Tuesday, September 23, 2025
Cinq à Sept - The New Dinner Party.
Friday, July 4, 2025
Coselen Camp 1966
I can only begin by saying that I am forever grateful to my life-long friend Carol, (youngest child and only daughter of Cosmo and Helen Canzano), as her existence would alter the arc of my own life, planting the seed which would lead her parents to change the name of their summer camp - Coselen Camp for Boys - by adding two words - and Girls - as Carol was the reason for girls entering the world of Coselen in the mid-1960s.
I first met Carol, and first fell in love with the camp, with the warm slanting rock, that bit of Canadian Shield rising out of the blue waters of Lake of Bays, in the summer of 1966, the summer I turned eleven.
In the mid-sixties, it felt like a long haul from suburban Toronto, up Highway 11, stopping for a picnic at Gull Lake in Gravenhurst, and arriving at the camp early afternoon. Two of my elder siblings, Simon and Kit, were also at the camp that summer, Simon as a counsellor, Kit as a C-I-T. On arrival at the camp, I met my counsellor, we took my things to our cabin where I changed into my bathing suit, then headed, (as instructed), to the dock. I remember that it was a gorgeous day, sunny and breezy but not terribly warm, and I was hustled toward the short swim test, (fifty feet, to the raft and back), which allowed me to join immediately in the free swim.
Swimming was a big part of life at Coselen, a generous hour and a half mid to late afternoon, a time of playing in and out of the water, lying on swim towels, and socializing.
Here, that day, I met Carol. We became friends, diving for stones and jumping from the dock. She was a fair bit smaller than me, not yet 9, but had a certain confidence having grown up at the camp, and was a lot of fun to be with. We were in the same cabin - G1 - our bunks one above the other, and once back in the sun-warmed cabin, we changed into shorts and hoodies, (what we called 'kangaroo jackets' in those days), and went with the rest of our cabin mates to supper.
And, of course, sang - 'If I Had A Hammer', 'Land of the Silver Birch', 'The Whistling Gypsy', 'The Happy Wanderer', 'Don't Fence Me In', 'Fire's Burning'.
There would have been forty or fifty campers that first summer. There were five boys' cabins, each housing up to eight campers, and two newer cabins for girls, on the opposite side of the Mess Hall. What I remember is how quickly you got to know everyone. Even that first night, it became evident who would be a good friend, who was funny, which counsellors were fun to be with, which kid was a pain in the neck - it was really a microcosm of society. The Saturday campfire, with the whole camp assembled and each camper knowing where they belonged; who their counsellor was, what cabin group they were a part of, and where they fit into the camp structure. For me, it was the beginning of a deep sense of belonging.
It was always a slow process for a cabin full of kids to drop off to sleep that first night, but eventually, after the long day of travel, and surrounded by the dark and quiet night, we slept.
Then, the afternoon swim period. The long wooden dock spanned the length of the swimming area with a diving tower at one end, and at the other, a short extension leading towards the raft, where one's '50-feet' swim test was done. Along the shoreline a little farther, a shallow pool for beginners with the water-ski dock at the far end. The swimming area had a 'tag' system, a large mounted board with a numbered tag for each camp member. When you arrived on the dock, you turned your tag to red. When leaving the dock, you turned it back to white. This took a bit of practise, but as I usually swam with Carol, who'd been there forever, I rarely forgot.
'Free Time' followed, that glorious ever-popular time of doing nothing, before the evening program of capture the flag, field sports, canoeing, swimming, sing-song or games, which varied, often depending on the weather.
The youngest campers were to be asleep by 9:00, after prepping for bed - brushing teeth in lake water, (at the rocky edge of the lake), a visit to the kybo, (camp lingo for outhouse - no flush toilets in those days), pyjamas, and good-nights to all of your cabin mates. Older campers would chat, read magazines, listen to music, play cards, until 'lights out'. I clearly remember (as an eleven-year-old, and after 'lights out'), trying to tune in to distant radio stations on my transistor radio. Under the big open starry sky above Lake of Bays, there'd be some success, as you'd suddenly tune in to a station from deep within the US, with greater clarity than CKAR, the local Huntsville pop music station of the time.
7:30 - Rising (sounded by bell or on occasion, bugle)
8:30 - 9:30 - Breakfast
9:30 - 9:45 - Flag Raising
9:45 - 10:00 - Cabin Clean Up
10:00 - 10:45 - Games and Instruction
11:00 - 12:00 - General Swim
12:00 - 1:00 - Dinner
1:00 - 2:30 - Rest Hour
2:30 - 3:30 - Games and Instruction
3:30 - 5:00 - General Swim
5:30 - 6:30 - Supper
6:30 - 7:00 - Free Time
7:00 - 8:30 - Games
8:30 - Bed
The schedule, (except for meals), was somewhat flexible, depending on how long Cossie spoke after meals, (if he had a bee in his bonnet about something, this could be lengthy), or how long the entire camp was kept singing. After breakfast and flag-raising, there was always a short flurry of activity within one's own cabin - Cabin Clean Up. Beds made neatly, floor swept, clothes put away, outside of the cabin and clothesline tidy, all earned points for cabin inspection, (done by one or two senior staff members). These daily points were tallied up at the end of the week, when the winning cabin would be announced and an award presented.
Weekday activities (games and instruction), usually took the form of archery lessons, BB guns, field sports, boxing, hikes, first aid, and woodcraft. Also, tripping skills. I learned, that first summer, how to construct and light a campfire, a skill I have repeated hundreds of times over the course of my life. That, and being taught, (by Cossie, along with the rest of my cabin mates), how to open a can with a pocket knife. The number of times, perhaps, that this particular skill proved useful could be counted on one hand, but on at least one occasion, I have murmured a prayer of thanks that I, a) had a pocket knife on me and b) knew how to use it.
Once a week, there was horse-back riding, (for those interested), at the nearby stables, Wallington's. It was a good 20 minute walk to the stables, (wearing blue jeans and boots, even on the hottest summer day), and then a long time waiting in the dusty corral while Mr. Wallington, (who was a wee bit on the gruff side), sized up each camper and selected a suitable horse. I loved going riding, and typically rode a feisty little brown and white guy named 'Dynamite'.