A Camp Counselor's
Life with 16 Boys
by Dallas M. Roark
SOFT MOONLIGHT filtered through the window of Cabin 6 at our Round Lake, Illinois camp. Partitioned off from the rest of the cabin was a small cube of a room housing a cot for the counselor. High above the cot, every bit of a foot, circled a buzzing mosquito waiting like a chicken hawk for the right moment to sink a hypodermic needle-like instrument into my skin and drill for red oil. On the cot down below the mosquito, covered with a sheet and a blanket was I. Burying my head under the pillow brought a little relief but I nearly suffocated before the creature went away.
Everything was quite grand, that IS, except for the short blanket which did not adequately cover my six-foot frame. It wasn't so bad that my feet stuck out, except that they were open bait for mosquitoes, and they soon got cold.
Once more I gingerly told my sixteen boys of nine-to-twelve years of age that they should go to sleep. I never knew that ten year old boys could gossip like two old maids across a back-alley fence. Next I told them they needed the rest and cited the camp nurse, and every medical authority I could 'muster for reference, and besides, I needed sleep myself.
In the wee hours of the morning (I thought), I had a dream, I could hear the soft tender voice of one sweet little ten-year old bellowing across the room, "Hey, Wayne, get up!" Then a booming voice coming from the loud speaker, saying, friendly enough, "All out boys, time to get up! Time to wash up! Time
for flag and devotions! Time to wash up! Everybody out!"
Mumbling under my beard, I threw back the blanket, shivered in the cool, early morning air and got dressed. I was saying the pledge to the flag when two super-bomber mosquitoes stopped in mid-air, surveyed my 130 pound six-foot frame and said to each other, "What do you think of him?" "He's too bony, let's find one not so skinny," was the decision, hut a formation of smaller mosquitoes thought I was pretty juicy.
After flag-raising and devotions I made a bee-line for the dining hall for breakfast. The early morning air sure makes you hungry. I had "seconds" and ached for "thirds." I learned later that one camper went for "fourths." I really got acquainted with my kids at mealtime. One plump, round-faced ten year old insisted "My Mom don't feed me this . good!"
After the boys quietly stomped out of the diner they yelled their way back to the cabins for clean-up. It was there they missed their mothers. Many had not learned responsibility at home, hut when they worked for a prize they made a good bed.
Sandwiched between two Bible study periods for different ages was a morning chapel period for the whole camp. There they learned Bible stories galore.
After dinner came "sports time," with more upsets than when a baby learns to walk. Practically every boy signed for one or more games. Most of them boasted, "I'm really good at this." One small nine year old who seemed least adept of all in shuffle-board signed for the tournament. Elroy played his first game and won. When he was scheduled to play his next opponent he couldn't be found. He seemed to be dodging me. When I found him he rubbed his chubby little hand over his crewcut hair and said, "I don't wanta play." I told him he had to play and literally carried his squirming body over to the shuffle-board area. He played as I watched and polished off his second opponent. As soon as the game was over he disappeared again.
Over the P-A system I coaxed the little fellow again to the shuffleboard court. This time he downed his third opponent. On Friday, at the close of the week, I rounded up Elroy for the last game. He was beaten, but on Saturday morning he got a red ribbon for second place.
Favorite sport was swimming. Cool, drizzly weather brought goosebumps, chattering teeth and some purple lips, namely mine. But even the most homesick boys liked swimming. I looked forward to the first swim because I jokingly bragged that I would duck everybody in my cabin.' As soon as I got to the deep water, three little fellows ducked me twice.
After a monstrous supper we had the evening chapel service, a meeting designed to impress upon the mind of each boy his need of Christ as Savior. New at this sort of camp, I asked myself, "Aren't they too young for such decisions?" My question was soon answered for I learned that eighty per cent of our foreign missionaries and ministers made their first decision to serve God at that age, many in such chapel services.
A feeling of sincere delight came when I realized my share of influence on these young lives. A week with sixteen boys is more than an endurance test for mosquito bites, little sleep, strained muscles and chiggers. To me, it was a week invested in stock which always yields fabulous premiums -- youth dedicated to serve God and their generation.
How do I evaluate camp ten months later? Well, I've forgotten about the cold 'water and buzz bombers, but I have not forgotten about the timeless decisions made there. Speaking recently in one of the churches I saw one of the hoys who was born again at camp. I learned that when he got home from camp he had run into the house shouting, "Mom, I'm saved! I'm saved! I'm saved!" He is to be baptized soon. This is only one example, not an isolated case.
The Lord has been doing wonderful things up at camp every summer. He will do more of them this summer -- perhaps through you if you receive an invitation to share a cabin with, say, sixteen boys and a few dozen mosquitoes. END
(This is the first article I wrote that was published in Youth Today, June 12, l955)