Philip Hassey
Swamp Fox
9/29/00 - swampfox2.doc
A few days ago I made a discovery. There's an outhouse behind my apartment.
I of course, always knew that there was a wooden structure sitting back there, but
I had never before realized that it was a real live outhouse. Nan and I investigated and
were relieved to find that although it was real, it was not live. But many prodding
historical questions came to mind: When was it built? Who built it? When was it used
last (not counting the times boys had dared each other to use it in recent years)? Did they
actually jam three people in there at once in order that all three holes would be in use
simultaneously? History is a matter of discovering the truth of the past, and laying it out
for us to see.
The last outhouse I saw was at Sandy Hill. When I was six. The outhouse I saw
there as a six year old was actually built by my father. Not directly, of course, he planted
the trees in the pasture to the right side of the entrance. From those trees, the out house
was forged twenty years later.
See, when my father was at camp, as a camp counselor, he was a real camper.
Not one of these new fake campers that take 4000 dollars of equipment with themselves
into the woods, in hopes that they won't break anything while they "rough it." Nope, he'd
just haul off into the woods with his cabin of boys and a big tarp. They'd hang the tarp
from some trees, and just sit under it for a week, and camp.
Not all weeks were "rough it out doors all week long weeks" just some of them.
My dad's favorite week of the summer was Camparee week. For the most part, all the
cabins, would stay in their cabins, rather than camp all the time. My dad's cabin, the
Iriquios, got some extra special attention because he valued the value of camping more
than the other counselors. So the Iriquios would get taken down the road a piece, near
where the swamp was, and he'd have them camp at night one or two extra nights during
the week.
My dad built a small fire, and his boys sat around it with him. He'd teach them
how to be men. Told them stories about fire, Indians, and the Swamp Fox.
"The Swamp Fox lives around here," my dad announced, when the fire started
getting a bit lower. "Over there, usually," he pointed.
The boys would all turn their heads towards the woods near the swamp. Some
would keep gazing on over there, and others would turn back to watch my father's face as
he explained further.
"Listen," he said, as he picked up a rock.
"You're not going to kill him?" asked one of the boys.
"No," said my dad, "I'll just scare him a bit," then he slowly lifted his arm back
and chucked the rock into the woods. They heard it hit a tree and then some shuffling
sounds got heard off in the distance. The moon peaked from behind a cloud for effect,
then jumped back behind the next one.
"That was him," my dad said, after a pause. "When you have to go during the
night, do it on the other side of the road. The Swamp Fox usually isn't over there."
A few of the boys hunched together a bit closer.
"You won't have to worry about him tonight though," said Dad, "From what we
know of him, he usually doesn't get you when you're in a group. There's too many of us.
When you're alone.. though."
Even after my father's assurances, some of the boys did not sleep so well that
night.
The Iriquios and my dad got back early enough in the morning to eat breakfast,
which was a little cool, although as always, quite good. Old Chief Wilbur made breakfast
for everyone. He was pretty old. Old Chief Wilbur was the founder of Camp Sandy Hill.
He was rumored to be almost 110 years old. Some less reliable sources rumored as high
as 800 years old. Since Wilbur was a pretty old guy regardless, and pretty slow moving.
Kind of the way we imagine a an old movie of an old person being played at the wrong
speed in one of those old projectors. He'd walk from his cabin next to the field down to
the chow-house, and began preparing breakfast at about 3:00 a.m. it would take him the
next 4 hours to finish it. When it was all done, it was usually a little cool, taking so long
to make. After breakfast, he'd work the next 4 hours to produce a lunch, and finally he'd
spend the next 6 hours making dinner.
Confidentially my dad told his cabin that Old Chief Wilbur was really 300 years
old, despite what some people say.
That night was "camper competition" night. Into the woods they fled, nicely
enough in the opposite direction of the swamp fox. They put together a grand old
campsite using mere twine and tarps. They even built a nature den museum of weird
things the boys found outside during the afternoon. Then for dinner they made "Sandy
Hill Stew" out in the woods. A few rocks, a few slugs and potatoes and beef, and a good
while later, it was ready and eaten. A delicious treat for everyone.
"Fortunately," said my dad as they were chowing down, "the Swamp Fox rarely
comes out to this area."
The boys all agreed that this was fortunate.
"Usually we only loose one or two campers every summer anyway."
The boys all agreed that this was more or less fortunate.
"Sometimes the families complain a bit."
The boys all agreed that this was unfortunate.
"But those are the boys that we usually didn't want to come back another summer
anyway."
Most of the boys agreed that this was fortunate.
"Well, time for bed."
They muttered their Indian prayer and went to bed. "How, God. We go Sleep.
Tuck us in. Protect our Feet."
Foot protection was an issue because of the snapping turtles in the area.
The night only lasted several hours for the Iriquios. At 2 a.m. it started to pour.
The boys banged at my dad's tent and yelled about it.
"Go back to bed," yelled my dad, "It'll stop in a minute."
But it didn't. Soon the waters rose, and although my dad did not admit that it was
time to go back, he didn't stop anyone from getting on the "rescue truck" when it drove to
the site to pick the Iriquioss and my dad up. He got in too.
"The swamp fox is behind this," said my dad.
