When we took over a Maine children’s camp, Hidden Valley, in 1988, we chose to do something unusual: Live year round on the camp’s 300 quiet acres. While many camp directors winter comfortably in Maryland, Florida and Westchester; our dream was to live in Maine. So, we split wood, plowed snow, enjoyed the changes in the seasons, and fell in love with every corner of the place.
Future columns will address not only summer camp life and the lessons learned from our lifelong work with children, but also our small town Maine experiences over the years. In many ways, our summer “village” could not be more different than its host small rural town. Yet – as these two communities enrich our lives – they provide quite similar windows into human nature.
* * *
There’s nothing like Town Meeting. Once a year, we participate in a parade of democracy: pure, sometimes inelegant, generally effective, always entertaining. Early on the last Saturday in March, the town constable lights the big barrel at the town hall. By 10 AM, about 100 of us find ourselves seated in the world’s most uncomfortable chairs. And by late afternoon – if we are all lucky – the year’s business is concluded. We elect selectmen, nominate an animal control officer (traditionally some unlucky soul who cannot make the meeting that year), and approve expenditures for everything from miles of dirt roads to an impoverished Little League team.
Now and then, the Town Warrant (the booklet listing all items to be voted on) can lead to contentious discussions. On more than one occasion since we moved here, a State Police officer has removed a disruptive attendee. Combative debates have been held on subjects such as who the Town should purchase fuel from to whether the Town should ban overflights of snooping state police helicopters.
About 15 years ago, the State mandated that municipalities name roads and number each residence. This after an eternity of Mainers getting around just fine with directions like, “Make a right where old Mrs. Snopes used to live,” or, “After the third little rise, go around a bend and turn onto Howes Rd (no sign, of course.)
I imagine the State thought that all this was perfectly fine if you were delivering hay or “out visitin’” but that an ambulance or fire crew might benefit from more detailed guidance. It came time for the Town to appropriate monies toward what was called 911 Mapping. And so a dwindling crowd late one Saturday heard the moderator entertaining motions on warrant item #64, Shall the Town of ___ appropriate $5,000 for etc…
A hand raised and a voice said, “I move that we accept the item as written.” A second to this motion was registered, all typical, at which point the moderator (a no nonsense recruit from a neighboring town) asked, “Any discussion on the motion?” A new hand raised way in the back of the hall. Town Meeting attracts folks who “don’t get out much no more.” And here was an old fellow, not only a stranger to many of us, but also a stranger to his razor and tub. He achingly stood himself up, composed himself as if preparing a lengthy speech, pushed his red hunting cap back on his head, looked out at the small crowd, and in a rough but authoritative voice, said, “G–damit, we can’t pass this g–dam thing. They’ll know where we are!”
The Selectmen tried to explain that this was the point, the fire chief threw in his two cents about how tough it is when the dispatcher is unfamiliar with local landmarks. The folks “from away” (meaning you or your parents moved in from out of State) rolled their eyes. Locals nodded their heads. In the end a vote was taken and “911” was defeated.
Three years later the Town finally came around and approved funds for the mapping project. Our once signless road – which had been alternately called the Ireland Road, the New Ireland Road, and the Kingdom Rd – now boasts a shiny green sign proclaiming Hidden Valley Road. (Goosepecker Ridge Road retained its name but for some reason never seems to keep a hold of its sign.)
* * *
My first thought at that meeting was, “This is wonderful.” Then some annoyance that progress was being stymied. One neighbor wondered out loud, “What’s he’s got planted back there?” I soon recognized that those of us who stayed ‘till the bitter end that spring witnessed a deeply important human impulse. And here’s how all this relates to our life at a children’s camp….
Remember when you were a child (or if you’re a kid reading this now, remember yesterday?) and you had a secret place, maybe in your room, a hideout, somewhere in the neighborhood. There’s something to be said about the benefits of “them” not knowing where you are. You become a treasure and discover yourself, learning about your capacity for creativity, mining wells of resilience and independence, discovering feelings that can easily be lost in a crowd. But of course, children can’t survive unfound forever.
Over half a century ago, the famous child psychiatrist D.W. Winnicott wrote, “It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.” At camp, we provide loads of space to children, lots of choices, but all within a structure that tells them, “We know where you are and how you are and what might be important for you. But, we’re not going to bother you with all that right now; just know we’re available when you need a hand.”
So from time to time, readers here will join us in our discovery of what is hidden and wants to be found. Along the way, we’ll meet some lovely children, infamous camp characters and a few denizens of our local town. We’ll avoid disasters and provide a little bit of joy along the way.
