Admiral_Snackbar
Veni, vidi, Lionel Richie
A common theme on boards these days is to spin a response to the issue at hand with a semi-lengthy anecdote taken from your actual life. Sometimes the trolls do this to enact the Fresh Prince meme, but mostly they're interesting little tidbits from the past to put things in to context for the poster. I just figured it'd be a neat thread for people with verbose, pendantic posts like mine to flex their literary muscles. 
I'll begin with a favored one from my past, to wit:
When I was in fifth grade, I got the urge to go to summer camp. Now reminding everyone that I am not an outdoorsman, and mosquitos consider me akin to a god. Having bad summer allergies as well, and being the only chubby kid in my little clique, well...you get the idea.
There was a very popular Catholic summer camp about 2-3 hours from home, and every spring the kids would bring pamphlets to school, and every fall they'd regale us with all the fun stories they had. I was bummed because my two best friends always went, I didn't, so I had a few weeks of lonely time when they were all away.
So, in fifth grade, my mom and dad looked at the numbers and gave me the nod. Now my mother being as close to a Catholic yenta as possible, faced with the idea of her boy alone in a hostile wilderness for three weeks, went full on shit nuts. She bought these little name tags that got ironed on to every piece of clothing I took with me, had two bottles of sunscreen, allergy meds, etc.. When the duffels were finally full, you thought I was going off to boot camp. My dad was skeptical the whole time, but to his credit, said nothing--he saw my aversion to being outdoors, and although I reveled in things like swimming and bike riding, these were under the relatively controlled conditions of suburbia. Nothing to worry about mostly.
Earlier that spring, the town nearby the camp had a major tornado storm, some three funnel clouds dipped in and around the town, and most of the area was laid waste. Being my first long foray from home, my grandparents insisted on driving their custom van down, so we were all piled in during early summer heat driving across the plains of southern Illinois. The town was bizarre-looking. The supermarket was now a pile of rubble and concrete blocks, on main street you would see two untouched homes, a third home leveled, then the fourth untouched. The damage was incredible. Nevertheless, we made our way out to the entrance to the camp.
At the time, I had coordinated with all my buddies to ensure we shared the same lodges. There were house-type lodges close to the camp center, and stilt-house lodges further out into the forest. Once I arrived there, it was chaos; people and kids everywhere, and once I arrived at registration, I found out that I had forgotten to pre-register for a lodge. I was assigned housing (all named after Indians as far as I knew) and told to be there within the next two hours for roll call. I caught up with my friends in the central area, and found out that logistically, we would be on opposite ends of the camp. I was devastated, not only because I would be away from the only guys I knew, but also that I was going to be in the BFE equivalent of camp.
Now, on the brochure, these lodges look like Shangri-La. Running water, flush toilets, and so forth. I was expecting basically a Winnebago on stilts out in the countryside. I said my goodbyes to the family and my dad carried me and my ten pieces of matched luggage down a 2 mile trail to my lodge.
It was then that I learned the meaning of the term "shithole".
There were three-bunk high little buildings, no larger than storage sheds, up on tall ladders with a narrow walkway and guardrails. The threadbare mattresses reeked of urine and mold. Having prepared me for a voyage on the Titanic, I had just enough room at the end of the bunks for one duffel, let alone three. Bathroom facilities consisted of an outhouse and a rusty spigot sticking out of the ground. My dad had this "oh fuck me" look on his face, reflected in my own. He put on a good mask of confidence, hugged me and said to just enjoy myself. I didn't realize at the time how much cash he had plonked down for me to go to camp that year, and he was hoping (as I did) that I'd do some growing up.
I held back a choked sob and saw him pass the crest of the footpath. Soaked in sweat (thanks mom for the cotton collared shirt) I went back to my bunk, took off my shirt, and threw on my swimming trunks. We sat on a log around a firepit, and the counselor, someone whose surname apparenly rhymed with "de Sade" told us of all the wonderful back-to-nature events we'd encounter. Swimming in lakes, tomahawk throwing, eating shit that would make goats puke, and so forth. He may have mentioned the ritual scraping of lake leeches off our ass cheeks at some point but I can't fully recall. I got a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach, kind of like the fat inmate in The Shawshank Redemption right before Byron Hadley beat him to death. This isn't right, I thought. I'm not supposed to be here. I then realized two things: A) Only 15 minutes had gone by and B) If I hoofed it, I might be able to catch up with my family and go back home. It was chickenshit I knew, but I went with it.
You never saw a fat kid run so fast. It was like the hounds of Hell were after me, and I hightailed it past a row of surprised kids, as I booked toward the main campsite. I must have looked crazed, my hair drenched and my breathing heavy, my pasty white belly rolls jiggling in a hypnotic way, almost providing a form of kinetic energy to move me faster. Superheroes don't move this quickly.
