"Holy Camp-Out!" Submission #25

8^th grade seemed to be a transitional year for me. Most kids seem to transition naturally and flow smoothly into high school. I, on the other hand, stumbled and bumbled my way into the new high school building on Highway 17, just north of town.

As I articulated earlier, my 8^th grade football season began with such promise… before it all crashed and burned around me after I fractured my wrist. In similar, negative fashion… my circle of friends seemed to shrink and in some cases, actually become hostile towards me.  

I often wonder how young teens can be so hypersensitive when it comes to them being on the receiving end of unwanted, negative attention but, at the same time, be so insensitive as they dish it out to others.

Adolescence can be a treacherous and tricky period to navigate through… and for me, it was all of that and more! I sorely lacked the loving, nurturing familial infrastructure that God designed to help facilitate the growth and maturing process of children. I had no guidance… nobody to listen to the desires of my heart or the troubles that tortured my mind. I was truly left to fend for myself.

I remember being envious of my friends who had an intact family with loving and involved parents.
Sparky was one of those guys. His parents, Tom and Angie Gibbons, seemed so nice and caring. As bizarre as this sounds, the times I envied him most were those times when his parents refused to allow him to do something or go somewhere because he had obligations or chores to fulfill at home. I sensed the comfort and safety that parental boundaries offered. I don’t think I articulated it like that in my mind back then but I knew how I felt and it made me jealous of his home life.

And Sparky’s life and behavior demonstrated the stability and sanity that came with his upbringing. He was very smart, pulled down great grades and demonstrated responsibility in about every area of life. I wanted that but I had no such boundaries. I had no such involvement.

If absolute freedom was such a cool thing for a kid to have… why did it hurt so bad?

More on that later.

Starting the summer after 8^th grade, there was a group of us who camped out many or most nights of the week. Some nights there were two and some nights there were 10. The roster of participants would change night by night.

Along with me, some of the regulars included Scott Lombardi, Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons (Sparky), Greg Drake, Marc Carlson (Carlo) and, of course, Robert Cervetti… or “Bob C,” a nickname that, to this day, is hollered whenever someone sees him walking the streets of Madrid. No matter what the combination of campers, Bob C was ALWAYS in the group. If it was just me and one other… that “one other” was Bob C.

Saint Malachy’s was the Catholic Church in the northeast part of town. On the backside of the church was a cement patio that was covered by an overhanging roof that provided a windbreak as well as a dry shelter during inclement weather. That little area became the host for blankets, pillows, sleeping bags and unruly teens, starting the summer of 1973.

If parents of the campers knew half of what was going on under the shadow of the statue of the Virgin Mary, they would have had a stroke. If my kids ever want to know the catalyst of my strictness as a dad, it is directly tied to the shenanigans in which I initiated and/or participated in, when left to my own devices.

Cussing, drinking, smoking, toking, streaking and more… it was ALL going on… just about every night of that summer.

And on occasion, we would rendezvous with a group of girls who would be camping out at a house nearby. On one of those occasions, someone had the idea that we all should go streaking… frolicking about in the buff.

"Streaking" was a craze popularized nationally in the early 1970’s and locally by my cousin, Kevin Munson. Kevin was the Student body President his senior year, 1973-74, when he decided to give everyone a close-up of his... student body... if you catch my drift.

He "streaked" past the student center while the whole school ate lunch. All the guys chuckled and all the girls gasped. Despite the fact that he wore a mask, everyone knew it was him because word had leaked out some days prior to the event. If I remember correctly, I think they threatened to not let him take part in his graduation ceremony but in the end, he was assigned to work with the janitorial staff after school until the end of the academic year.

Back to our streaking adventure...

Braving the awkward notion of a mixed streaking party, we all grabbed a blanket for cover as everyone (but me) disrobed. I never had any intention of participating but played along so as not to ruin anyone else’s fun. No doubt, the streakers were emboldened by the pitch black night where you could barely see your hand in front of your face.

One, two, three… GO! They all dropped their blankets and sprinted from the church patio to the cornfield about 40 yards away and back. I couldn’t see a thing but could hear the feet pounding the turf and the nervous laughter of the brave participants.

Yes… I took quite a bit of grief for abstaining from the birthday suit sprint but I did my share of other mindless activities to make up for it.

Curfew in Madrid was 11:00 PM for us youngn’s. I guess we viewed this law merely as a suggestion because we were in constant violation, especially the nights we camped out.

There was nothing more stimulating than to catch the eye of a Madrid Law Enforcement Officer after the witching hour and then leading him on a foot chase through the neighborhoods. One of the beauties of small town Iowa was that nobody built backyard fences and we could run between houses with impunity.

I can remember one such chase on a hot and humid summer night, when an overweight but persistent peace officer was tracking behind me in the darkness, as I ran through the shared yards between two rows of houses. The jingling of his keys as he ran gave me a good gage of the distance between us.

I spotted an overturned row boat being stored next to some guy’s garage and I quickly lifted it up and slid underneath it. I lay there, doing my best to control my breathing as sweat drenched my t-shirt. About 10 seconds later, I heard his footsteps, the noise from his keys and the labored breathing of the portly cop as he passed within feet of my hide-out.

Another successful escape.

One night, I came extremely close to getting caught…