Nobody I knew went to a camp. Summer mornings we hopped on our bikes and rode in huge packs to the nearest playground where the town ran a recreation program. I thought we had to go, like it was a state law or something. Mostly I remember playing baseball—hours in the hot sun and dead grass of right field at Willard School, spitting in my glove, swaying heroically, petrified at the thought of Donny Costello hitting a line drive towards me. Some days we’d hop on a bus and drive to swimming lessons where we’d stand shivering and poking each other, waiting our turn to do the frog kick above the disgusting muck of Warner’s Pond. On really special days some guy would come from a museum in Boston and let us pet a hoot owl, a boa constrictor and a de-scented skunk; one time he even dissected a baby pig. That was very cool. But the longest part of the day was always baseball. Year after year of Jimmy Buell always pitching from the mound, and the big kids always getting to choose whatever position they wanted. I don’t remember growing old because I never got to choose. Twice a summer we would go on a field trip to Whalom park in Fitchburg. It’s the only time I remember singing. Mostly we’d scream 99 Bottle of Beer on The Wall at the top of our lungs followed by Had A Peanut and On Top of Spaghetti. And my sisters and their friends always sang You Are My Sunshine. Boys didn’t. Because, mostly it was baseball.

 

     Everything else musical in my life came from Dale Dorman and WRKO, and from the pile of albums in our stereo cabinet. But I was fine. Everything I knew about music I loved. I just didn’t know that much—until I turned fifteen in my sophomore year and got a job at a summer camp. My three older sisters worked at Camp Sewataro in Sudbury MA, the next town over from us. I got a job there for fifty dollars a summer as a boating counselor. I almost didn’t get the job because when they asked my why I wanted to work there I said, “For the money.” But my sisters worked there, and they were very responsible, so they hired me.

 

     I didn’t do much to distinguish myself as a counselor. One morning I fell asleep in a canoe and tipped over. That news spread fast, especially the rumors as to why I was tired enough to fall asleep in a canoe. Another day I laid down on the dock and pretended I was asleep. I was trying to make a point to some kids to get their boats back to the dock more quickly; but to Steve Conroy, the massively huge and imposing camp director gazing at me from a distance, it looked as if I were just lying down on the dock. Another day I was paddling around with a really cute junior counselor on the far side of the pond; too far away to notice a group of wild campers throwing rocks at each other. Big Steve saw that too. Thank God I had sisters who toed the line. As mortified as they were that I was their brother, we were a good Irish Catholic family, so they stuck up for me. So I kept my job.

 

     At the end of every day some very dorky guy would get up in front of the whole camp—and it was a really big camp—and sing some very dorky songs. I was way too cool to join in so I’d sit in the back and pretend I was singing. I did the hand motions because my sisters made me, but in an exaggerated way, so I was still cool. At least I thought so, or I hoped, to the junior counselor girls. Luckily, most of my screw-ups happened during the first session of camp. By the end of the second session I was a true counselor. I had a blast with the campers, made peace with Big Steve, and even made my sisters proud. Alba Taylor, the owner of the camp, admitted she was glad she hadn’t followed her instincts to fire me. I even started to sit with the kids and sing the dorky songs. I even liked the dorky guy, but I never actually “liked” his songs.

 

     The next summer there was a new guy at the camp. He was an eagle scout (a term I had never even heard before) and taught woodcraft. He was as massively huge as Big Steve and could juggle shot-puts. I did my best to ignore him. He seemed to ignore me as well. I noticed that his campers were always doing these way fun things; like building rafts and teepees, and cooking over a campfire that burned continuously through the day—and singing, always singing: clapping songs, cheers, all stuff I’d never heard before. The more jealous I became of his popularity, the more I ignored him—until after the first girls overnight.

 

     The whole day after the girls overnight (which I wasn’t at) I had to listen to everyone, especially my sisters, talk about how awesome the new guy was; how he took charge and led three hundred campers and counselors in over an hour of singing; how he juggled fire and sang hilarious songs nobody had ever heard before; how he led the counselors in skits that the kids were still talking about…and the kids—the girl campers—were now marching around camp, singing and shouting cheers at the tops of their lungs, gathering around in circles and singing the sweetest things you’d ever hear—and talking about the woodcraft counselor, of course. The boys, myself included, eyed them warily. I was hoping the boy’s overnight would be my place to shine, to finally put to rest the ignominy of my first summer at camp. I would be a leader and an example for all. But now I was resigned to being a subject of the new king.

 

     The boy’s campfire was lit by the new woodcraft counselor in a spectacular, never before display of campfire prowess. I think he shot a burning arrow into it or something. It didn’t help that he called me by name to come up and help him light his torches just so he could wow the crowd with his juggling talents. It especially didn’t help when he said he recognized me from a high school football game where his small town of Maynard beat the pants off us rich kids from Concord. (He didn’t mention that this small town bred enormously large children, most of who went on to play division one college football.) He did wow the crowd juggling his burning torches while telling a funny story about playing with fire. I got a few laughs at his expense by imitating him behind his back. While a skit he organized was going on he praised me for being so quick on my feet and suggested other ways to make fun of him during the next song. He also pointed out a few kids that looked nervous about staying overnight and told me how to get them involved enough to forget they were scared; at the same time he drafted a few lazy counselors out of the back row and “encouraged” them to take the lead in a cheer. All of a sudden it dawned on me. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t out to one up me. All he cared about was putting on a show for the kids, with the kids, and because of the kids. He was simply an extension of a tradition I never knew existed. I jumped on the train: This was the childhood I never experienced. It was “camp,” pure and true.

