How ‘Popped Collars’ invaded Summer Camp

Foolishness Flourishes

At summer camp, devilishly playful instincts will surface when camp staff is tired and stressed. Foolishness flourishes in order to break up the monotony. It becomes Nero’s playground.

This mischievousness can give birth to actions that unexpectedly become traditions. Some of these established practices are harmless and provide a layer of complexity and soul to a camp. Others do nothing but degrade the good work being provided to youth each summer by the staff. It is a crap shoot, and the camp administration needs to encourage the positive and squelch the negative.

Arrows and Gel

While working at a camp in the Florida Keys I met young man from Louisiana. We connected pretty quickly through the shared experience of each having been aquatics staff. This led to sitting on the shore, sucking down a few beers, and spinning yarns about our Scout camp experiences.

Once a comfortable rapport had been established, this gentleman proceeded to describe an initiation ceremony at his council’s camp. If memory serves me, the spot for this event was located on a long pier that stretched into the lake. Sometime during staff week the aquatics crew would be summoned to the pier at night. Once all were present, the greenhorns for that season are given an unbelievable task…

Let us pause for a moment to reflect upon a typical Cub Scout Arrow of Light banquet. The Cubmaster dips generic target arrows into a nasty looking tub of blue-green gel. A Den Leader lights it on fire. The gel will burn but not get exceedingly hot for a very short period of time. Immediately a youth is directed to grasp the burning shaft, extinguishing the flame. It looks cool, the scouts feel like demigods, and a story is made everybody will remember forever. No harm, no foul, and completely safe when run by competent people

Great Balls of Fire

It is a tub of this same goo that was thrust in front of the aquatics staff standing on the pier. Participants were told to undress and smear their privates in gel. The Aquatics Director would light things up, and the shocked humans were compelled to start running towards the end of the pier. Bragging rights went to those who made it to the end and jumped in before baking their balls. Those whom bailed before reaching the end were chided for the summer.

Dumbfounded does not do justice relating how I reacted when absorbing this tale. Most people expend a noticeable amount of energy trying to prevent their crotch from getting damaged. The concept that there existed a group of people risking singed privates annually, required time to absorb. It baffled me that the teller of this tale was laughing heartily when recalling peers whom had made the run. Apparently the task was not easy. Through the fog of time I am remembering that my mascochistic pal had to bail early during his turn. I guess things just got too hot for him to handle.

This tradition seemed a train wreck to me. How it apparently continued to thrive over multiple years was hard to fathom. But young minds can be devious, and thus bad traditions tend to have long life spans. All these decades later, I’d like to presume that the fine staff of this unknown-to-me camp are no longer dashing for the water in the dead of night. Privates aglow, simply to participate in a lame ceremony.

For Your Enjoyment

At the camp where I served, our waterfront director would have been fired on the spot for such an act. When I became Camp Director we had one primary rule: don’t be dumb. An act such as diving into the water with blazing balls would have violated this standard. But not all the traditions and ceremonies that bloom from the creative minds of people cooped up for a summer are bad.

I submit for your enjoyment: Popped Collar Wednesday.

As a Program Director, part of my morning duties were to make sure all staff attended breakfast on time. This daily procession of barely awake young men, stumbling out of their cabins after a night of various nefarious evening activities, was always amusing to watch. The horde would arrive usually a minute or two before the bugle call. A stream of questionably uniformed bodies racing to their tables.

Once inside they would desperately seek a cup of coffee or race for the last box of cereal. Everybody tended to look stone-faced and disheveled, but by the time the meal was over folks were pepped up enough to get the day rolling. It remains endlessly fascinating to me what some half-frozen sausage and instant oatmeal will do for a group of staff and Scouts.

Sans Uniform

Popped Collar Wednesday began as any normal morning at summer camp. Since it was the middle of the week the Scout units had dinner in their campsites. This meant the iconic tan button down shirt of the Boy Scouts of America could remain tucked away for the entire day. Staff were expected to remain in their “Class B” uniforms instead. The difference was being able to wear an approved Scout branded polo or t-shirt instead of the tan uniform. Everybody loved this weekly change. On the blistering hot and humid summer days wearing the official uniform could be uncomfortable, even for a few hours.

Though sans the formal shirt, there was still a dress policy in place on how to properly wear a “Class B” outfit. The idea is a uniformed staff serves a number of important roles. It makes staff easy to identify for campers and guests. Provides a professional look to the operation. And helps set an example for the Scouts. All these points seemed important, and I took this philosophy very seriously. As fate would soon show, a bit too seriously.

The Big Shuffle

Breakfast on this late July day kicked off in its normal state of coordinated chaos. Waiters assigned by each troop scurried all over the dining hall like bees swarming a hive. Frantically setting their tables in the minutes before the arrival of their fellow campers. The building was awash in the sounds of scraping table benches, clinking silverware, and the inevitable dropped entree. All complimented by the Dining Hall Steward barking out commands, trying vainly to control something they could not. It was entropy in action.

Outside the hall, all of camp patiently awaited the appearance of the afore mentioned steward. Eventually the doors flew open and an invitation to breakfast was offered with traditional pop and circumstance. Like cattle entering a pen, campers and staff shuffled and prodded through the tightly packed space to find their tables and mealtime companions.

After a few niceties, I began my scan of the area to see what staff were on time, and who was going to be tardy. By this point the season the director and I had a pretty good handle on the behaviors of our crew. Working closely as we did, a person’s habits become known very quickly, to the point you could plan for it. We knew who was usually late to things. The ones not properly uniformed. Folks poor with paperwork. Our ‘class clowns.’ And those who tried to sneak in and out of camp.

Corrective Measures

That season we had a team of senior staff who were rock stars. Great attitudes, hard working, and campers loved them. The one glaring issue was getting to breakfast. This crew was frequently late to, or tried to skip entirely out on, the meal. I respected these folks, but this habit of theirs really pissed me off.