I crested the final hill about 10 minutes later, and saw my family just piling into the van. I ran over, barely able to catch my breath. My aunt said that I was flushed from the neck down, my head pale, and sweat everywhere. I began just blabbering, saying I couldn't stay, I wanted to go home, etc.. My dad, who I expected to be pissed all to Hell, surprisingly said nothing. We knew ahead of time that the camp would keep almost half the cost of my entry if I pulled out, and my folks wouldn't see that money again. My mom was apoplectic, angry at me for chickening out, but I think more because she had put so much work into planning the vacation for me, and now I was backing out. In the next five minutes, I went from angry to crying to calm, I was exhausted, probably severely overheated. Two bottles of water later, they convinced me to go back to the camping lodge. I'd get over it, they said. I'll meet new people and have a wonderful time.
My dad walked me back out to the lodge. I didn't know what the Bataan Death March was at that age, but seeing the looks on the soldier prisoner's faces from books later in my life, I realized I must have looked a lot like that, minus the random executions by the Japanese soldiers. He gave me a hug when I got there, almost apologetic, and I saw him walk off again. I sat on the log, staring off into space, trying to keep my mind from snapping. I met a couple kids from my bunk room, but was mostly too tired and upset to care.
We went back down to the firepit, going over the main instructions for the camp, when I see my dad coming back over the hill. "Get your shit," he said, "we're going". Turned out everyone piled back in the van, pissed at my mom, pissed at my dad, my grandmother crying because she knew I was unhappy, and the van died midway down the main road. There had been an unknown hole in the gas tank, possibly debris from town that cracked something, and all the fuel had leaked out in the parking lot. My grandmother, being rather religious, took it as an obvious sign that Jesus (or Satan, because some tricks are just too cruel) wanted me to go home with them. Whatever.
We managed to catch a ride with a guy heading into the local town. My dad got a hold of his brother, who was on his way down in his RV to pick us all up. So you have all of us, and four duffels piled into the back of a Ford truck, heading out of the camp, when suddenly, this storm whips up all to be damned. I'd never seen a "tornado sky," but I did then, we watched the rain come down all over us while the truck driver headed full tilt to the closest building in town. The sky went from grey to black to green in the space of ten minutes. We arrived at a Wendys, and immediately had to take cover in the kitchen - a small twister had touched down outside of town, and quickly made it's way through with minimal damage.
My uncle arrived about 2 hours later and we headed home. My grandfather had to go back a week later to pick up his repaired van--mechanic said it was the weirdest thing he had ever seen. I never went back to camp, but once word got around of our "otherworldly" experience, they refunded almost 3/4 of our fee. My friends even heard about it in their lodge. I'm not sure what forces were at work that weekend, whether I was some secret son of a storm god or whether circumstances just aligned, but I was rather glad after all was said and done that I missed out on the summer camp experience.
I'll begin with a favored one from my past, to wit:When I was in fifth grade, I got the urge to go to summer camp. Now reminding everyone that I am not an outdoorsman, and mosquitos consider me akin to a god. Having bad summer allergies as well, and being the only chubby kid in my little clique, well...you get the idea.
There was a very popular Catholic summer camp about 2-3 hours from home, and every spring the kids would bring pamphlets to school, and every fall they'd regale us with all the fun stories they had. I was bummed because my two best friends always went, I didn't, so I had a few weeks of lonely time when they were all away.
So, in fifth grade, my mom and dad looked at the numbers and gave me the nod. Now my mother being as close to a Catholic yenta as possible, faced with the idea of her boy alone in a hostile wilderness for three weeks, went full on shit nuts. She bought these little name tags that got ironed on to every piece of clothing I took with me, had two bottles of sunscreen, allergy meds, etc.. When the duffels were finally full, you thought I was going off to boot camp. My dad was skeptical the whole time, but to his credit, said nothing--he saw my aversion to being outdoors, and although I reveled in things like swimming and bike riding, these were under the relatively controlled conditions of suburbia. Nothing to worry about mostly.
Earlier that spring, the town nearby the camp had a major tornado storm, some three funnel clouds dipped in and around the town, and most of the area was laid waste. Being my first long foray from home, my grandparents insisted on driving their custom van down, so we were all piled in during early summer heat driving across the plains of southern Illinois. The town was bizarre-looking. The supermarket was now a pile of rubble and concrete blocks, on main street you would see two untouched homes, a third home leveled, then the fourth untouched. The damage was incredible. Nevertheless, we made our way out to the entrance to the camp.
At the time, I had coordinated with all my buddies to ensure we shared the same lodges. There were house-type lodges close to the camp center, and stilt-house lodges further out into the forest. Once I arrived there, it was chaos; people and kids everywhere, and once I arrived at registration, I found out that I had forgotten to pre-register for a lodge. I was assigned housing (all named after Indians as far as I knew) and told to be there within the next two hours for roll call. I caught up with my friends in the central area, and found out that logistically, we would be on opposite ends of the camp. I was devastated, not only because I would be away from the only guys I knew, but also that I was going to be in the BFE equivalent of camp.
