Kumbaya

I just can’t stop thinking about the missing youth campers in Texas.

Anyone who has been lucky enough to experience summer camp knows it is a special time. Magical, even. A brief slice of time during summer vacations that we didn’t realize would come to a screeching halt once adulthood set in. Whether your family could afford to enroll you in just one session or all of them, you knew you were lucky and embraced every moment. Each summer, that time spent with bunkmates and counselors you idolized was priceless. Each summer’s memories built upon those from the past. You looked forward to seeing old friends from previous years as much as you anticipated making new friends.

In well-established camps, a hierarchy is formed, with younger kids being assigned to certain camp sites and bunks and older kids to different areas. Each summer, you would anticipate moving up an age group, getting assigned to a more prestigious cabin or perhaps lucking out by getting everyone’s favorite cabin counselor.

Many campers start young, work their way through all the age groups and then become counselors-in-training and eventually full-fledged staff. And I can tell you from experience that staff members cherish their camp time as much as the campers, and we build and maintain just as many, if not more, special memories as the summers begin to fade into each other. To say a sense of family develops is an understatement.

I was not able to attend camp as a kid, so I made up for it by working as both a summer playground leader and then counselor, assistant director and director of an eight-week day camp.

It is with that experience and those memories behind me that I am so consumed by the tragic deaths and catastrophic damage caused by flash flooding in central Texas.

As is being well-reported by news outlets, the Guadalupe River rose 26 feet in just 30 minutes. And because nature doesn’t adhere to a eight-hour work day, the river rose at 3:30 in the morning, when most people were sound asleep. There was no time for evacuation orders and no time to react.

At Camp Mystic, a girls Christian summer camp situated along the Guadalupe, many campers are still unaccounted for and presumed dead. Cabins along the river were washed away, and most surviving campers were those housed in cabins on higher ground, according to news reports.

At Camp Heart o’ the Hills, also along the Guadalupe, the outcome was a little better, at least in terms of lost lives, thanks to an administrative decision made several years ago to not have camp in session on July 4. While campers were not staying at the camp at the time, staff and administrators were. Camp co-owner Jane Ragsdale was killed while trying to assist her staff in getting to safer conditions, according to many news outlets. The camp’s Facebook page has been inundated with emotional tributes to Jane, posted by campers from the past five decades.

Heart o' the Hills Camp director Jane Ragsdale.
Facebook photo

Judging from the comments shared, combined with the numerous photos and videos posted, Jane was a saint on earth. Her father was a camp owner and director so she grew up in the camping community; it was in her blood, She attended camp as a child and worked at camps before buying her own. Jane had a positive impact on countless girls, many of whom paid tribute on Facebook.

“She was one of the first people in my childhood who truly saw me, loved me and guided me,” one former camper wrote. “It was at camp that the person God created me to be truly came alive.”

Another wrote simply: “Heart camp girls we’ll always be. Till we meet again.”

“She was the heart of the Heart,” according to many commenters.

Jane Ragsdale was just one of many caring adults who devoted their entire adult lives to providing a childhood rite of passage to thousands of children, as well as being a mentor to hundreds of young people working their first jobs.

Dick Eastland, who had owned Camp Mystic since 1974, also died when his camp was swept away.

“Camp Mystic’s Dick Eastland no doubt gave his life attempting to save his campers,” a Texas politician wrote on a social media outlet. “For decades he and his wife Tweety poured [their lives] into loving and developing girls and women of character. Thank you, Mr. Eastland. We love you and miss you."

My heart goes out to the camp workers, especially at Mystic, where so many young lives were lost. I know from my experience, I was always counting heads and was constantly aware of where my assigned kids were at all times. No one went anywhere alone; the buddy system was real! Whether in the swimming pool or locker room, on a hike through the woods, making sand candles along the bank of the creek or sitting at a picnic table working on crafts, I was counting heads. When we hiked in the woods or traveled to a different part of the camp for an activity, there was a counselor at the front of the group and another behind the last kid. And when the inevitable happened, like a skinned knee or a bee sting, I always wondered if I could have prevented the incident.

Camp Heritage, where I worked for four summers, was a day camp with four two-week sessions each summer. Every two weeks, an overnight campout was held the second Thursday of the session. We pitched big cabin-sized tents on the athletic fields and each unit got two tents, one for boys and one for girls. Even with all the tents visible and on a wide-open field, there were those of us who didn’t sleep all night. Administrators huddled at picnic tables under a gazebo that sat on a hill overlooking the field and eyes watched those tents all night.

In short, folks in charge of kids, whether in school, summer camp, day care, church or sporting events, take their responsibilities seriously. Parents will mourn these lost children until their own deaths. But trust me when I tell you those camp workers will mourn those children until they too take their final breaths.

