Time with Tom

The Cremation of Sam McGee

While I was trying to think of what to talk about today, I did what I always do during moments of uncertainty: I goofed off online. I found my way to Facebook, and from there to a friend’s status, where she said she feels like Sam McGee (she’s buried in one of the snowstorms that’s been hitting the East Coast this week). I don’t know how many people know who Sam McGee is, but I do. And that name takes me back.

One thing I tend to joke about is my time in the Boy Scouts when I was younger. The reason I joke about it is because of how much fun I had – my troop did a lot of cool things, one of which was camping at Yawgoog Scout Reservation in the summers. Ultimately, I became a staff member there (where I got to teach kids how to use a compass, chop wood, make a shelter out of branches, and then set everything on fire), spending about three full summers working there, as well as the 5 weeks I camped there, scattered over 4 previous summers. Every week was a new batch (a thousand large) of campers, so every Monday was the Welcome Campfire.

The Welcome Campfire was a chance for the staff to make absolute asses out of themselves for the campers before going on to teach them in all manner of things necessary for survival (and, uh…camping). The shows were a combinations of skits and stand up, with some songs tossed in for variety. One very popular moment was the recitation of the poem The Cremation of Sam McGee. I can still remember it clearly.

The staff member would stand up, walking slowly and deliberately onto the dirt “stage.” The fires were always waning by this point, the shadows cast by them dark and harsh. He had a walking staff twice as tall as he was, and he would lean on it, swaying slightly but otherwise remaining still for nearly the entire poem. The laughter (or groans) from the last skit would slowly fade, until we could hear the happy chirping of crickets, the crackling of the fire, and the hooting of distant owls. Then he would begin. It wouldn’t be a loud voice. He didn’t need to yell. He spoke, and the feeling carried his voice, the words enveloping us all…

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

If you want to read the full poem – which I suggest you do -then go over here and read away. Give yourself a few minutes for it – it’s a relatively easy read, but it’s not haiku length, either. Please try to ignore the terrible illustrations near the bottom, too. I wish they weren’t there, but that’s not my website.

Nothing quite compares to hearing this recited in a low and powerful voice in the dying light of campfires, but reading it is still a wonderful trip down memory lane. I hope you enjoy it.

Tom

A Drop of Rain to the Eye

This weather is insane. It was so humid last night that I wish I had SCUBA gear on me. Today when I left for work, the humidity was low, but it was warm and I could see stormclouds in the distance. Well, more accurately, I had stormclouds hanging above Commonwealth Ave, with the sun coming in from over the apartment buildings, meaning that it was one of those rare times where it was so bright that you debate about wearing sunglasses, while across the street and directly above you a storm rolls in. By the time I got to campus, fat raindrops were falling, and the rain was rapidly picking up speed (from a light sprinkle to a full-on summer rain in 5 or 10 minutes).

I think the coolest experience I’ve had with a storm so far was back when I was 15. Full disclosure: I used to be a Boy Scout. It’s okay though, my troop was part of the Narragansett Council, who were the ones that said “Hey, fuck you, who cares if some boys are gay? They’re still boys” to the national council, during that upheaval some years back (which, interestingly enough, began at the camp I’m about to flashback to).

Anyway.

I used to camp at Yawgoog Scout Reservation. One of the things you couldthere do was come back for a second week of camping without your troop, and you got put into Baden Powell, a provisional campsite. I made fast friends with the other 5 guys in my tent (3 of which would go on to join the staff after I did), and so we hung out in various sized groups all the time. One day, I went kayaking on Yawgoog Pond (which is big) with one of said kids, Justin. We got a good mile or so out there, almost clear across, and we were talking, just enjoying the afternoon. I turned to say something to him, and felt my stomach drop – his face had gone white. Not sick white, but more “There’s a ghost reaching for your neck” white. I ask him what’s wrong, and he just points behind me, so I turn around.

The day had been sunny, warm, and dry. A perfect camp sort of day. There were a few scattered clouds around, but they provided some perspective on the sky more than anything. The sorts of clouds a painter would include to make a painted sky look real. When I turned, my eyes moved up over the distant treeline, and my heart joined my stomach. The trees were almost as dark as night. Why, you may ask? Well, because hanging above the trees was a wall of black clouds. Storm clouds. But not just storm clouds. Violent storm clouds. Thunder and lightning kind of storm clouds. War clouds.

Like any human being with a moderately active internal survival instinct, we turned the kayaks around and began racing for shore, slowing down only to warn others about the impending doom (keep in mind, by the way, that if you’re anywhere near a large body – let alone on it and covered in water – of water that gets struck by lighning, you’re as good as electric). When we got about halfway back – still a half mile or so out – the All Boats In alarm sounded, meaning that the camp got word of something vicious on the way and we were about to get slammed. Justin and I made it back to shore and crashed into abandoned kayaks, so we helped the staff haul everything on shore, and ran to our tent. We changed for dinner, and the camp went about its normal business, while overhead the sun was being blotted out. When we went to the pre-dinner flag-lowering, I found myself wondering if I should have brought my flashlight with me.

We all get inside, dinner has just officially started, and the sound of thunder hits the ground. The sky had just opened up, and was dumping the Atlantic Ocean on Yawgoog. The storm was so thick that you couldn’t see more than a few feet out of the mess hall in any direction. Needless to say, we were all enthralled. The rain actually ended up stopping right before we left the mess hall, too, which was rather nice of it.

Upon closer mental investigation, I think this may have been the second favorite time. After all, there was the time I was at Yawgoog and Hurricane Bertha struck. Racing a storm in a kayak is fun, but it’s hard to beat playing Frisbee in a hurricane….

Knowing how often Yawgoog’s hit by storms, I’d say the following sign should be hung on the gates of the damn place:

Tom