Somehow we got to talking about summer camp. That was after a fifteen minute speculation about why, and why now, the Biden-masters are officially recognizing the Armenian genocide as a Genocide. The geopolitical implications are mind-boggling, and since neither the Farm Manager or myself, after twelve months of you know what, have enough mind left to risk boggling, we went to summer camp instead.
The FM went to summer camp religiously. Not that it was a religious camp or anything. Her father was a prominent Jewish merchant in Owen Sound back in the day, and getting the kids out of his hair over the summer months meant lots of time at the YMCA run day camp out at Presquille.
I, on the other hand, only got to go to summer camp once. My parents figured anytime you want some fresh air, go out and hoe some potatoes, so shelling out a few bucks for summer camp was never on the table. (Although the potatoes were.)
When I was about twelve or so, I won a week at summer camp because I had memorized the most Bible verses in my Sunday School class at the Guelph Bible Chapel. The camping experience was pretty cool. The camp was at the Conference Grounds right behind the church. I never suffered homesickness because I knew I could walk away and be home in under an hour.
They had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a go-cart track, and the camp counsellor in my cabin was a guy who was playing football at the University of Michigan; a veritable god in my little universe. But what really stands out in my recall of my only week at summer camp, was one particular meal.
I don't remember any other meal I had that week, and all the campers were herded into the dining pavilion three times a day, so the first time I had pizza was memorable indeed. It was a buffet-style set-up, and after loading up on a couple of pieces of today's feature, the mysterious "pizza," I added a few other items, including the creamy coleslaw.
It was '67 or '68, but I was new to pizza. I found it kinda hot. I shovelled a big scoop of that creamy coleslaw into my face to cool things down...
THAT'S NOT COLESLAW, THAT'S HORSERADISH!!!
But the FM had a horseradish story too. Aside from the fur business, her folks were big-time into the local theatre scene. Her mom's family had theatre connections right back to the shtettl days, and it was only natural for her to get involved in the new country. Quite often their plays would tour to little theatre competitions across Canada, with her mom as the director and her dad as the producer.
People today don't appreciate the role of theatre in the lives of the eastern Jews, but it was a really big deal at the time. Hollywood and the US entertainment industry were built by the folks who transplanted that culture to America, and that was a tight community. Lorne Michaels was returning Ruth Gorbet's phone calls long after he became a big deal with Saturday Night Live.
From time to time their troupe won awards, and celebratory dinners were in order. One of the Farm Manager's favorite memories of her father was the time they were seated at a gala dinner, and although, since the FM herself was a mere script assistant, they were seated fourteen seats apart, the secret Jewish telepathy kicked in whenever brisket and horseradish were on the table at the same time.
There's no way I can top that story. Secret Jewish telepathy wins again!
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