by his friendâs enthusiasm, perhaps also by the low fees (fifteen dollars a week), Gene deputized her to pass along to the Director some of his questions, particularly about the quality of the counselors. Frank Lincoln responded, â We have not had a moral problem in the eight years of the camp and Mr. Vidal can rest assured that as the father of two young boys, eight and four years of age, I am on the look-out at all times for just such situationsâ¦. I hope we will have the pleasure of having Mr. Vidalâs son in camp.â Gene soon wrote that they had decided to send âour boy, age 8, for the full camp period.â Quite used to being relocated by fiat, and now to an unlikely place, Little Gene accepted that he was, so to speak, on the move again, another turn in the merry-go-round of semihomelessness.
From its high points distant Mount Washington shimmered. With New Hampshireâs immense Lake Winnepesaukee nearby and the White Mountains just beyond, William Lawrence Camp provided deep vistas, dark woods, and cold water. It was a lovely summer world of blues and greens, on its fine days brilliant, on rainy days damp and moldy, smelling of the water that seeped into everything. The seventy-five boys, from seven to fifteen years old, and the counselors, all college students, slept in wooden cabins. Each held eight boys and two counselors, though some increased their capacity with double-decker bunks. Each morning, dressed in navyblue pants and blue sleeveless underwearlike shirts emblazoned with the camp monogram, the boys aired their blankets over juniper bushes. Meals were at a large nineteenth-century structure with sloping floors called The Farm House, everything bent with the dampness of decades. A covered porch, where boys could eat whatever the weather, extended from one side. Counselorsâ assistants served meals. The boys peeled potatoes. âThe Army was nothing but
déjà vu
,â Vidal recalled. âWhen I went in as a private, I felt, Jesus, Iâve already done this once.â There was a huge barn for theatricals.The usual sports: woodcraft, woodlore, hikes, camp trips, campfires, camp songs, ghost stories, silly practical jokes, and, in those more innocent days, a totemic Indian mystique that organized the older boys into an exclusive group called the Braves.
In a highly regularized routine of daily camp activities, each punctuated by bugle calls, he went through the paces indifferently, sometimes evasively. There were no bullies to deal with. The counselors were serious, responsible, or at least not harmful, all from the Episcopalian world, some from as far away as North Carolina. One of them, who looked like Billy Graham and was going to be a minister, escorted Little Gene home by train at the end of summer. With another, in his fictionalized version of the experience, he had discussions about the soul, unable to understand why the counselor thought âspiritual things cause an inner peace which is more important than worldly affairs.â Another was âa very nice-looking boyâ¦. From Princeton. I see him very clearly now. Ginger-haired with frecklesâ¦. He was a Communist, perfectly open about it. It was fashionable in the thirties. We had discussions. I was fascinated by it.â Sex was not part of the atmosphere, though bed-wetting was. âAbout four in the morning everybody would be waked up to catch the bed-wetters. As I was not one of them, I resented being got out of bed just because they were trying to catch them. They had some psychological theory that if you could catch the boy before he was wetting the bed he wouldnât wet the bed. Heâd go and do it outside.â
Everything seemed routinized, boring. The elite Braves, dressed up like Indians at secret campfire meetings, were a club he did not wish to join. Every moment he could manage not to be missed he went back to the cabin or found some quiet outdoor place in which to
From its high points distant Mount Washington shimmered. With New Hampshireâs immense Lake Winnepesaukee nearby and the White Mountains just beyond, William Lawrence Camp provided deep vistas, dark woods, and cold water. It was a lovely summer world of blues and greens, on its fine days brilliant, on rainy days damp and moldy, smelling of the water that seeped into everything. The seventy-five boys, from seven to fifteen years old, and the counselors, all college students, slept in wooden cabins. Each held eight boys and two counselors, though some increased their capacity with double-decker bunks. Each morning, dressed in navyblue pants and blue sleeveless underwearlike shirts emblazoned with the camp monogram, the boys aired their blankets over juniper bushes. Meals were at a large nineteenth-century structure with sloping floors called The Farm House, everything bent with the dampness of decades. A covered porch, where boys could eat whatever the weather, extended from one side. Counselorsâ assistants served meals. The boys peeled potatoes. âThe Army was nothing but
déjà vu
,â Vidal recalled. âWhen I went in as a private, I felt, Jesus, Iâve already done this once.â There was a huge barn for theatricals.The usual sports: woodcraft, woodlore, hikes, camp trips, campfires, camp songs, ghost stories, silly practical jokes, and, in those more innocent days, a totemic Indian mystique that organized the older boys into an exclusive group called the Braves.
In a highly regularized routine of daily camp activities, each punctuated by bugle calls, he went through the paces indifferently, sometimes evasively. There were no bullies to deal with. The counselors were serious, responsible, or at least not harmful, all from the Episcopalian world, some from as far away as North Carolina. One of them, who looked like Billy Graham and was going to be a minister, escorted Little Gene home by train at the end of summer. With another, in his fictionalized version of the experience, he had discussions about the soul, unable to understand why the counselor thought âspiritual things cause an inner peace which is more important than worldly affairs.â Another was âa very nice-looking boyâ¦. From Princeton. I see him very clearly now. Ginger-haired with frecklesâ¦. He was a Communist, perfectly open about it. It was fashionable in the thirties. We had discussions. I was fascinated by it.â Sex was not part of the atmosphere, though bed-wetting was. âAbout four in the morning everybody would be waked up to catch the bed-wetters. As I was not one of them, I resented being got out of bed just because they were trying to catch them. They had some psychological theory that if you could catch the boy before he was wetting the bed he wouldnât wet the bed. Heâd go and do it outside.â
Everything seemed routinized, boring. The elite Braves, dressed up like Indians at secret campfire meetings, were a club he did not wish to join. Every moment he could manage not to be missed he went back to the cabin or found some quiet outdoor place in which to
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