A young woman blossoms at a summer camp for entertainers. Set in 1967
So many hippies converged in San Francisco in the summer of 1967 that the press dubbed it the summer of love, a carefree time of innocence, fun, and good will towards all. Three thousand miles away in the Pocono Mountains Vaudeville Camp, I had my own summer of love, a time so magical that I stored the memories deep in my heart to be unlocked whenever they are needed.
Owned and operated by Vaudeville veterans, the camp is a summer school dedicated to teaching entertainers of all ages and genres. It was my high school graduation present from my parents. I sing and play guitar and was sent there as much for the life experience as for the performance lessons. High school had not been a happy experience and I had turned to my guitar in an effort to have something, anything, I could relate to. Alone in my room, I would spend hours playing my favorite songs. Preferring serious music, I would plaintively warble the words to “People” over and over again. I hated to leave my sanctuary and felt like an alien in a strange world the moment I walked out the door, as if I were being air lifted to the middle of Siberia with a big American flag painted across my forehead.
I was self-conscious about everything from my 5 foot 10 inch frame to my body which resembled a number two pencil, to my inept conversational skills. In an effort to appear smaller, I would round my shoulders and face the ground. I tried to give myself girth by wearing long shapeless tent dresses which I covered with a hooded cape in all but the warmest weather. I wore my limp hair chin length and cut bangs down to my eyelashes so I felt veiled. If my physical appearance was not enough to turn people away, my constant scowl would definitely do the trick. A few of my classmates tried to break through, but I quickly shut them out.
All of my parents repeated attempts to coax me out of my shell had failed, and they were thrilled when I agreed to go to Vaudeville Camp. The whole family piled into the car as we made the drive to the mountains. My parents walked me up to the door, Dad carrying my suitcase. I took a deep breath, rang the doorbell, hugged my guitar case in front of my body, and backed into my parents for support. The door was immediately thrown open and I found myself looking down on a wisp of a woman who surveyed the situation, sized it up, smiled and greeted me. “You must be Angie, my name is Mary. Come on in and we’ll get you settled”. I looked back at my parents hoping they would accompany me, but Mary would have none of that. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Columbo, Angie will be fine. You can call any evening and we have a pay phone she can use to call you whenever she wants. I hope you’re planning on seeing our Labor Day performance. You won’t recognize your little girl.” With that, she picked up my suitcase, whisked me inside and firmly shut the door.
Mary ignored the people dotted throughout the large living room as she led me up the steps to my room. My roommate, Shirley, hadn’t yet arrived so I had my choice of beds. My hostess left me to get settled with instructions to come downstairs when I was ready to meet people or grab a bite.
By the time Shirley blew in the door, I was unpacked, hungry, and sitting on my bed softly strumming my guitar. “Sounds great,” she said, “do you sing?” “A little” I replied using as few words as possible. “I write songs and play the piano. I sing a very little,” she laughed, “Come on, I’m starving and dinner is served in ten minutes. We can get to know each other there.”
Dinner was delicious – everything we ate had been grown on the farm situated behind the main house. Even the bread was home baked. Shirley and I were assigned to the same table, with four other students and one staff person, Harold. Harold led us in introductions, and then the table went silent. I wish I could tell you I immediately felt comfortable sitting alongside other musicians, but that would be a lie. I was the youngest person at the table and the only one who had not performed publicly, not even in a high school talent show or church choir. I wondered what it was about my audition that had caused them to accept me, and felt like I was on the path to failure. I think we were all a little nervous, so Harold took over the conversation, telling us he and his wife Bessie were two of the six original founders. In 1929, they were all on the vaudeville circuit playing mid-sized Pennsylvania cities when Sky Top Lodge opened a few miles down the road. They were all in the resort’s first Vaudeville show and were offered full-time jobs. They decided to take a break from the road, and have been here ever since. “I was kissed by an angel with the luck of the Irish, “he said, “We worked all through the depression and have now retired comfortably running our farm and school.” He was peppered with questions. He and his sister, Rose, were dance partners. Brother and sister dance teams were very popular back then since they looked good together and were usually equally talented. According to Howard, the two of them “Clogged, tapped, did the Charleston, and of course, we could take a turn around the ballroom with the best of them.” He talked on and on, trying to include others in the conversation. While I remained silent, I was secretly fascinated and dinner passed quickly. After a quick tour of the grounds, others broke into groups in the living room, while I begged off saying I was tired.
Lessons started the very next afternoon. My legs barely supported me as I meandered across the tree lined path to the studio, sure that I would not measure up. While my first performance in front of my voice coach, Bessie, wandered on and off key, she sensed my nervousness and chose to be supportive. “You have a beautiful clear voice with a huge range”, she said, “We will fine tune it together”. And so the exercises began.
The months flew by with musical lessons of all types: breathing, singing, and guitar. Learning to breathe correctly was my biggest challenge: it did not feel natural for me to throw back my shoulders and expand my chest so I could breathe deeply. But I kept persevering and in time, my posture improved even when I wasn’t performing. At the end of the first month, my singing had grown by leaps and bounds and it was time for me to focus on performing. “Everyone needs a gimmick”, Rosie said, “You’re lucky you have your height”. “My height”, I stammered, “I hate it, how can that be lucky?” “Look at Cher, Sophia Loren, or Catherine Hepburn. Why, you remind me of Audrey Hepburn who is no relation to Catherine.” My eyes closed, my face became beet red, my mind spun and began making whirring noises, my breathing became quick and shallow. I rocked gently back and forth. As if from a distance, I heard Rosie continue “I think we should get your hair cut into one of Vidal Sassoon’s short bobs. It would show off your long neck and best of all doesn’t require any work on your part. We’ll add just a little makeup to emphasize your high cheekbones and beautiful brown eyes. Once we get that done, we’ll go shopping for a few stage outfits that flatter you and you’ll look stunning, like a Viking Goddess.” That night, I mentioned Bessie’s proposal to Shirley (leaving out the Audrey Hepburn comparison) and she got very excited. “I’d love to go with you two, I could use a new look myself.”