 

     After that night, I got myself a banjo and learned three chords: I found two counselors who played the guitar, another kid who played the violin well enough to call it a fiddle, a tall skinny counselor—I can’t even remember his name—played the washtub bass, and anybody else with gumption, spunk, a big heart and/or a loud mouth could join us on juice jugs, bongo’s, shakers rain-sticks and anything else that made noise. My little brother Tommy (now a counselor too) and his friends clapped and cheered and danced and gave courage to the reticent. We called ourselves “The Sewataro Jug Band.” Anybody could join, regardless of their talent. My sisters: Patty, Eileen, and Mary Ellen took the lead roles in every skit. Our home became the unofficial headquarters of camp preparations. It seemed like the whole neighborhood, none of whom ever even went to a camp, were now working there. Great droves of us would bike to camp everyday. My little sister Annie became the only one of our family to ever actually go to camp. I kept learning and singing old folk songs I learned from the records in our stereo cabinet, or found while scouring the seldom-visited shelves of our local library. The big fire juggling, hatchet handling eagle-scout led us in everything else; he organized our enthusiasm, gave hand motions to every song I learned, and he taught us the tricks to capture the heads, hearts and imaginations of any crowd of campers, no matter how loud the thunder, how large the hail, or how long and hot the afternoon.

 

     That was thirty years ago. That guy, still one of my very best friends, is simply known as ‘The Rogue’—a master magician, juggler, storyteller, and treasure chest of camp lore. The only research I did for this book was to sit down and remember—and the memories came in a great flood: I remembered the numerous performances during camp, after camp at the 117 house on Friday afternoons, the hundreds of note-cards filled with set lists, outlines of stories, words to songs we heard at pubs or parties, or from another camp counselor, or gleaned from a late night session with Barry Lyle—another gem of a person and caretaker of a mother lode of camp songs, Native American stories, and the history behind everything. Everything that was good—everything that worked in the unforgiving forum of reality, I put down on paper. I haven’t included the tried and failed—that would be another long and wonderful book. I’ve only included those songs, stories and cheers that worked for us, or that we saw working through the gifts of others willing to bear the torch of tradition, who brought with them the best of the various camps, cultures and traditions they came from.

 

     I hope you say, “I can’t believe he didn’t include such or such a song!” Because then I know you know: You know the summer camp is the last stronghold of our oral tradition. It is the last place where music is being passed from one generation to the next through the magic and power of memory. It is the last place where kids hear and sing songs simply because they are good and fun and relevant to their lives, and not because they are packaged and promoted by an industry disinterested in the moral and emotional growth of children. The summer camp is a gift: a small world of children led mainly by an even smaller group of young adults. These children and these young counselors are our future. It is our responsibility to preserve and continue everything that we intuitively know is good and healthy for them. The camp experience, and camp songs in particular, fill a part of our lives with joy and remembrance; it is a happiness we carry throughout our lives. It is important that our camps and schools and homes and communities continue to create places where children can experience the traditions that came before them; It is important that our we engage ourselves and create the opportunity to express and continue these traditions.

 

     We’ve got to keep singing.

 

     This book is dedicated to everyone who taught me, who guided me, who inspired me, and who put up with me: To the bus drivers who put up with 99 Bottles of Beer; to my parents who had us do everything together, who packed us in station wagons, who squeezed us around a table, who shaped, cajoled and created an amazing memory; to the Taylors for not firing me and setting me free; to my brother and sisters who went through, and still go through, everything as a family: to every camp, club and tavern owner who lets a folksinger through their door; To Big Steve who showed me boundaries, and potential—and kindness; To Jimmy Buell who stood on the baseball mound for six hours a day—for us, a bunch of kids from a huge and crazy neighborhood; to all the great counselors who’ve been there with me, who sang and still sing with me, and who continue to do the good work with kids; to my friends who’ve heard every song, story and joke way too many times—and still smile; to Hatrack and Seth who have almost made a musician out of me, whose love for music is matched only by their love for family and humanity; and to Wally for being the bearer of the torch, who si down in the trenches keeping the traditions alive.

 

     And especially to Rogue and Lyle, the true masters.

 

     But above all, to my wife Denise, who I met at summer camp, who took in this wandering soul and shares a love that is as rich and real as any dream imagined…and to our own kids: Kaleigh, Margaret, Eddie, Charlie, Emma and Tommy who show that love and family—far more than words—are a great adventure into the known and unknown; who encourage me to grow up, and to not grow up; and who laugh and sing and play and play and play….And to you who are curious enough to be reading this book.

 

     Everything in here is meant to be shared anywhere, anytime, and with anybody.

 

    Thank you, good luck, have fun, and keep singing.