In FieldWorking:Reading and Writing Research, 3rd Ed., authors Bonnie Stone Sunstein and Elizabeth Chiseri-Strater ask writers in the process of drafting to consider three crucial questions as they work toward their final projects. These include: What surprised me? What intrigued me? What disturbed me? As I prepare my final research binder for LJHP, I find it necessary to answer these, even though my final project is not a narrative (as I would have loved to do!).
What surprised me?
The amount of information available on Camp Pokagon for Girls came as a surprise to me. Within one day I unearthed weeks worth of artifacts perfect for the coffee table book Flaim and Jim are designing. As I scrolled through page after page, picture after picture, song after song, I found that many of the former campers had stayed in contact with each other over the three or four decades since their camping experiences on Lake James. Not only that, but they had composed a virtual scrapbook of memorabilia from their camping days that brought Lake James of the 1960s and 1970s alive for me. Even though their were very few stories shared on message boards, photos, maps, Pow Wow newsletters, recipes, and more told a story at the heart of the camping experience. The silliness, the sneeking, the singing--all the types of things I remember from my own camping experiences as a pre-adolescent were spread before me. Looking at a Crayola-crayoned drawing of the campgrounds showed me much more than what a traditional map would have. Though I did look for those "official" types of artifacts in my research, the hand-drawn map showed me where I could have found all the subversive activities of campers and counselors that never would have made it into the bi-annual Pow Wow.
What intrigued me?
What drew me into researching Camp Pokagon in the first place were my own childhood experiences camping on various lakes throughout Michigan. Since my camping experiences were always all-girl experiences, I never got to see camping from the eyes of boys. Sure I had read My Side of the Mountain and other fictional tales of adventuresome boys, but I always wondered what kinds of things boys did at camp. Did they sing songs? Did they have skit nights? What things might they have learned that girls did not?
What disturbed me?
As a full month of researching dwindled away, I became disturbed by the complete lack of information about Camp Pokagon for Boys. Though it had been in existence for at least two decades longer than Camp Pokagon for Girls, Camp Pokagon for Boys did not exist on the internet except in one tangential message board in which a former camper mentioned that the counselors used to ride their bikes down the giant slide after hours on Lake James. Oh yeah, and Google results also turned up this blog. This brings about many more questions. Is there something special about girls camp? What sorts of bonds between boys might have formed? Do bonds still exist? And if so, how do they manifest themselves outside of the Internet? Why didn't former boy campers come together in a virtual social space as the girls did? Where might the artifacts of boys' camping experiences reside? The list goes on.
Showing posts with label Lake James. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lake James. Show all posts
Friday, May 1, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Oral Performances at Camp
(Chapter 6, Box 27 Action)
Here are three songs representative of what at least one generation of campers sang at Camp Pokagon for Girls.
SPIRIT OF POKAGON
By Lou Meynard
Wake up every morning with a smile upon your face
Like the sun as it dawns across the lake.
Dreams of Pokagon that your memories can’t erase
The fragile times that time could never break.
Spring has its blossom, and autumn drops her leaves
But summer at Pokagon never ends.
‘Cause now it’s yours forever, sing out what your heart believes:
The spirit of Pokagon is your friends.
The spirit of Pokagon is your friends.
Due to lack of humor, this particular song seems to be one of the more serious songs sung by campers. From the use of metaphor in this song (and the sheer amounf of songs I've compiled--about 200) we can tell how much of a bonding force 4-8 weeks of camp life was for these girls.
TAKE ME OUT TO POKAGON
Take me out to Pokagon, take me out to the camp.
Buy me a sweatshirt and sleeping bag;
I don’t care if my counselor’s a hag!
For it’s slap, slap, slap the mosquitoes,
Stay away from the snakes!
For it’s 1,2, 3 clean the john
And the other rakes!
This song, sung to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, illustrates some of the more humorous elements of camp life. Campers eveidently needed sweatshirts, which tells us that weather was probably unpredictable at camp. Apparently, there also seems to be a tradition of ugly "hag" counselors, as well as persistant pests, such as mosquitoes and snakes. This song also reveals some of the values at camp; cleaning was definitely something everyone, like it or not, had to participate in.
WE ARE POKAGON GIRLS
We are Pokagon girls, we wear our hair in curls.
We wear our father’s shirts, we are the biggest flirts!
We wear our dungarees way up above our knees.
Hey boys, here come Pokagon girls! Hey!