So it was that Bessie, Shirley and I went into Stroudsberg and entered the beauty parlor. Bessie was well known and conferred with Madge about first my hair cut, and then Shirley’s. Then it was off to the drug store to buy make up which Bessie expertly applied. Finally we made it to the woman’s clothing store. Everything was too short, but Bessie was not deterred. She led us all to Woolworth’s where we found beautiful fabric and great patterns. “If you cut and pin, I’ll sew;” Bessie offered. Of course, I agreed and we all turned towards home. At dinner that night, Shirley and I got lots of compliments. It was hard for me to quit blushing and staring at the floor with a silly grin on my face. I wasn’t used to getting compliments on the way I looked.
Now all that was left was for me to develop stage presence and to learn to sing in harmony with others. That too came in time.
In the meantime, I was becoming more comfortable with people. We had every morning free and I would spend an hour walking the grounds observing farm life. I frequently found Harold picking fruit and vegetables and he would call me over to chat. As we harvested together, we started to develop an easygoing camaraderie. At first, we talked about his family – he was married to Bessie and they had 3 kids and 6 grandkids. I asked about living in a group home “We all have our own cabins. This ain’t no hippie dippie commune – no drugs and definitely no orgies.” He told me about starting out as a hobo when he carried everything he owned over his shoulder, about joining vaudeville, meeting Bessie, settling at Sky Top, buying the land, clearing some trees, ordering kits from Sears and building their own homes. “There were four of us households and we all ordered kits. The Amish got nothing on us. We had our own barn raising and built those homes lickety split. Started as soon as the ground thawed in 1933 and we were all living here by the fall.” He showed me the sheep, pigs, and chickens. I averted my eyes as I saw the chopping block next to the chicken coop.
From teaching dance for so many years, Harold was very adept at putting woman at ease. Soon I was telling him about my family, about how much I enjoyed watching the spring lambs bounce around as if their legs were bare mattress springs, and about my plans to go to Mansfield State College to study teaching. I still didn’t know what I wanted to teach, but I knew that was the career for me. We talked about the weather, the differences between city and country living, and a lot of other things. In short, Harold was teaching me how to make small talk.
He drew me out at dinner and slowly I began to feel at ease with the others in my group. I even started joining the rest of the school at the nightly campfires where Bessie would lead the group in song. I found I loved folk music and patriotic songs – Yankee Doodle Dandy, Over There, and This Land is Your Land were some of my favorites. But my all-time favorite was an old minstrel tune that was part of Bessie’s original Vaudeville act – here’s the chorus: “ It Ain’t Gonna Rain No Mo, no mo, it ain’t gonna rain no mo, how in the world can the old folks tell, it ain’t gonna rain no mo.” While Rosie knew all the original 80+ comic verses, she’d also made up some of her own based on the people at the camp. I loved playing guitar through this song and soon found myself singing the chorus, laughing at the verses, and imagining myself ending a performance with this song.
I developed a few strong friendships: Harold, Bessie, Shirley, and a singer named Larry. Ten years my senior, Larry was also shy and we felt a connection. We could open up to each other. While it was nothing romantic – partly because of the house rules, and partly because of our age difference, we spent long hours singing and talking by the duck pond. We all promised to stay in touch after graduation which was coming up quickly.
Finally, the big day was here. My family came to see the show and bring me home. I flew into their arms when I saw them. There were tears in our eyes as we all realized how much we’d missed each other. Right before the show, Shirley handed me a pair of long dangly earrings – here, she said, they’ll fill in your face nicely.” I promised to wear them whenever I performed. Then everyone was settled in their seats, I was backstage, and the emcee walked to the mike. The show had begun. I had three performances, the first was a guitar playing solo of a song Shirley had written to show off my vocal range. The second time I stepped on stage I was with Larry and Shirley. She sat down at the piano, Larry and I stood close together and we sang the theme from a summer’s place. We sang not only to each other, but also to Shirley. What was meant to be a duet became a trio as she joined her voice with ours. At the end of that song, the three of us stood on stage, arms wrapped around each other, bathed in the applause, and never wanting the moment to end. Of course, the show moved on and finally it was time for the ending song – It Ain’t gonna rain no mo. I followed Bessie on stage, and the two of us started the chorus. Bessie and I took turns singing verses and I had even made up one about Bessie. With that, Bessie started one last chorus and the curtain came down.
A lot has happened since then. I just graduated college with a degree in English education. I made spending money during college teaching others voice and guitar. I was part of the choral group. I sang at coffee houses and even got a few bar gigs once I turned 21. I dated off and on but no-one really took my fancy. I made friends and discovered new interests. And I kept in touch with my Pocono friends. There was a health scare with Bessie, but she recovered and the two of them are fine. One of their children has come home to take over business management of the camp and they are thrilled to have their grandchildren near them. Shirley managed to sell a few of her songs to a famous folk singer and quit her day job. Larry moved to New York’s Greenwich village where he sings weekends at a hippie bar. But he’s decided that he needs a break from city life and is spending this summer teaching voice at the Vaudeville Camp. I’m also going to be there – working in the garden and helping Harold and Bessie plan the graduation show. Shirley said she’d come up for a week to spend some time with us and I’m looking forward to that. Most of all, I’m looking forward to seeing Larry again. We have talked weekly and I’m wondering where this summer will take us. After all, there are no house rules around staff fraternizing and ten years is not as big a difference at 22 as it was at 18.
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