10/25/23
Newsletter #497
The Crack of Dawn
Although there’s no reason that I know of, Lisa no longer responds to any of my emails or texts and hasn’t for over a year. The last time I heard from her she was regularly reading this newsletter. I know that because she contacted me to say that an expression that I used (I can’t remember which one) originated in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I wrote back and said that my Dictionary of Cliches said that it was an old, out-of-date expression by the time of Hamlet, and that Shakespeare had resurrected it. In any case, I’ve somehow gone persona non grata with her. Maybe she’ll read this.
In the summer of 1973, I was 15, Lisa was 14, and we were both spending the summer at Camp Tamakwa in Canada. I didn’t know Lisa at all, although I was slightly friendly with her older brother, Bruce. In her own way, with her look and her odd self-assurance, she was the coolest young girl in camp. Lisa wore tight jeans that had been patched many, many times, high-top sneakers, a leotard top that perfectly outlined her small breasts, short dark hair, big brown eyes, and round, John Lennon glasses. I thought she was not only ridiculously cute, but looked kind of intriguing and smart with her glasses, but she was too young, so forget that. There were plenty of pretty girls at camp that year — the cutest being Claudia Porges, daughter of Paul Peter Porges, writer and artist for Mad Magazine, one of my favorite magazines — so I was more interested in the girls my own age, or a year older. 14 was too young; 15 was perfect; at 16 they might possibly be more knowledgeable than myself, which was even better – I was eager to learn.
It was a warm, sultry, still, Friday evening after dinner and some of the kids were sort of dressed up – if they cared to; I certainly didn’t — because we were about to have Friday night Jewish Sabbath services conducted by the camp’s owner, Lou Handler. I didn’t give a shit about the service itself, but I was a big fan of Lou who always did a bofo job. Since there were also gentiles at the camp, mostly from Canada, Lou conducted a rather Unitarian Jewish service. But his recitation of the 23rd Psalm was always a highlight.
The service took place on the “slope,” which was series of green wooden bleachers built into the side of the hill running down to South Tea Lake. At the bottom was a 20-foot square wooden platform/raft that was generally used as the waterskiing dock. There was a wooden podium built there specifically for Lou to stand behind for services. Lou certainly wasn’t a devout Jew — he was a professional boxing referee, so his job was watching men beat the shit out of each other — but he was a good Jew, and services did matter.
Just as I was just starting down the slope toward my buddies, a hand took hold of mine. It was Lisa and she was sporting a devious expression. OK, I thought, she wants to hold hands during services, I’m totally with that. Good for her; and how forward thinking. But no, that wasn’t it at all. Lisa pulled me away from the services. Now we were going against the arriving crowd of girls coming from Girl’s Camp. Firmly holding my hand, and with clear intent, Lisa led me into Girl’s Camp (where boys weren’t supposed to go), past all the girls’ cabins, then out to the end of Robey’s Point. We were now directly across the lake from the slope. We could see the services in a wide view from the side, across the calm, still water. The folks on the slope would really have to have to look hard to see us, but we were openly visible.
We quickly stripped off our clothes down to our underwear, except that Lisa was now bare on top, exposing her small breasts, still mostly nipples. We both kept on our shorts. We waded out into the water, and we kissed. Not hurriedly, which was new. We both paid attention to what we were doing and did it right. I took advantage of her bare breasts to feel them and play with them. Directly behind us, across the calm lake, services were being held, and Lou’s voice was dim but audible, “. . . Yay thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death/Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me . . .”
When Lisa was done kissing me — it hadn’t been a mutual decision; just a good decision on her part that I ran with — she led me back to the shore. We put our clothes back on. No longer holding my hand, she led me back across Girl’s Camp, back to the slope, and we caught the tail end of Lou’s sermon. As Lisa headed off toward her friends, I don’t recall her even giving me a backward glance. She had achieved what she wanted, and now she was done. She gave me no sense that anything would follow. I went down to where my friends were sitting. As I sat down my underwear was still wet and soaking through my jeans, and I had an outrageous, painful boner. Thy rod and thy staff, indeed.
Fade-out . . .
Fade-in to ten years later. It was my 25th birthday party. My family threw me a party, which was unexpected. I was sitting in the backyard on a warm August night with Bruce Campbell, Sam Raimi, Ivan Raimi, Joe LoDuca and Scott Spiegel. Suddenly, two unknown people came walking up out of the night across the back lawn. It was Lisa and her friend Julie another camp friend. These lovely ladies had crashed my birthday party.
That’s enough for now.
Today’s my last day in California. It’s nice to leave, and it’s nice to go home. I miss my cat, Ike.