To me, this song reveals the desire many girls had to maintain their feminine side while spending their summers in a traditionally masculine way. Though these girls wore men's clothing, they still did their hair and maintained a charm to attract what I assume to be the boys from Camp Pokagon for Boys. This song also alludes to the fact that there may have been a connection between the boys' camp and girls' camp, though they were located in different areas on Lake James.
Here are three songs representative of what at least one generation of campers sang at Camp Pokagon for Girls.
SPIRIT OF POKAGON
By Lou Meynard
Wake up every morning with a smile upon your face
Like the sun as it dawns across the lake.
Dreams of Pokagon that your memories can’t erase
The fragile times that time could never break.
Spring has its blossom, and autumn drops her leaves
But summer at Pokagon never ends.
‘Cause now it’s yours forever, sing out what your heart believes:
The spirit of Pokagon is your friends.
The spirit of Pokagon is your friends.
Due to lack of humor, this particular song seems to be one of the more serious songs sung by campers. From the use of metaphor in this song (and the sheer amounf of songs I've compiled--about 200) we can tell how much of a bonding force 4-8 weeks of camp life was for these girls.
TAKE ME OUT TO POKAGON
Take me out to Pokagon, take me out to the camp.
Buy me a sweatshirt and sleeping bag;
I don’t care if my counselor’s a hag!
For it’s slap, slap, slap the mosquitoes,
Stay away from the snakes!
For it’s 1,2, 3 clean the john
And the other rakes!
This song, sung to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, illustrates some of the more humorous elements of camp life. Campers eveidently needed sweatshirts, which tells us that weather was probably unpredictable at camp. Apparently, there also seems to be a tradition of ugly "hag" counselors, as well as persistant pests, such as mosquitoes and snakes. This song also reveals some of the values at camp; cleaning was definitely something everyone, like it or not, had to participate in.
WE ARE POKAGON GIRLS
We are Pokagon girls, we wear our hair in curls.
We wear our father’s shirts, we are the biggest flirts!
We wear our dungarees way up above our knees.
Hey boys, here come Pokagon girls! Hey!
To me, this song reveals the desire many girls had to maintain their feminine side while spending their summers in a traditionally masculine way. Though these girls wore men's clothing, they still did their hair and maintained a charm to attract what I assume to be the boys from Camp Pokagon for Boys. This song also alludes to the fact that there may have been a connection between the boys' camp and girls' camp, though they were located in different areas on Lake James.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Lake Memories
(Chapter 4, Box 15 Action)
I hated my house and my homelife in Holland. However, Holland welcomed me with its miles of clean beaches, its plush green parks, and its brilliant displays of tulips. Holland comforted me in ways my parents never could. I remember freshman year lying in the sand at VanAndel Beach and watching the 4th of July fireworks literally explode over and rain down upon me, black cinders falling next to my bare arms and legs like giant snowflakes from a dark sky. I remember sleeping on a private beach and waking at dawn to the sound of perfect three-foot golden waves lapping against the wet sand.
I remember one late-fall day standing on the pier just in front of the lighthouse watching in childlike excitement as enormous waves gathered before me, paused briefly as they climaxed and blocked out the red setting sun, and then spilled forth over my body. I remember walking out on the icebergs, trecherously close to the icy water, as snow blew sideways in pellets that stung my face, yet awakened my appreciation for nature.
I remember the yearly painful sunburns, my shyness in exposing my bikinied body to beachgoers, the sand in my hair, the sand clinging to the wet inside of my bathing suits, how syrupy sweet soda felt so cold in my aching throat, how bittersweet it felt to drive home with all the windows down after a day at the beach--the wind whipping my hair across my red face, my towel hugging my half-wet body, the scent of baby oil and suntan lotion everywhere. God, coconut and cocoa butter, I swear that is what sand and lake smell like on a sunny summer day. Even as an adult, it would be hard to convince me otherwise.
Floating on half-deflated rafts, my disappointing sandcastles, guys who were always looking at somebody else, coolers, cerulean blue, armadas of sailboats and motorboats traveling the horizon, cold water, the shock of the first dive head-first, drifting upshore with my eyes closed, swimming out to sandbars and buoys...
There was a night my freshman year when Josh, Josh, John, and I drove John's car out to the empty State Park lot and stood against the food court building that overlooked an expanse of indigo-colored water reflecting the indigo sky that held the tiniest of white diamond-like twinkling stars. The beach breeze held the smell of an impending storm. An indescribable smell that even when remembering it still fills my body with overwhelming emotion, a reverance for the unpredictable power and beauty of nature. Quickly, a gray-black mass of clouds gathered in the fuzzy place where water and sky meet. The clouds rolled forward, spilling steely rain and flashing yellow-white bolts of lightning. Thunder booms and echoes at the beach in a way that suggests the very God of nature is speaking directly to you. The water swirled and ran in haphazard waves toward the shore. The crashing of water on sand repeatedly warned us that it was too late to leave. The rain fell in large plops against my face. Warm, full drops of healing rain cascaded down my upturned face and into the collar of my teeshirt.