The summer camp experience will never be the same for any of the people involved. What is supposed to be a carefree youth experience will now and forever elicit horrible memories. Images of destroyed campgrounds with be interspersed with images of happy-go-lucky children — singing songs around a campfire, kayaking on the river, riding a horse, or performing in a skit — who didn't return home one summer.

My heart goes out to all the parents, grandparents, siblings and other relatives, friends and neighbors who lost family members, colleagues and young charges. Their lives will never be the same. They will carry this with them forever.

But I care equally for all the surviving camp workers, many of whom are young themselves. A catastrophic event like this, in addition to taking lives, can permanently alter the life paths of the survivors. Some will take it and become stronger, more resilient. Others might not be so lucky; their lives may forever be weakened or perhaps even derailed after experiencing such a tragedy.

I am hoping the tightly-knit camping community has already put its arms around the people of this central Texas area. Campers are a special group and I hope the magic and love of that community can help the healing begin.

A salad by any other name

A salad by any other name is still a salad. There. I said it.

I of all people understand the need to beef up language; to put new, trendy, hip labels on time-honored (read old) items and concepts. I understand marketing and the commercial need to cater to the demographic group that’s out there spending the money, driving ratings and spreading the word through social media posts and reviews.

And I fully acknowledge that I am no longer a member of that desired demographic. But that doesn’t mean I have to like the trend of renaming things that have existed under another label for decades, if not centuries. Doing so is the equivalent of renaming your 16-year-old dog, expecting him to suddenly respond to “Cooper” because “Rex” is no longer “in.”

Few, if any, words in the English language have a singular, dedicated definition. With this week in mind, take the word “hot” as an example. It can mean extremely warm, stolen, electrically charged, spicy or sexy. Context determines the intended meaning — or at least we hope so — so conversation participants are on the same page, so to speak.

One of the recent linguistic appropriations that has driven me crazy is the use of the word “hack” when offering instructions or suggestions for how to do something. Apparently, the phrases “helpful hints,” “useful tips” and “shortcuts” are no longer good enough when it comes to sharing knowledge and experience. We have camping hacks, cooking hacks, gardening hacks — you get the picture. And the joke is that most of these "hacks" are time-honored, well-known helpful hints that we had in our life tool boxes as we grew up.

Interestingly enough, “hack” is another word with multiple meanings — most of them negative. You definitely do not want your computer or any other digital device hacked. You should use caution when accepting a ride from a hack. You do not want your lawn guy to hack his way through your carefully cultivated bushes and trees. As a writer, I would probably cry if someone referred to me as a hack. And while writers in particular are often referred to as hacks, it’s a label no worker, regardless of profession, wants. Unless, of course, you're a hacker and proud of it.

So now, hack means helpful hint. OK. Whatever.

But what brings me here today is the use of the phrase “sub in a tub” to describe what we old people call a salad. I get that carbohydrates are the new enemy of the people and those nasty things are to be avoided at all cost. So sandwiches, hoagies, submarine sandwiches and even wraps are out and “subs in a tub” are in.

I know this is not an extremely new marketing effort. The phrase has been around for a while and I have giggled before at the gullibility of consumers willing to pay $15.99 for a $5 salad simply because it has a hip, new moniker.

Recently, because I apparently clicked on an article about or a “recipe” for a tub concoction, I have been inundated by social media posts from a variety of cooking, diet plan and wellness groups extolling the virtues of the sub in a tub.

"Sub in a Tub" from Mediterranean Diet and Recipes for Beginners group on Facebook.

A recent salad made by the author. 
Photo by Marge Neal

Again, I understand the marketing value of renaming salads to appeal to a new audience of consumers. What has me absolutely cracking up over this are the comments people publish on these sub in a tub posts.

Below is a collection of honest to God real comments posted by folks responding to the pretty pictures of salads in plastic food containers:

“OMG! This looks delicious! Can’t wait to try!”

“Where did you get the containers and lids from please? Can’t wait to try this. TY.”

“Looks good.”

“I’d love to try this. Can you share your recipe?”

For real? People have never before seen a salad and think it's a new thing? Can't wait to try it? Were you born yesterday? Have you been living in the proverbial cave, eating sticks, nuts and berries (which, now that I think about it, was probably mankind's first salad)? And do you really need a recipe? Geez!

To be honest, the comment section also includes discussions about reinventing the wheel and pointing out the bowls of assorted ingredients are, in fact, salads. Here are some of those debate comments:

“Wouldn’t that be called a salad?”

“Technically it is a salad. They just decided to be innovative. LOL.”

“These people nowadays they can’t come up with a new movie they just keep making the old good ones and messing them up most of them and what used to be  chef salad is now sub the tub.” (Lack of punctuation and poor grammar is the work of the original poster).

“Call it what you want. It looks delicious. Count me in.”

