Camp Tom Welch
Camp Tom Welch
We met at the Boys Club, luggage in hand,
city boys bound for that promised land.
Ten years of summers, seven weeks long—
each one beginning with a bus ride and song.
The ride was a racket of chatter and kicks,
til the city gave way to trees and sticks.
Then roll call barked out through the warm, dusty air,
as counselors herded us here and there.
Steel bunks awaited with spring nets wide,
thin mattresses curling just slightly on the sides.
We claimed our spots, made beds in a heap,
and learned which guys talked loud in their sleep.
The pool was blue and the water cold—
first swim in June never got old.
Lunch meant hot dogs, always with beans,
on plastic plates that stayed mostly clean.
Rest hour meant comics, quiet and still—
though some cracked jokes and never could chill.
Canteen followed, a rush to the stand—
sweet treats and sodas in sweaty hands.
We raised the flag as the bugle blew,
then lowered it later in twilight’s hue.
Swim lessons filled with kicks and splashes,
goggles, nose plugs, and sunburnt lashes.
Campfires crackled and marshmallows burned,
as Friday night tales took a spooky turn.
Ebeneezer’s ghost—old, pale, and sly—
made brave boys shriek and small ones cry.
We hiked the road and the wooded trails,
we slept outdoors and told tall tales.
Snacks from home on Parents Night—
cookies, candy, a new flashlight.
And there was Chicago—the outhouse of dread,
leaning sideways and reeking, enough said.
Boys put out fires the way boys will,
laughing and running and never still.
Taps at night, soft and slow,
signaled the end of the camp day’s glow.
Ten summers etched in heart and sun—
when being a boy was simply… fun.