I got my first gerbil at age 10. They were exotic pets at the time, living primarily in the deserts of Asia. Where many school friends had hamsters, animals that are nocturnal, gerbils are daylight creatures. They are brown, fur covered, mouse-like rodents — but cuter — with long tails. When handling gerbils, you can harmlessly lift them by the base of their tail. I don’t remember from where we got him, but George came home for my birthday.

That summer I went to sleep away camp for the first time. During the month of July in 1969, I was at Camp Abelard in Upstate New York. Its predecessor was called Webatuck. A percentage of campers and staff that had been family at the abandoned grounds returned to what would now be called Abelard. Camp Webatuck had been a Red Diaper Baby summer camp. I didn’t know what that meant for decades. I hadn’t even heard the term until fairly recently.

Prevalent from the McCarthy Era 1950’s, into I believe, the mid 1960’s, a Red Diaper Baby was the label carried by a child of a member of the Communist party. At Camp Webatuck, it was quietly known that Red Diaper Babies were welcomed with open arms. At Camp Webatuck, a Red Diaper Baby of any age would be with other children whose families may share similar societal values, free from political scrutiny, in a safe and carefree environment.

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On Tuesday, July 1, 1969, my parents drove me in their navy blue Pontiac Catalina station wagon from our home in South Orange, NJ, to Union Square in New York City, in order for me to catch the chartered bus to Camp Abelard in Hunter, NY. I wore a paisley printed bandana around my ten year old head and carried a glass and blue metal cage on my lap containing George the gerbil.

The vibe at Abelard was “hippie-like” and the population, multi-racial. In 1969, I believe that families who could afford to pay for their child to go to Abelard endowed some urban kids who otherwise would not have been able to pay for the summer camp.

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In July of 1967, there were civil uprisings in cities across the United States. Newark, New Jersey was no exception. For five days, parts of the city were on fire. There had been Federal Government grants in place to send inner city kids from Newark to be campers at Abelard. As a result of the riots, the government axed the program and pulled the grant money. Kids from Newark who were already at Camp Abelard, were bussed back to New Jersey. NBC News covered the evictions.

This little ditty was etched into the black paint on the wooden door to one of the toilet stalls:

“Hark! I hear a pistol shot
A shistol pot
A pot of shit
Shit, I’m shot.”

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Though I grew up in a politically left wing area, South Orange was still a predominantly white town at the time. I’m sure a good percentage of our population were what would now be termed “unconsciously biased.” Liberal minded as far as civil rights are concerned. That’s not the same thing as living in a multi-racial neighborhood. Going to Abelard was my first experience with blind equality and a mix of races in one society. From counselors and campers to the infirmary staff, there was no discrepancy in how an individual was treated due to their color.

At age 10, I didn’t understand the camp’s politics. Abelard attracted anti war (Vietnam in this case) activists and singers. Pete Seeger, Odetta, Phil Ochs (whose family was part of Abelard’s alumni), Judy Collins, Richie Havens, all came to perform. One of the years I was there, Glen Campbell’s son was a camper. He always wore a light blue turtle neck and refused to wear any other shirt. The owner and founder of both Abelard and Webatuck was Victor Fink, father of Janis Ian.

I’m sure there were discussions of free love. It was still the 1960’s, after all. But I don’t know if anyone at camp identified as gay or bisexual. At age ten, I don’t think I would even have known what that meant, in the sexual sense. I did learn all the words to the song, “Triad,” written by David Crosby and sung by Grace Slick, vocalist for Jefferson Airplane. If you’re not familiar with the song, the line repeated at the end of each verse is “Why can’t we go on as three?”.

Whatever negative things I grasp from my first summer there don’t seem to infiltrate my Nirvana-like memories. I know I had severe scalp eczema and some other physical problems not worth mentioning. It was also the place where I had my first awakening to the love of performing. I had been in some school and day camp productions prior to my coming to Abelard, but being the featured character of “Tigger” in an original musical of Winnie the Pooh sparked the dormant and probably obnoxious desire for staged attention. Today, even public speaking sends me into an emotional coma.

Music is the most memorable aspect of my camp experience. Growing up, there was always music playing at home, but Abelard is where I first picked up a guitar. Folk and anti war songs were the campfire pastimes. The song that initially brings me back is “Crow on the Cradle.” A gorgeous anti war message song. Lyrics by British artist, Sydney Carter. It has been recorded by Pete Seeger, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne, among others I’m sure. I wasn’t aware of any of their recordings. For me, it was solely owned by a lovely singer at camp named “Jill.” Her boyfriend, Steve, accompanied her on his guitar. He was also the first person to teach me basic chords on a six string. Steve told me that Jill and he had secretly been married. I have an in- color memory of Steve and Jill practicing “Crow on the Cradle” in a vaulted ceiling performance barn, rehearsing for Visiting Day. I even still visualize what Jill was wearing. A puff sleeved burgundy mini dress. Hearing her sing that haunting song pushed me into inconsolable hysterics: abstract and outside of my conscious control. I now think it was an early hormonal reaction. Not understanding, I believe that I had a mad crush on this gorgeous 18 year old woman. Her ethereal singing uncovered my pre-teen emotions.

Steve wrote the new version of Winnie the Pooh, including all the music and lyrics. Though I can’t remember either of the songs I sang, I recall the tune and every word to a song of Christopher Robin’s, “This is the World I Know.” It’s performed toward the end of the play when Christopher Robin explains to Pooh why he has to leave the forest (meaning, grow up). But it also is an anti-war song.

The final verse to “This is the World I Know” by Steve Marcus:

“Two and two are four
In a while they’ll march you off to war
Some will live, some will die
And no one wonders why
This is the world I know.”

Later that year, we performed the musical in New York City. My mother chauffeured me all over the boroughs of New York as well as Westchester County for rehearsals. Looking back I can’t imagine what patience and commitment Mom had to maintain. I don’t know that I ever thanked her.

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Decades later, when I talked to my mother about Abelard, she knew nothing about the political affiliations held by the camp. She had read an advertisement for Abelard in The NY Times and thought it would be a good fit for me since the camp featured art and music along with expected outdoor activities. Coincidentally, Mom now recognized Vic Fink’s name as having been a patient of my father’s.

My second summer at Camp Abelard was not as successful for me. It included putting up with constant teasing from another camper named Saul (pronounced Sah-ool). He was a legacy camper, and a cousin to the Ochs’ family. He had a gorgeous singing voice but was a total dick to me. Not that he was to blame, but I didn’t return to Camp Abelard again.

That first summer was so life changing that I credit it with cementing an early foundation for who I am as an adult. I probably wouldn’t fit in there very well now, since I’m truly a city dwelling boy who prefers heavily orchestrated pop music to the raw, emotional voices that rose up in protest in the 1960’s. I like my fine clothes and the sometimes shallow world of gay bars and clubs. But I’m grateful and sentimental for the unasked- for experience at Camp Abelard. Even if I wasn’t aware of its power at the time.

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“With rings on her fingers
And bells on her toes
A bomber above her
Wherever she goes
Sang the crow on the cradle”

– Andrew Sarewitz