Hugs, kisses and hijinks — and all at church camp

A little over 60 years ago, I had the distinct pleasure of going to Sequoia National Park, which was home to Camp Sequoia, a church camp that will forever be known in my heart as my off-campus introduction to a sex education class we will call Hugging and Kissing 1A.

We were between the ages of 12 and 16. Safe enough because in those days, 16 year olds would have absolutely nothing to do with 12 year olds.

We boarded the bus by the church on Central Avenue, had over a 100 miles to go, but by the time we reached Modesto, some of the kids were asking, "Are we there yet?"

When we got closer to our destination, the road was so curvy, the bus driver literally had to back up a little ways to get around some of the sharper turns. It was at that point where the kids asked earnestly and billowously, "How much farther?"

The bus driver always answered, "Five more miles around the next bend." It was there we learned Sunday school teachers could lie unabashedly.

When we got to Sequoia, we found we had arrived at heaven on earth. There was a beautiful lake with a great camp beckoning us in. The boys were on one side of the camp and the most beautiful girls we had ever seen were on the other. (I refer here to the girls from every town but Lodi, of course. Boys are so dumb.)

After we were situated, made our cabins up and had our first meal, we all went to bed and slept like rocks. The following days were made up of devotionals, Bible studies, swimming, boating, hiking, kissing, hugging and trouble making.

We had a tiny little Navy Chaplain as the boys' Bible studies teacher. He had driven up from San Diego in a tiny little Crosley car borrowed from one of the members of his local church.

I think the car owner actually had it in his pocket at the time. It was made by the company that also made refrigerators, and I think they used the same forms for both. The car was so small, a group of us was able to pick it up, carry it off the road, up a little incline, and set it between two huge trees with exactly enough room for two thin sheets of paper. When the Chaplain saw our handiwork and knew there was no driving that car outa that mess, he put his Christianity on hold for a while and told us what he thought.

First of all, it was a little hard to take "Rev. Ensign Pulver" seriously since half of us were as tall as he, plus we knew we could easily solve the problem, and furthermore we hadn't so much as scratched the car.

Anyway, at that point, a 6 foot 6 inch minister from the San Francisco church walked up, surveyed the situation and broke the ice when he looked down on the top of the Chaplain's cap and asked in a whisper that could be heard on the other side of the lake, "How far would this thing go if I burped in the gas tank?"

Only he didn't say "burped," but I want to maintain the paper's "G" rating.

In a few minutes, after the laughter died down, we lifted the car out of its trap and we didn't get so much of a thank-you from the hapless little seafarer. In fact, the rest of the Biblical teachings that week had a distinct thread running through them that suggested that he thought we would probably never learn to extend to him the respect he felt he was due and that the lesson of respecting the property of others would also remain forever a mystery in our hearts.

Incidentally, the girls' names were, in successive years, Nancy, Helen and Willie. They were the real reason this guy couldn't wait for summer to roll around. I don't want you to get the impression irritating Sunday school teachers was our sole purpose in attending church camp, but then neither was becoming saints, as far as that goes.

Back then, we used the same dodge kids still use: "We were young." Like that's supposed to excuse every idiotic act ever pulled.

Y'know, it's still called temporary insanity, but now the excuse for untenable behavior can be mind altering substances, which is way more idiotic. Way more.

Lucky that stuff didn't exist in Lodi, much less at church camp. At that altitude, the kisses were dizzying enough.

Bob Bader is a Lodi chiropractor, writer and photographer and can be reached at drrobertbader@sbcglobal.net

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