WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

ACT ONE

I never went to overnight camp, but for the summer between eighth and ninth grade, thirteen going on fourteen, my parents signed me up for a month-long teen program at the YMHA in the next town over, Elizabeth. You could say it was a coming of age experience; I had never been away from home in the summer.

Staying with my grandparents didn’t count as “away from home” because my parents were always there, along with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. We loaded up the Chevy Impala, a boat of a car, and drove from New Jersey to Glen Cove, on the north shore of Long Island, to my grandparents’ house where we cousins slept on the carpeted bedroom floors while the aunts and uncles slept in the two guest bedrooms. The lucky ones got to sleep in grandma and grandpa’s room which had the only air conditioner. No one ever complained to the management. The one upstairs bathroom was small but 1950’s stylish, with a pink bathtub and sink, and shiny pink and black tile squares on the wall.

I don’t know how grandma scheduled the visits, but I think it went this way – if a family wanted to visit, they sprang for a long distance telephone call. Grandma never refused. It was unthinkable for a relative to pay for a hotel.

Grandpa fired up the Buick Special and took us to Morgan Beach every day (a coastal park donated to the town by an esteemed resident, financier J.P. Morgan) in whatever configuration of cousins were visiting in any given week. But before that, some of us went to the school playground after breakfast where an older lady with a whistle on a lanyard around her neck, Mrs. Famigletti, taught an arts and crafts program for walk-in kids.  But she never blew that whistle – why would she in an arts and crafts class anyway?

ACT TWO

The summer of 1958 was different. I still had the safety of my home base but ventured out with a new group of kids – not cousins! – on weekdays. My mom drove me to the Y each morning and picked me up every afternoon, expressing an interest in what I had done that day – the boardwalk and carousel at Asbury Park, Olympic Park, row boating in Lake Hopatcong, hiking in the Watchung Mountains. Sometimes we went to my other grandmother’s for dinner; her house was on the way home.

I have no memory of those day trips, other than one, but I do remember the chorus of 100 bottles of beer in the wall on the bus, whether our destination was near or far. The boys always started, but the girls joined in soon enough.

That one trip I do remember was a 54 mile excursion to Bear Mountain State Park, situated on the west bank of the Hudson River. Crossing state lines made this trip a Big Deal. We were able to get down to single digit bottles of beer in the wall on the one and a half hour ride. And, a barbecue was planned for lunch. I remember the view of the lake with a mountain rising ominously alongside it in the shape of a huge hibernating bear, a spectacular sight. After the hot dogs and hamburgers, we headed for the lake. I ventured out with my adequate but not great swimming skills, and floated contentedly when the cool water was over my head.

Without warning, one of my legs cramped up badly. I had always heard that you were supposed to wait at least thirty minutes before swimming after a meal, but on a July afternoon with only two hours before boarding the hot bus again, the group leaders didn’t enforce that rule. I was shocked at the fierce pain and the inability to control my leg. Is this what a cramp is like, it also paralyzes you? I looked up at the mountain as if to implore, but it really did look like a bear who was not my friend.

I was frightened to death, but my will to survive must have kicked in. I figured out a way to use my arms and my other leg to gently propel myself closer to shore. I kept my cramped leg perfectly still and the wracking, twisting pain subsided. I just knew that if I moved it in the slightest, the cramp would re-appear and take me down.

When I reached the shore, I was able to walk out of the water on my own.

But I didn’t scream for help. I used every bit of energy in me to manage the scare in my own way. I never told anyone about it, the kids, the leaders, my parents. I was embarrassed, a 13 year old in her new red bathing suit who got herself into a jam. Long after that day, the feeling of life-threatening fear is seared in my memory.

But as it turns out, I was meant to live so much longer – if I got past that day.

100 bottles of beer in the wall

100 bottles of beer

If one of those bottles should happen to fall

99 bottles of beer in the wall . . . .

ACT THREE

To celebrate the end of the session, the organizers planned an evening dance at the Y for our group and other local Jewish kids in town. In the summer between ages thirteen and fourteen, I pretty much completed “developing’ (as it was called then) into the height and shape of a young woman.  I remember the new dress I wore, a chemise style popular that year, raspberry red with a scoop collar, flats with stockings, and Revlon lipstick to match. I had no interest in the boys in our group, and they were not interested in the girls or the dance either, but their mothers probably made them go.

I remember the polished wood dance floor; it must have been in the gym. And this boy I did not recognize comes up to me and asks me to dance. He had dark curly hair, wore a suit jacket as required, and was quite handsome. The thing about these teen dances was to be able to make conversation while dancing with someone you didn’t know. I took pride in my ability to carry on a conversation, take the lead if necessary so there were no very embarrassing silences.  I figured that this skill would be important for my future.

I learned that Terry was one and a half years older than me, and went to Jefferson, the boys’ high school in Elizabeth. At the end of the dance, one of the girls invited some of us to her house, and I said yes to the invitation on this magical summer night. I remember standing around the living room while someone played on the baby grand piano – and who walks in but my dance partner.

He must have asked for, and I must have given him, my phone number. This was the start of a relationship that my parents thought was not appropriate – I was still thirteen until my upcoming August birthday. They probably saw me as the Bat Mitzvah girl of the summer before when I wore a lacy confirmation-type dress, not the stylish chemise that I had bought at a quality department store in downtown Newark.

Not that I thought about it at the time, but I was meant to survive the near drowning and move on with life, love, and adventures unknown.