“It’s a chef’s salad.”

“Chef salad doesn’t have pepperoni or salami.”

“A salad by any other name is still a salad.”

“What’s your point? It’s named this and it’s cute. Downer!”

And so on and so on.

There’s no doubt the word “salad” covers a wide open territory with much room for interpretation. There are lots and lots of named salads (Greek, Chef’s, Cobb, Caesar, Waldorf) and probably just as many unnamed concoctions whipped up in kitchens across the country that are probably never the same two batches in a row. I quite often make the “clean out the refrigerator” salad, using up the last remnants of veggies, meat, cheese, hard-boiled eggs and anything else that’s just this side of being a science project.

Depending on my mood and patience level, I will slice green and black olives, chop up walnuts, cut strawberries, watermelon and cantaloupe and grab a handful of sunflower seeds for a salad. I’ve been known to add dried berries, bacon bits, granola, grapes and that last mandarin rolling around in the bin. In other words, pretty much anything goes in my house. There are no salad rules. Well, I guess there is one rule: I call a salad a salad.

(Please note that I didn’t muddy this debate by bringing up the mayonnaise-based recipes labeled as salads: potato, pasta, shrimp, chicken, tuna, etc. I guess those could be a topic of discussion another day.)

Regarding “sub in a tub,” I’m guessing perhaps there are new generations that refuse to eat their veggies and these new labels make salads look trendy and innovative. But if there are people in this country who turn up their noses at a salad but fork over big bucks for a “sub in a tub,” well, bless their little hearts.

Just a ramblin' woman

I am a registered Democrat.

But I have traveled a circuitous path in my political life, with the now 67-year-old Democrat a very different person than the 17-year-old who registered to vote in 12th-grade homeroom in the fall of 1974.

In the days of three main television stations, my real political knowledge teetered between slim and none. There was never any real conversation in my home, so current events and the political climate were not being discussed around the dinner table or anywhere else.

When presented with voter registration forms that fall morning, I couldn’t have told you about any philosophical or policy differences between the two major parties. So of course I could not have truly identified with one group over the other.

I registered as a Democrat for two main reasons: 1) Just two months previously, Richard Nixon, the Republican president, had resigned the office in shame, seizing the opportunity to leave voluntarily rather than face certain impeachment; and 2) My mother was a registered Republican.

In my early years as a voter, I was a largely uninformed participant. I prided myself in never missing an election but I probably could have done a better job at casting those votes. As I matured a bit and took more of an interest in a bigger community and world, I researched more and cast more responsible votes. I didn’t always get it right but I was making informed decisions based upon information available to me.

I was never a hardcore party-line voter. I researched issues that most concerned or affected me and my community at the time and voted accordingly. I didn’t vote for party, I voted for people. I’ve voted for many Republicans over the years (though that probably will never happen again). For example, I was truly on the fence during the 2008 presidential election season. I literally could have tossed a coin to decide between Barack Obama and John McCain. The latter lost my vote when he picked Sarah Palin as his running mate.

Anyhow, I give you all this background to get to my point (I know, I know, this is seriously burying the lead). While I am a proud, card-carrying Democrat, I have never consumed Kool-Aid of any color. I don’t worship at the altar of the DNC and I don’t idolize any candidate or office-holder. I pride myself in being a equal-opportunity critic. I have never been 100 percent happy with any candidate, nor did that perfect endorsement magically happen when a candidate won an office. There are no perfect humans, therefore there are no perfect politicians.

In the past bunch of presidential elections, the Democratic candidate has not been my first choice. Ditto for the most recent Maryland gubernatorial races. I seem to always back the wrong guy or gal in the primary. And in Maryland, across most precincts and jurisdictions, the Democratic primary usually dictates who will win the November general election. 

So I start many fresh political terms being not crazy about the winner.

Which really brings me to the main point of writing this post (burying the lead, Part 2). I don’t wear blinders when it comes to evaluating the job being done by these people elected by citizens. I don’t put my head in the sand, I don’t look the other way and I don’t make excuses. I don’t refer to “whataboutisms” when confronted by a weakness or failure of “my candidate.” Corruption is corruption, incompetence is incompetence and immoral or unethical behavior is immoral or unethical behavior, regardless of the letter behind someone’s name.

Sure, I complained about George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush, but I also complained about Bill Clinton, Obama and Joe Biden. When Biden had a spectacularly horrible performance in last summer’s debate with Donald Trump, I remember thinking "we’re dead meat. He has to drop out." And the Democratic Party did what I still want to think was the right thing to do, and convinced him to step aside while there was still time to salvage the race. We will never know, of course, if it was the right thing to do, but the candidate put the nation and the office ahead of himself and stepped down.