It has been eight and a half years since I last visited the lake, my home, in Holland. When will I go back? I've been waiting to hear the sea gulls, to feel the sand burn the soles of my feet, to see the green-blue water sway under a still, gray sky. Will there be kayaking, boating, swimming, tanning, wave-jumping, walking, beach volleyball? Will the beach grass slice red slivers into my ankles on the walkway? Will I walk out on the channel, follow it precariously out to the lighthouse always looking over at the water's edge and wondering if I will fall in? Will I sit in the sand and watch the sunset?
Most importantly, at least when considering the Lake James project, how does my sense of place, this internal landscape of lake life, add to or detract from my portion of the project? Was camp life at Camp Pokagon all that different from my remembered experiences of Holland State Park? Is there something that connects all of who have spent significant amounts of our summer(s) on and near a lake?
I hated my house and my homelife in Holland. However, Holland welcomed me with its miles of clean beaches, its plush green parks, and its brilliant displays of tulips. Holland comforted me in ways my parents never could. I remember freshman year lying in the sand at VanAndel Beach and watching the 4th of July fireworks literally explode over and rain down upon me, black cinders falling next to my bare arms and legs like giant snowflakes from a dark sky. I remember sleeping on a private beach and waking at dawn to the sound of perfect three-foot golden waves lapping against the wet sand.
I remember one late-fall day standing on the pier just in front of the lighthouse watching in childlike excitement as enormous waves gathered before me, paused briefly as they climaxed and blocked out the red setting sun, and then spilled forth over my body. I remember walking out on the icebergs, trecherously close to the icy water, as snow blew sideways in pellets that stung my face, yet awakened my appreciation for nature.
I remember the yearly painful sunburns, my shyness in exposing my bikinied body to beachgoers, the sand in my hair, the sand clinging to the wet inside of my bathing suits, how syrupy sweet soda felt so cold in my aching throat, how bittersweet it felt to drive home with all the windows down after a day at the beach--the wind whipping my hair across my red face, my towel hugging my half-wet body, the scent of baby oil and suntan lotion everywhere. God, coconut and cocoa butter, I swear that is what sand and lake smell like on a sunny summer day. Even as an adult, it would be hard to convince me otherwise.
Floating on half-deflated rafts, my disappointing sandcastles, guys who were always looking at somebody else, coolers, cerulean blue, armadas of sailboats and motorboats traveling the horizon, cold water, the shock of the first dive head-first, drifting upshore with my eyes closed, swimming out to sandbars and buoys...
There was a night my freshman year when Josh, Josh, John, and I drove John's car out to the empty State Park lot and stood against the food court building that overlooked an expanse of indigo-colored water reflecting the indigo sky that held the tiniest of white diamond-like twinkling stars. The beach breeze held the smell of an impending storm. An indescribable smell that even when remembering it still fills my body with overwhelming emotion, a reverance for the unpredictable power and beauty of nature. Quickly, a gray-black mass of clouds gathered in the fuzzy place where water and sky meet. The clouds rolled forward, spilling steely rain and flashing yellow-white bolts of lightning. Thunder booms and echoes at the beach in a way that suggests the very God of nature is speaking directly to you. The water swirled and ran in haphazard waves toward the shore. The crashing of water on sand repeatedly warned us that it was too late to leave. The rain fell in large plops against my face. Warm, full drops of healing rain cascaded down my upturned face and into the collar of my teeshirt.
It has been eight and a half years since I last visited the lake, my home, in Holland. When will I go back? I've been waiting to hear the sea gulls, to feel the sand burn the soles of my feet, to see the green-blue water sway under a still, gray sky. Will there be kayaking, boating, swimming, tanning, wave-jumping, walking, beach volleyball? Will the beach grass slice red slivers into my ankles on the walkway? Will I walk out on the channel, follow it precariously out to the lighthouse always looking over at the water's edge and wondering if I will fall in? Will I sit in the sand and watch the sunset?
