Swimming with the Baptists

By Rebecca Starke

News You Can Use Editor

Reminiscing about my youth always triggers a memory that at the time I deemed normal, but knowing what I know now, to describe my youth as unique is somewhat of an understatement.

Growing up I never knew my parents didn’t have money. Sure my clothes were hand-me-downs, but I never made the connection. I guess I thought everyone bought their clothes at the Salvation Army. My father worked with landscaping and irrigation, while my mother cleaned houses. Through combined efforts, my parents also served as caretakers for Camp Patterson. They would spend their summers mowing the grass, cleaning bathrooms, and hauling seaweed in exchange for free rent.

Resting on Lake Washington, Camp Patterson hosts about 15 different groups throughout the summer. Most of the kids that came to camp were between the ages of 7-12. The camp was equipped with 100 yards of beachfront, volleyball and basketball courts, baseball field, canoes, kayaks, a bonfire pit, and outdoor showers (a concept that never really appealed to me as a child.)

As a kid the summer always excited me; we were miles from any other civilization so a chance to connect with the outside world three months out of the year was always something I looked forward to.

One of my favorite groups to rent out the camp was the Southern Baptists, headed by Pastor Dan Parton. As the Baptists made their arrival in what looked like a parade of white vans, I sat at the front step thinking of ways I could somehow worm my way in and participate in the week’s activities.

I would wander from the house into camp, and, as far as they knew, I was Baptist. I never told them otherwise. The key to this kind of invasion is to find that one friend that would include me. I would start with the baseball field; it was close to my house, so if I was rejected by the conservatively dressed Baptist kids from participating in the game of kickball, my walk of shame back to the house was a short one.

I would stand by the fence with a pouty look on my face and watch the game, occasionally making comments about how I would have caught the ball the scrawny girl missed.

Usually my “game plan” worked out in my favor and in no time I was playing kickball. I quickly realized that if you get invited to participate in one activity, you simply follow the crowd to the next camp adventure.

One thing I noticed right away was that I was dressed very differently, and not in a good way. My summer apparel consisted of short blue knit shorts and a t-shirt with a cheerleader on it that I decorated myself with bubble paint. I did not fit in with this conservative crew. The Baptists had very strict rules about the apparel of their campers. The boys had to wear long pants all week despite deadly heat, while the girls wore long shorts, also known as culottes.

As an honorary Baptist, I also followed these rules. My mother, who was very supportive of my camp involvement, brought me to the local Salvation Army and bought me denim culottes; it was one piece that zipped all the way to the top. At the time I thought I looked pretty stylish, now I hope the designer of culottes is sitting in jail next to the inventor of the piano necktie.

The Southern Baptists also had some very strict rules when it came to mixing genders in the same time zone. The boys and girls were never allowed to swim together. While the girls were swimming, the boys were in the baseball field across the street. The cabins served as the barrier between them and the female form. The girls had to walk from their cabins down to the water fully clothed. When the whistle blew, that meant the boys were safely quarantined in the field and the girls could take off their “street clothes” and reveal what I thought would be a different version of the female body, but to my surprise they had the typical 10-year-old female figure, not much to it. This made me curious about the protocol the boys followed when they would swim. I had all kinds of theories, but most of the time I just imagined all of the boys were in the water still wearing their long pants.

My younger brother Dan seemed equally curious about the girls. To cure him of this mystery, he went sprinting down to the lake when the girls were swimming and charged the water. The girls screamed as if they had never seen a boy before, and the camp director escorted Dan back to the caretaker’s house.

He was not allowed to swim until the Baptists left and was told he could resume the summer activity the following week when the more liberal YMCA arrived at the camp.

He still claims to this day he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to go in the water, but I think he was protesting. My brother hated being told he couldn’t swim because there were girls in the water. I think this concept confused him; after all he had been swimming with me for years.

In my one-piece denim culottes, I participated in all of their activities. I placed third in the canoe race, learned how to make an apple pie over a bonfire, and learned the ins and outs of “capture the flag.” My mom would look for me around dinnertime, only to see my pigtails flopping in the air in the camp dining hall as I was in line for Sloppy Joes.

This was a religious retreat of some sort, so naturally bible study was a part of their daily ritual. I would attend their daily service and sit in on the small discussion groups. I was given a bible and was frequently asked the question, “Are you saved?” I would always reply with an enthusiastic, “Yes, I am saved.” Never really knowing what that meant exactly, I often wondered if this made me a Baptist, but my mother assured me I was still Catholic.

I remember one extremely hot summer day when the Baptists were at the camp; an old dry well developed into a sinkhole between cabins six and seven. Years ago it had been filled in but over the years as the ground settled it eventually sank in. As a temporary solution, we put a sawhorse over the hole until my dad came up with a permanent solution. At the same time, our family dog Emily became sick with cancer; that same day we had to take Emily in.

My mother informed Pastor Parton of the situation and told him we had to put her to sleep. While all of us were in tears, my mother piled me, my brothers, all of us dressed as Hungarian Refuges, and a very sick Emily into the rusty blue Ford station wagon and went to the Blue Earth County Animal Hospital. When we got there, they took Emily and told my mother to come back in an hour.

My mom took us to the park while Emily was being put down. We returned to the hospital and Emily was carried out to the station wagon in a black garbage bag.

As we were heading home, crying hysterically, the station wagon stalled. In the midst of my mother’s hysteria, a pick-up truck came by and asked if we needed help. My mother replied “Well, my car stalled, my three children are baking in the car, and we have a dead dog in the back.” The man with the pick-up quickly realized he made a mistake by offering his help and said, “Lady, I’m outta here.” Not long after a family friend, Harley Hopp, drove by; he got the car running and escorted us home.

As we approached the camp gate, Pastor Parton and the Baptist kids were lined on each side of the road. They were extending their arms and singing hymns.

Pastor Parton approached my mother and said that there was a reason the dry well had sunk in that day. He said God had created the perfect tomb for Emily. So my mother drove the blue Ford station wagon into camp while Pastor Parton and the Baptists kids walked along side the car and continued to sing their hymns.

I know at the time my focus should have been giving Emily a proper burial, but instead I was distracted by the parade of singing Baptists outside my car window. The entire incident was awkward and confusing. My sadness over losing our family dog was replaced with this sense of embarrassment over the singing procession. To this day, I don’t really know what triggered those feelings of humiliation.

The embarrassment of that day did eventually pass and my feelings of confusion would hibernate until the Southern Baptists returned that following summer.