Now, on the brochure, these lodges look like Shangri-La. Running water, flush toilets, and so forth. I was expecting basically a Winnebago on stilts out in the countryside. I said my goodbyes to the family and my dad carried me and my ten pieces of matched luggage down a 2 mile trail to my lodge.
It was then that I learned the meaning of the term "shithole".
There were three-bunk high little buildings, no larger than storage sheds, up on tall ladders with a narrow walkway and guardrails. The threadbare mattresses reeked of urine and mold. Having prepared me for a voyage on the Titanic, I had just enough room at the end of the bunks for one duffel, let alone three. Bathroom facilities consisted of an outhouse and a rusty spigot sticking out of the ground. My dad had this "oh fuck me" look on his face, reflected in my own. He put on a good mask of confidence, hugged me and said to just enjoy myself. I didn't realize at the time how much cash he had plonked down for me to go to camp that year, and he was hoping (as I did) that I'd do some growing up.
I held back a choked sob and saw him pass the crest of the footpath. Soaked in sweat (thanks mom for the cotton collared shirt) I went back to my bunk, took off my shirt, and threw on my swimming trunks. We sat on a log around a firepit, and the counselor, someone whose surname apparenly rhymed with "de Sade" told us of all the wonderful back-to-nature events we'd encounter. Swimming in lakes, tomahawk throwing, eating shit that would make goats puke, and so forth. He may have mentioned the ritual scraping of lake leeches off our ass cheeks at some point but I can't fully recall. I got a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach, kind of like the fat inmate in The Shawshank Redemption right before Byron Hadley beat him to death. This isn't right, I thought. I'm not supposed to be here. I then realized two things: A) Only 15 minutes had gone by and B) If I hoofed it, I might be able to catch up with my family and go back home. It was chickenshit I knew, but I went with it.
You never saw a fat kid run so fast. It was like the hounds of Hell were after me, and I hightailed it past a row of surprised kids, as I booked toward the main campsite. I must have looked crazed, my hair drenched and my breathing heavy, my pasty white belly rolls jiggling in a hypnotic way, almost providing a form of kinetic energy to move me faster. Superheroes don't move this quickly.
I crested the final hill about 10 minutes later, and saw my family just piling into the van. I ran over, barely able to catch my breath. My aunt said that I was flushed from the neck down, my head pale, and sweat everywhere. I began just blabbering, saying I couldn't stay, I wanted to go home, etc.. My dad, who I expected to be pissed all to Hell, surprisingly said nothing. We knew ahead of time that the camp would keep almost half the cost of my entry if I pulled out, and my folks wouldn't see that money again. My mom was apoplectic, angry at me for chickening out, but I think more because she had put so much work into planning the vacation for me, and now I was backing out. In the next five minutes, I went from angry to crying to calm, I was exhausted, probably severely overheated. Two bottles of water later, they convinced me to go back to the camping lodge. I'd get over it, they said. I'll meet new people and have a wonderful time.
My dad walked me back out to the lodge. I didn't know what the Bataan Death March was at that age, but seeing the looks on the soldier prisoner's faces from books later in my life, I realized I must have looked a lot like that, minus the random executions by the Japanese soldiers. He gave me a hug when I got there, almost apologetic, and I saw him walk off again. I sat on the log, staring off into space, trying to keep my mind from snapping. I met a couple kids from my bunk room, but was mostly too tired and upset to care.
We went back down to the firepit, going over the main instructions for the camp, when I see my dad coming back over the hill. "Get your shit," he said, "we're going". Turned out everyone piled back in the van, pissed at my mom, pissed at my dad, my grandmother crying because she knew I was unhappy, and the van died midway down the main road. There had been an unknown hole in the gas tank, possibly debris from town that cracked something, and all the fuel had leaked out in the parking lot. My grandmother, being rather religious, took it as an obvious sign that Jesus (or Satan, because some tricks are just too cruel) wanted me to go home with them. Whatever.
We managed to catch a ride with a guy heading into the local town. My dad got a hold of his brother, who was on his way down in his RV to pick us all up. So you have all of us, and four duffels piled into the back of a Ford truck, heading out of the camp, when suddenly, this storm whips up all to be damned. I'd never seen a "tornado sky," but I did then, we watched the rain come down all over us while the truck driver headed full tilt to the closest building in town. The sky went from grey to black to green in the space of ten minutes. We arrived at a Wendys, and immediately had to take cover in the kitchen - a small twister had touched down outside of town, and quickly made it's way through with minimal damage.
My uncle arrived about 2 hours later and we headed home. My grandfather had to go back a week later to pick up his repaired van--mechanic said it was the weirdest thing he had ever seen. I never went back to camp, but once word got around of our "otherworldly" experience, they refunded almost 3/4 of our fee. My friends even heard about it in their lodge. I'm not sure what forces were at work that weekend, whether I was some secret son of a storm god or whether circumstances just aligned, but I was rather glad after all was said and done that I missed out on the summer camp experience.