Most importantly, at least when considering the Lake James project, how does my sense of place, this internal landscape of lake life, add to or detract from my portion of the project? Was camp life at Camp Pokagon all that different from my remembered experiences of Holland State Park? Is there something that connects all of who have spent significant amounts of our summer(s) on and near a lake?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Lake James Project Questions
Since there is too much to do and not enough to start with in regards to the Lake James service learning projects, it is imperative that we, as researchers, ask several questions about both the project as a whole and our individual projects. First, one of our main concerns is: What is the context of this book? Sure, Lake James is the focus. However, we know little more than the eight or so areas of interest being researched for the book. In class we discussed ways to tie our research topics together, but the idea of uniting the "chapters" with a fictitious family makes me cringe. I suddenly envision a project resembling the awful ACPL genealogy tutorials. No, no, that will not do. At least in my mind.
So, what are other ways to make the "chapters" more fluid? One possible organization is chronologically, but I doubt Flaim and Jim want something that reads like a historical text. Another way to organize the book would be to start with Paultytown and move clockwise around the lake. A problem with this organization may be gaps in development, but I think this is the best organization for a coffee table book.
One crucial thing to consider when organizing this book is audience. The fictional character scenario might be mildly entertaining, but it appeals to a younger audience, an audience that may not even be interested in coffee table books. Conversely, a clockwise organization that is semi-chronological appeals to an adult audience, an audience that Flaim and Jim seem to want to target. Afterall, one of their largest aims is to preserve the older cottage-style ways of living on Lake James, as opposed to the newer McMansion-style living.
In sum, service learning for this project must entail extracting Flaim and Jim's envisioning of this book and giving back as much targeted research as possible. What we really need from them is a storyboard. Without it, we can only offer heaping folders of potentially tangential research.
So, what are other ways to make the "chapters" more fluid? One possible organization is chronologically, but I doubt Flaim and Jim want something that reads like a historical text. Another way to organize the book would be to start with Paultytown and move clockwise around the lake. A problem with this organization may be gaps in development, but I think this is the best organization for a coffee table book.
One crucial thing to consider when organizing this book is audience. The fictional character scenario might be mildly entertaining, but it appeals to a younger audience, an audience that may not even be interested in coffee table books. Conversely, a clockwise organization that is semi-chronological appeals to an adult audience, an audience that Flaim and Jim seem to want to target. Afterall, one of their largest aims is to preserve the older cottage-style ways of living on Lake James, as opposed to the newer McMansion-style living.
In sum, service learning for this project must entail extracting Flaim and Jim's envisioning of this book and giving back as much targeted research as possible. What we really need from them is a storyboard. Without it, we can only offer heaping folders of potentially tangential research.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Questioning My Fieldnotes
(Chapter 2, Box 8 Action)Saturday, January 31st, 2009
2:00 p.m. 27-degrees and sunny
Fort Wayne to Angola, IN
Outskirts of Angola: There are dense trees covered in a thick layer of white snow. The roads are hilly and winding. People are out on the lakes ice fishing and corn stalks poke through the snowcovered fields.
Crooked Lake: 290West to West Shady Side Road. Mobile homes and McMansions sit side-by -side. There are no kids, no traffic, no people outside, just bare trees with golden brown clumps of leaves fluttering in the wind. The roads continue to snake along the lake and many snowmobilers are darting over the ice in patterns.
Lake James: Paulty Town East: There are mobile homes and a church with a health center. Between the crowded homes there is an island upon which sits one house. The further we drive, the bigger and newer the houses are. Sowles Bay: There are lots of trees and a few pricy homes and there are many tiny cottages clumped together. After a patch of trees we come upon many more expensive houses and a marina. Other neighborhoods: Red Sand Beach (where we see a deer), Glen Eden Springs (up on a hill), and Cruscoe Point (private).
I haven't been back to Angola since I left it nearly five years ago. It is bright and bitterly cold. It's weird how much my memory of this place has been erased by the events of the past five years.
What surprised me: I was surprised by how big the Lake James area is and how, during the entire time I lived on Crooked Lake, I had never once driven the short distance to Lake James, even by accident! I also saw more deer than people on the drive around the lake. It appeared as if no one was even living out there.
What intrigued me: In Fort Wayne, most neighborhoods are clearly divided into lower income, higher income, and ridiculously huge income areas. However, on Lake James, all of these housing types seemed to be intermixed, especially in Paulty Town. How do these different types of lake people coexist? How do the wealthy people not look at the patchwork mobile homes in disgust, and how do the cottage dwellers not resent the three-story mansions that now block their lake view? What a mystery.
What disturbed me: Honestly, I was disturbed by all the mansions. They looked so out of place on the lake. Yes, some of the smaller dwellings were old, some had definitely seen better days, but when I think of lakes, I think cabins and cottages, not giant estates. Especially giant estates that sit unused for eight months out of the year. Privatizing such large parts of a natural resource seems ridiculous to me.
