The five-hour trip to Interlaken from Milwaukee went a little faster than it should have. Larry and I were headed up to camp early to help get things ready for the summer. Someone had donated an old UPS truck — a rickety brown box of a thing that looked like it had delivered every package in Wisconsin. UPS had definitely gotten every nickel of value out of it.To save time, Larry and I didn’t stop to switch drivers. The truck had a jump seat, so when it was my turn, I’d stand next to Larry, grab the wheel while he still had his foot on the gas, and slide into the seat as he slid out. Oh, to be young again — and that dumb. We probably shaved fifteen minutes off our time.
Interlaken was a rustic place in the 1970s. Its beauty lay in the setting and the experience, not the facilities. Camps today have become more like resorts, but back then the season was simple: a week of training, nine weeks of campers, and a week of family camp. Ateret, our fierce leader and Camp Director, gave us the chance to make the season a little longer by having us come early to help Alex, the caretaker, get camp ready.
Alex was a camp character and a legend. He wasn’t like the adults we middle- and upper-middle-class college kids were used to. He’d retired from a factory job and taken up caretaking as his retirement career. He spent five months a year at camp — open, maintain, and close — and when he finally locked the gate at summer’s end, he’d say, “She sleeps.” Actually, it came out more like “She sh-leeps,” thanks to his thick northern Wisconsin brogue.
Alex inspected the old truck Larry and I had captained up to Eagle River and pronounced it “adequate” for hauling camp’s rubbish to the dump. Then he customized it — by pulling out the passenger seat to make more room for garbage — and christened it the Maggot Mobile.
Camp’s waste management system revolved around the maintenance shack. If it didn’t burn in the incinerator, it went into the Maggot Mobile. The incinerator sat nestled in the pines beside the shack, with the truck parked nearby and ready to haul the non-burnables. Every so often, Alex would toss an aerosol can into the flames just for fun. The resulting explosion sent fire shooting out the back, top, and short chimney of the incinerator. It remains eternal proof of God’s presence that the camp never burned to the ground.
Alex took his job seriously and expected us to do the same. He let us know that “the boss-lady” wanted results. He liked to demonstrate the difference between “hourly pay” and “by the job” work. Picking up a hammer and nail, he’d show us how the hourly worker would take one light tap, then grab a cigarette and a coffee. The “by the job” worker, meanwhile, grabbed a handful of nails, stuffed a few in his mouth, and drove them home without pause. Alex made it clear which kind of worker he expected us to be.
The boss-lady — who would laugh when I called her “hard ass” — told Alex to have us focus on building the tent platforms for K’far Noar, the new teen village. When weather didn’t cooperate, we were to repaint the windows in the Chadar, the dining hall. The Chadar’s windows were beautiful: old-fashioned, multi-paned, and plentiful.
We built the tent pads first. Alex laid out the framing and showed us how to mount it on cinder blocks to level it on the uneven ground. His know-how was far greater than our muscle, but somehow we made it work.
Every morning we met Alex at the maintenance shack — a one-car garage filled with what looked like a century’s worth of leftovers: springs, pipes, bits of wood, drawers of mismatched screws and bolts. It was chaos. In other words, perfect. Alex, though, was particular about his tools.
As we planned the day’s tasks, we’d stand in the open doorway listening to his instructions. Every so often, Alex — who must have been born with chewing tobacco in his mouth — would spit. And he had a remarkable gift: he could spit around corners. Standing at the front of the garage, we’d watch in awe as his tobacco juice curved miraculously around to the side of the building. He never once hit the wood bin. I still marvel at that talent.
Springtime in northern Wisconsin can be glorious — bright mornings, cool air, and warm afternoons. But when the rains came, the Chadar windows called. We grabbed brushes, drop cloths, paint, and scrapers. There were so many windows, each with twelve panes. I learned to paint small spaces with a big brush and discovered that in the dark, every mistake shows. During the day, the light was forgiving. But at night, those stray splotches of paint stood out like stars.
Alex taught me the secret: a good razor beats dried paint every time.
Most people remember camp through what I call the Three S’s — Spirituality, Socialization, and Sexuality. Camp has those in abundance. But the real gifts run deeper. My time with Alex taught me about work, aging, and the satisfaction of doing things “by the job.” He showed me how patience, precision, and a sense of humor can get you through most of life’s messes — whether you’re building tent platforms or scraping paint.
My recent effort to reimagine an old Victorian chair probably wouldn’t have earned Alex’s approval. But it got me thinking about painting, aging, and seeing the world a little differently. Like paint on glass, life’s imperfections show up most clearly in the dark.
Thanks, Alex. You sure made a difference.
Camp Interlaken JCC is the Resident Camp of the Jewish Center of Milwaukee. The camp first opened in 1966, having been purchased as a functioning camp. It is located in Eagle River Wisconsin.
David Friedman was at Camp Interlaken JCC
The summer of 1971 - Counselor and Nature Specialist
Summers of 1973, 74, 75 - Trip Leader
Summer of 1977 - Waterfront Director
Summers of 1985, 86, 87, 88, 89 - Camp Director (and the rest of the year too!}
POEM MADE OF WATER 9 1/2 x 12 1/4; Artist Signed bottom Right
Image size: 5" x 3"
