Don’t Be Afraid to Ask

When I was sixteen I attended summer camp in the mountains near my Los Angeles home. I’ll admit that camping has never been my thing – I’m outdoorsy in theory only.

But it was at that camp I met Gail, my first real girl friend.  She lived on Manning Avenue across town. That meant I had the opportunity to drive my mom’s old Pontiac forty-five minutes each way to pick Gail up for a date.  It’s strange to recall this now, more than sixty years later, because I don’t like to drive any more than necessary, and try as I might, I cannot visualize Gail as a seventy-nine-year-old woman. She’s like Marilyn Monroe who never ages in my mind.

One morning at camp I woke up with two black marks about an eighth of an inch apart on the ball of my right thumb.

What was this?  I knew immediately: it was a bite from a black widow spider and I was doomed to die unless I got immediate help. I’ve always had an active imagination – especially when it comes to dangers from which I might die.

What to do?  I certainly could not tell the cabin counselor. I didn’t want to be labeled as a “sissy,” and I already didn’t get along very well with the other boys, particularly those who had more experience with camping.

I did work up the courage to approach the counselor, stick my right thumb in front of him, and casually ask (while looking the other way), “What do you think this is?”

“Probably a splinter,” he said.

Doomed. Apparently he had never seen a black widow bite before. I was sure the venom was already coursing through my veins and I was never going see my family again.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”

I had only one more chance for help. At breakfast in the dining hall I approached the camp nurse. She had to recognize a black widow spider bite when she saw one.

Again I stuck out my right thumb and repeated, “What do you think this is?”

She must have had little experience with the outdoors herself.

“Probably a small splinter,” she said, continuing to sip her coffee.

My final hope vanished.  I could not bring myself to voice my real concern. I simply couldn’t say, “Do you think it might be a black widow spider bite?”  I couldn’t. It was like not asking a girl to dance with me until she was already leaving the high school gym on the arm of a more assertive guy.

At camp there was no library where I could look it up, and, of course, no Internet back then.  So I spent the rest of my day waiting to die.  I was even a little disappointed when I survived all the way through to the evening campfire.  I didn’t want to expire in my sleep

That was the last time I ever attended summer camp as a camper. Two years later though, I worked as a camp counselor teaching photography. I spent a lot of time in the dark room where I primitively merged the faces of female counselors onto… I’m sure you get the picture.

I’m glad my children seem to like hiking, camping, skiing, and other outdoor activities.  And all of them actually seemed to enjoy summer camp.

Do I need to add that the moral of this tale is, “Don’t be afraid to ask”?

Cheers.

Alan