Camp Freewrite
(Chapter 2, Box 4 Action)
As Erin and I begin to work on our big Lake James project, I must think back to my childhood. For those of you unfamiliar with the topic Erin and I will be writing about, we are writing about the history of Camp Pokagon with a focus on some of the boy's and girl's camps in the Lake James area. Like many of the children who played on the beaches of Lake James, I, too, once spent a weekend of my summer at camp.
At age 10, I was a second-year member of the Campfire girls in Holland, Michigan. My particular troop originated from Maplewood Elementary School, which was located just a few short miles from Lake Michigan. During the school year many of us Campfire girls worked hard at many projects to earn patches and beads for our Campfire vests (similar to Girl Scouts). We learned about recycling, learned photography, practiced using our imaginations, visited a real news station in Grand Rapids and later filmed our own program on public television, and even learned how to make homemade candy. However, nothing beat preparing for our first weekend (well, at least my first weekend) away from home to earn our badges for learning real camping skills.
I remember learning to tie at least ten different types of knots, learning how to start a fire with sticks and brush and also with pieces of flint, and learning the different plants on nature walks near the dunes of the lake. I remember staring in amazement at the bunk beds stacked three high that wrapped around the room of our cabin, and I remember unrolling my green sleeping bag on a bunk that was literally less than two feet from the ceiling.
The most fun of all, as I imagine it is for all young children, was the nighttime. Outside we built a fire as big as we were and set out immediately making Smores. Even though I never liked Smores, making them was exciting. I'd see how long I could hold the marshmallows over the fire before they erupted into flame and oozed down into the glowing embers below. After Smores were classic campfire staples such as star gazing, rounds of "Koombaya" and ghost stories. Under the full moon we also carried our flashlights on a nighttime hike that was punctuated with the shrill shrieks of pre-adolescent girls who swore they just had heard an animal/murderer/ghost following us through the woods.
The last day of camp was filled with equal parts rain and sorrow. I had to leave this entirely different way of life and head back into the city where I'd be learning nothing other than reading, writing, and arithmetic in the fall; where nighttime would be filled with orange light pollution and random music from the cars that sped past my house; and where my bed was just another mattress covered in New Kids on the Block bedsheets. I wonder if all those kids who spent their summers on Lake James felt the same as I did.
As Erin and I begin to work on our big Lake James project, I must think back to my childhood. For those of you unfamiliar with the topic Erin and I will be writing about, we are writing about the history of Camp Pokagon with a focus on some of the boy's and girl's camps in the Lake James area. Like many of the children who played on the beaches of Lake James, I, too, once spent a weekend of my summer at camp.
At age 10, I was a second-year member of the Campfire girls in Holland, Michigan. My particular troop originated from Maplewood Elementary School, which was located just a few short miles from Lake Michigan. During the school year many of us Campfire girls worked hard at many projects to earn patches and beads for our Campfire vests (similar to Girl Scouts). We learned about recycling, learned photography, practiced using our imaginations, visited a real news station in Grand Rapids and later filmed our own program on public television, and even learned how to make homemade candy. However, nothing beat preparing for our first weekend (well, at least my first weekend) away from home to earn our badges for learning real camping skills.
I remember learning to tie at least ten different types of knots, learning how to start a fire with sticks and brush and also with pieces of flint, and learning the different plants on nature walks near the dunes of the lake. I remember staring in amazement at the bunk beds stacked three high that wrapped around the room of our cabin, and I remember unrolling my green sleeping bag on a bunk that was literally less than two feet from the ceiling.
The most fun of all, as I imagine it is for all young children, was the nighttime. Outside we built a fire as big as we were and set out immediately making Smores. Even though I never liked Smores, making them was exciting. I'd see how long I could hold the marshmallows over the fire before they erupted into flame and oozed down into the glowing embers below. After Smores were classic campfire staples such as star gazing, rounds of "Koombaya" and ghost stories. Under the full moon we also carried our flashlights on a nighttime hike that was punctuated with the shrill shrieks of pre-adolescent girls who swore they just had heard an animal/murderer/ghost following us through the woods.
The last day of camp was filled with equal parts rain and sorrow. I had to leave this entirely different way of life and head back into the city where I'd be learning nothing other than reading, writing, and arithmetic in the fall; where nighttime would be filled with orange light pollution and random music from the cars that sped past my house; and where my bed was just another mattress covered in New Kids on the Block bedsheets. I wonder if all those kids who spent their summers on Lake James felt the same as I did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)