be cancelled. Hell no. We had $68 worth of blue Jell-O and a wading pool. Shit was going to go down. It turns out $68 worth of blue Jell-O doesn’t go very far when the wading pool is somewhat large. Regardless, with a little water added, the slick layer of ice-cold blue goo at the bottom of the wilted plastic shell was sufficient. Jell-O wrestling is really an art. An art that involves rolling around in flavored gelatin products and attempting to force your friends’ faces into it. Had I been smart, I would have done as others did and coated myself in Jell-O before my fight. My opponent was too slippery to get a good grip on. I was not slippery at all. I went down after a considerable struggle. At the end of it all, I was slippery and covered in Jell-O, but not on my own terms.
The lake was slightly less icy than the Jell-O. Warm enough that we didn’t completely die when we dove in to get the sticky mess off of ourselves. With the windy rainy weather we were having, we got some nice huge waves to float around on for a few minutes before frigidity forced us back to shore. Seriously, nipples that could cut glass. We were cold. A quick hot shower and the disposal of Jell-O and we spent the short remainder of our time basically chilling out and burning flags.
After lunch it was pretty much all over. We said our goodbyes (any tears to be had were shed the previous night under different circumstances. See above), and hit the road. Among some of us, there was a promise to hold onto contact a little more tightly this time. Personally, I plan to see to it. I’ve been reminded how much this was worth to me years ago, and just because I’m older and living a different life doesn’t mean I can’t bring some of the good things with me. There may never again be anything for the Anglican youth like we had, but that doesn’t mean we should let it fade away completely. I’m holding onto what I can. It’s worth the effort.