At a Scout camp everything the staff does sets a precedent for the youth. If you want campers in uniform, staff has to be in uniform. You want campers to be respectful of others, staff have to be respectful. You want campers on time for meals….staff need to be on time.

It seemed a simple concept to understand, with a powerful impact to be had on thousands of youth and adults when implemented effectively. They all had signed a contract that stated paid staff must follow the camp rules. By blowing off breakfast, you violated your contract. It seemed like a pretty open and closed case in my world.

My scan complete, I noticed that these senior staff were potentially going to be late. We had conversed with them a few times about how important it was to be on time. After that discussion they had begrudgingly agreed to comply. When looking for them on that morning, it appeared to me that they had forgotten this agreement.

My mind was preparing in anticipation of having to discipline staff who were otherwise really fantastic. They just could not get this one request under control. I can be sympathetic to people who err because they don’t know better. But when you have been properly instructed and continue to ignore what was expected, my patience runs out. Ignorance can be corrected, but negligence is unacceptable.

Saved by the Bell

One minute to go and I headed for the door, aiming in the direction of their living quarters. As I busted out into the open, from the morning mist appeared three bodies bounding towards me. Sliding into the hall right before the bugle, all realizing why I was outside, they met me with a smile and a “Morning Randall.”

They had beaten me to the punch, and showcased a sense of vindication in having made the meal on time. As the last body zipped by I noticed a polo shirt with the collar not rolled down. Grabbing this staff member by the arm I said “Travis, your uniform is not correct.”

“What do you mean,” he queried, shooting me a sly grin.

“Your collar is up, it should be down. Only Area Directors get to wear polo shirts, and you should at least wear the thing correctly.”

“But Randall, today is Popped Collar Wednesday!”

Dumbfounded, I stared like a deer caught in a set of headlights. A quick witted explanation followed about how there were no specifics in the Staff Handbook detailing collar positioning. No rule had been violated through his choice of dress.

My mind raced, trying to review the established uniform policy for the camp from memory. By the time my brain was working again in order to provide a rebuke, Travis had headed for his table. Still stunned, I just sputtered something along the lines of “please fix that by the end of the meal,” and let it go.

Round Up

Breakfast ended and we all moved on with the day. Travis oversaw our ropes course, which was situated at the far end of the property. Because of this, during the normal course of a day I’d see him only at meals and flag retreat. We assigned him that role because he was a highly reliable staff member who required minimal oversight. The sun shined, kids played, and the hours rolled along smoothly.

Every evening before retreat we conducted a Staff Round-Up. This served as a chance to connect with the entire team and get a feel for how the day was going. Normally this would move into our flag lowering ceremony and then dinner. Since it was Wednesday there was no retreat. Just the meeting and a staff only meal, which was usually something special. It all served as a welcomed change from the weekly routine.

Five forty-five in the afternoon arrived and the staff started to gather for round-up. Always starting as a mass of humanity milling about near the parade field, upon the command of the Camp Director the group would form a large circle, similar to the Round Table at King Arthur’s Court. All people equal, everybody able to see and hear each other. Role call would be taken, reports made, and information shared.

Civil Disobedience

This particular evening, as the blob of people began to form the closest facsimile of circle they were capable of producing, my eye caught an anonymity. Popped collars…a carousel of popped collars! Almost every Area Director had their collar popped up, as if playing a role on a nineteen eighty’s television show. Some staff had even switched into their polo shirts mid day in order to participate.

My brain started seething. Addressing the group, I inquired why so many were not wearing their polo shirts properly? “Popped Collar Wednesday” was the universal response.

Travis, in an act of passive resistance, had solicited each of the senior staff to stage a uniforming revolt. Civil disobedience at summer camp, and I was ready to squash this apparent uprising against order and authority. Before I pressed the issue further, the Camp Director shut me down and moved on with the meeting. At the end of the day, she explained that the popped collar was a harmless act and did not directly defy any camp policies. I dropped the matter and moved on, writing it off as a one-time event.

Sticking Power

The summer marched on, and seven days later Wednesday arrived again. Breakfast began, staff stumbled in, and popped collars filled the hall. For the remainder of that entire summer, the middle of the week heralded a sea of staff brandishing popped collars. Junior staff went out of their way to find polo shirts with Scout logos so they could participate as well.

It became a “thing” and spread like wildfire. I consoled my hurt pride of having being bested with the knowledge that most of these little nuances cease to exist at the end of season. That was the normal cycle. Each season had its quirks, stories, and events unique to itself that would not extend into the following year.

Flash forward to the first Wednesday round-up of the following summer, where I have reprised my role as Program Director. The mass of humanoids begin to form their best interpretation of a circle, and billowing out like sails on the ships of a grand armada are a multicolored patchwork of popped collars. Similar to a virus, the tradition had taken its hold on the camp with no apparent inoculation in site. For the of remainder my tenure at camp, Popped Collar Wednesday held on like a barnacle, and over time became an ingrained tradition of the camp.

Rule the Day

Almost a decade later my professional duties had me return as director for one more season. The first Wednesday rolled around with a staff I had never met or worked with and popped collars were still flying high! Again I stood, dumbfounded. When questioned if they even knew why the tradition existed, they could provide a fairly accurate summation. Not only did the tradition survive, but so did the story if its rebellious genesis.

But, not all the traditions and ceremonies that bloom from the creative minds of people cooped up for a summer are bad…

It has been eighteen years since my staff peers decided to engage in a minor act of civil disobedience. I still find my self in the old camp from time to time. It is always refreshing to see the place and to be flooded by so many fantastic memories. However, should my visits fall on a Wednesday: popped collars still rule the day.