The next day, however, was bright cheery and quite warm. It was such a good
day, that the camp had cabin competitions in the field next to the pool. The Iriquios were
doing good and winning the relay races, and would have likely won the sack race as well,
but there was suddenly a commotion from behind, in the pool.
Big bubbles were gurgling up from the bottom of the pool and a bluish smoke was
in the air. Life guards were yelling for every one to stay back, which they didn't as they
came closer to see the Swamp Fox dripping with muck and seaweed slowly emerge from
the depths of the pool with a grunting rumble. On the side of the pool he made a
lurching procession about making strange noises and then plodded off towards the swamp
in somewhat of a confused daze.
The game organizer with the megaphone explained that sometimes the Swamp
Fox takes baths in the pool at night sometimes and must have fallen asleep last night.
The Iriquios were so terrified that the two boys who were about to do the sack race hid
inside of their sacks until my dad came up a few minutes later to see what the commotion
was.
He assured the boys that the Swamp Fox wasn't dangerous during the daytime,
and so they relaxed a little. Though most of them were too petrified to do any more races
for the next two hours.
The final night of camp was Indian Wake. All the boys layed on their backs in
two row in front of a pile of wood about twenty feet tall. It was very intimidating for the
boys to know that at any moment the twenty foot tall pile of wood may fall on them. A
drum began to beat in the background, and my dad "Big Chief" stepped out from the
inside of Old Chief Wilbur's cabin, receiving final direction from Wilbur. He raised his
arms into the air.
"Bowa-woompa! Bowa-woompa!" he chanted, the other chiefs around began to
chant it quietly as he slowly walked down the isle of boys towards the wood stack. As he
walked along, he dribbled bug juice on the boys from a watering pot. The boys squirmed
as the bug juice hit their foreheads.
At the end of the row he lifted a torch from the ground and lit it a blaze and threw
it at the wood pile, and ran away whooping wildly. Having been throroughly doused
with gasoline and the like at four separate occasions during the past three hours, the wood
caught fire quickly.
The chiefs began to pound the drums wildly as a start to the festivities. The boys
on the ground all leapt to their feet, and woozily stumbled around for a few minutes.
Most of them looked like they had been singed by the blaze, even though they hadn't.
Yes, the Indian Wake was a successful venture and all the boys enjoyed
themselves playing games, and proving their manhood. Several boys were somewhat
damaged during the proceedings, battle scars. They were given high awards of honor for
their bravery.
Everyone went to bed after the fun, and slept well all night long.
Everyone except for Old Chief Wilbur. He slept well, until it was time for him to
get up to make breakfast. 3:00 a.m. When he got out of his cabin, he noticed the field
where the bonfire had been was now on fire. Since his house was on the edge of the field
he felt he aught to do something about it. He went outside with a wet towel and started
whacking the burning field and yelling and crying out.
My dad was one of the first to notice Old Chief Wilbur's cries, so he woke up.
Got out of bed, wetted a towel and joined Old Chief Wilbur. Between the horror of the
field burning down and getting closer to the woods and the hilarity of Old Chief Wilbur
whacking the flames with a towel, my dad had difficulty choosing an emotional state.
Old Chief Wilbur was rumored to be almost 110 years old. Less reliable sources rumored
as high as 800 years old. My dad guess it was probably somewhere inbetween around
400. He wasn't doing so bad for a 400 year old man with towel.
"Stop starin' boy!" cried Old Chief Wilbur, "the fields burnin'!"
My dad, and the other guys who had showed up began whacking at the fire, until
finally, within inches of the woods catching on fire, they got it all out.
"My towels burnt," said Old Chief Wilbur, as he headed back to his cabin, as if
this was the sort of thing that happened every so often in any case. Probably 500 years
old. May six.
My Dad, had not had enough excitement for the evening though. Since he was
up, he figured he may as well put on his Swamp Fox outfit and scare the boys. It'll do
them good, build character.
The boys had woken up a while ago, having heard the noise outside they were
petrified.
"The Swamp Fox," said one of the boys. They all hid under their covers, and
some of them started sniffling and wimpering again.
"But," said another boy, "If he comes here, we'll need to be ready."
The other boys agreed, if the Swamp Fox were to come, and he was in an enraged
state, he could likely shred them all into a thousand pieces. The boys prepared for attack.
Baseball bats. Things like that.
The next bit of this story is somewhat unfortunate. My dad did not fare so well
when he came to scare his rather over-prepared cabin.
After being in bed for week after the incident, my dad was ready to help out
again. Being on crutches, due to a damaged right leg, he wasn't able to be as much help
for anything other than management.
"Okay," my dad said, "We'll plant the trees over there." Meaning that he'd nurse
himself back into health in a lawn chair while they did the work.
So he didn't actually even plant the trees that were eventually turned into out
houses, but I suppose if he had any part in it, he can still take credit.
Looking out at the outhouse behind my apartment again, I can think of the times
I've smashed people's knees and done other things. Maybe someday I'll see a outhouse
somewhere and know that somehow, someway, part of it's being is because of me.
Ohhhh, the [everybody - repeat after me!]
Sandy Hill Bunch is the truest and the best,
and we keep things going and we never take a rest,
and we have one yell,
and we yell it all together,
and it goes like this:
Sandy Hill Forever!
Bump-baddy-yump-bump, some camp!