But the hypocrisy of the Republican Party just sickens me. They seem to have 20-20 vision and impeccable hearing when it comes to criticizing Democrats but they're deaf and blind when it comes to the actions and behavior of their party mates. When Biden trips on a step, it’s the end of our society and we are the laughing stock of the world. When Trump trips on a step, there must have been a wet spot or the step was loose. When Biden couldn’t come up with a word or used a wrong word, he was deep in the throes of dementia and needed to resign. When Trump does the same thing, it’s because he’s exhausted from working so hard for the American people.

The Republican Party circles the wagons to protect hateful, law-breaking, lying, incompetent morons while Democrats eat their own for wearing the wrong color socks.

If I admire anything, it’s the ability of so many people to keep a straight face when defending DT or when they repeat his often dangerous lies as absolute gospel.

I also remember shaking my head over our choices in the 2020 presidential race. Here we were — the nation of 340 million people that likes to call itself the leader of the free world, the great melting pot proud of its diversity, its collective intellect, creativity, innovation, ambition, philanthropy and prosperity — with two old white guys from which to choose.

So the biggest concern I have about today’s political climate is the apparent willingness of way too many Republicans to put their heads in the proverbial sand and not criticize a president who on a daily basis lies, breaks laws and defies the U.S. Constitution. He usurps states’ rights, he rules by jealousy, vengeance and downright ignorance. He has staffed his cabinet and upper-level appointed agency positions with the most incompetent people he could possibly find. Any other president who tried to appoint such boobs and conmen and women would have been laughed out of town. But Trump’s appointments get rubber-stamped by the Senate’s narrow Republican majority.

I guess I’ve rambled enough here, and I’m not sure I’ve made a point, or if I even had a point to make. I’ve just become so sickened by what’s going on in our country that I had to get some of this out.

We’re coming up on a weekend where our narcissistic ruler is celebrating his own birthday with a military parade similar to those routinely organized by authoritarian and Communist countries. That same narcissistic ruler has illegally deployed military troops on American soil to fight against American citizens, and he has threatened citizens who may be planning to exercise their Constitutional rights by protesting at his “birthday party.” Potential protesters will be met with "heavy force," Trump threatened.

We have a president who cares about no one except himself. I believe he will stop at nothing in his quest to grab and exercise more power and authority than any other president in history. Everything is personal to this guy; everything is a race, a contest. He has to be better, faster, smarter, stronger, braver (ha) and more powerful than anyone else — at least in his own mind. In his own words, he knows more about (insert subject here) than anyone on the planet. 

I’m convinced his behavior is escalating and his cognitive abilities are deteriorating. And while Americans have suffered emotionally, socially and economically in these first five months, I’m truly concerned we are soon going to see American blood spilled at the hands of the American military on American streets.

And I’m concerned we have a president who will gloat, brag and take the credit when that happens.

That scares me.  

And it should scare you too. Regardless of the letter behind your name.

How do you pronounce Utz?

Some say po-tay-toe. Some say po-tah-toe. And now, apparently, some say “oootz” while others prefer “uhtz.”

I’m referring, of course, to the snack company rather famous here in the mid-Atlantic states. In an internal twist of corporate-competitor social media managers duking it out publicly on various platforms, a veteran SSM and a newbie SSM in the same company are having a friendly argument about the pronunciation of the brand name.

I’ve always admired the witty repartee of snarky yet funny and respectful digital content creators. I remember fondly when Wendy’s took social media by storm — and set a significantly higher bar — with an SMM who took on all comers. From corporate competitors to individual consumers, no one was safe from a witty dig from the writer, who is named by many online sources as Matt Keck. For some fun entertainment, search Wendy’s social media, make some popcorn and sit back and enjoy.

But back to the current debate being carried out by the Hanover, Pa., snack company (even though many Baltimoreans claim ownership of the brand). The online back-and-forth started April 14, with a video showing the veteran social media manager announcing that a second media team member had been hired. Pronouncing the brand as “oootz,” the veteran worker asked everyone to give the new hire a warm welcome.

Camp Oootz

The followup video featured the new hire, telling everyone how excited she was to be working for Uhtz. A third video showed the two meeting face-to-face, which resulted in an escalating argument after each heard the other’s pronunciation.

Camp Uhtz

There’s an on-going series of videos and memes that carry out the “debate.” I’ve lived in this region my entire life and I’ve never heard the snacks referred to as “oootz.” I have always been and remain in the “Uhtz” camp. But hey, the campaign worked because people are talking about the snacks.

I don’t want to give the ending away, but the two managers eventually land in the HR office, where the personnel guru ducks the debate by spelling out U-T-Z. Make some more popcorn and head over to Utz to enjoy the show.

Some say po-tay-toe. Some say po-tah-toe. Some say Uhtz. Some say Oootz.

But there’s no reason to call the whole thing off.