Tales from Omega

During our beloved tenure at Omega, we all had some amazing experiences that stay with us through the years. I have so many of my own, and would like to share one, in the hopes that you will, too.

It was 1969, the Summer of Love, and our cadre of counselors were spending the day off in the same manner as most: walking to Woodridge. Hiking past Grados, past the Vegetarian and the nudists doing their exercises on the front lawn, we turned the corner and began the descent down that steep hill that put us on the main road to Woodridge. Along the way we passed Hans and Laura's yellow ranch house, and stopped to say hello.

Upon crossing it's borders, the familiar tableaux fanned out in front of us: standing in the center of town we could see Rashkin's to our right, the hardware store up the hill, and Sol's on the corner to our left, as well as the rest of the small streets and shops.

These were the days before the popular programs such as "urban improvement", or "redevelopment" or as some called it "opportunity zones", that decimated such bucolic communities. We didn't dare enter the New York Bar, where the transient workers or "bimmys" spent their days, waiting for someone from a hotel or camp to pick them up for kitchen or grounds duty. I regret that I never researched the etymology of the word, if there was one. It sounded like some alien race and, I'm ashamed to admit, a bit derogatory, although it was ubiquitous among Omegans. I remember them smuggling a bottle or two of contraband to the white shack at the edge of the campus, surely for nefarious purposes

But I digress. That particular day off coincided with the historic event of our generation: Woodstock! (actually, Swan Lake, if I remember correctly). I was torn between my sense of responsibility to the camp, which was compounded by my just happening to be the owner's son, and my compulsion to hitch a ride to see all the musical greats of the day. While we pondered the possibilities and repercussions of this mutiny over roast pork sandwiches and lime rickies at Sol's, a white Cadillac pulled up to the front door. A middle-aged man smoking a cigar waved us over. I wondered why. Mayhaps my enormous hairdo hailed him?

I left the table and approached the big Cadoo with the tall tail-fins. The driver beckoned me to lean in, and asked if I and my buddies would be interested in working the concession stands at Woodstock. This guy was either a perv or on the level. My instincts told me that he was the real deal, causing my mind and heart to start racing. I knew that this could be one of those opportunities which, if left unexploited, might haunt me the rest of my days. I asked him if he would wait while I made a call to the main house at camp. He was in a hurry, but gave me a few minutes.

Bern answered the phone. At first, the call made her nervous, anticipating that some disaster had befallen us. Assuring her that all was well, I asked, no, begged if I could accept the offer from this stranger. Her motherly instincts immediately kicked into high gear. There was no way she would let her baby, even though he was was nineteen, ride off to who-knows-where with who-knows-who in who-knows-what. She cleverly used a different ruse to compel my return. "You committed to be a counselor" she said in a familiar and fear-invoking tone, "and you are going to honor that responsibility to me and your campers!" I knew there would be hell to pay if I defied her, and, truth be told, I myself found the offer a tad suspicious, although I would have risked her wrath and the the potential passes of a pervert on the possibility that I could participate in that youthful nation of a generation, in relative comfort, surrounded by sustenance, while my compatriots hunkered in the mud and slime, hoping for even a few notes from notables such as Hendrix, the Who, CSN, (you know the rest of the roster). Even with the chemical enhancers, I'm sure it was nonetheless a messy milleux.

I was shocked and surprised as my own feelings of compassion for my campers overtook my selfish desires. I assured Bern that I would not leave her in the lurch and would head back after lunch. Besides, I knew that at summer's end I would have to come home to an unhappy pair of parental units.

As you can tell from my tome, the tantalizing temptation of a trip to Woodstock, that milestone of music, the last gasp of the waning sixties, is etched in my memory. But I'm comforted by the knowledge that I made the right choice, because I did not want to miss one day at Omega, knowing somehow they were precious and few.