Our Environment: "In Celebration of Community" by Scott Turner

Scott Turner, Environmental Columnist

Our Environment: "In Celebration of Community" by Scott Turner

PHOTO: Dawn Scranton, Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Indigo_Bunting,_male.jpg
Fifty years ago, charities paid for my four siblings and me to attend summer day camp held by the YM-YWHA of The Bronx.

Each weekday morning, a school bus picked us up for 48-mile round trip to the Henry Kaufmann Campgrounds in Orangeburg, N.Y.

At lunchtime, every Friday, campers, and counselors gathered in a circle in the woods to mark the impending Sabbath.

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From what I remember, the ritual included eating lunch, saying a prayer, singing a song, and candle-lighting.

Even though we were Jewish, we Turner kids could not recall celebrating a Sabbath prior to attending camp.

Imagine our surprise on Friday, Aug. 1, 1969, when the lead counselor announced “Mazel Tov!” to the Turner family, given that the previous day our mother had given birth to a boy my parents named William after my father’s father, who had died the previous year.

The circle clapped and whooped, and new friends clapped me on the back. I found this remarkable, because it was communal and it fostered belonging. What a contrast to my life outside the woods—in a neighborhood in freefall, where family, school and street was less about camaraderie, and more about trying to survive.

Such were my thoughts last weekend in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., where in William’s backyard, we had gathered with family and friends to celebrate his 50th birthday. Even my mom, now 85, was there.

Over the years in the chaos and unpredictability of our lives, “Willie” had remained steadfast as a brother and a friend. One example: Although I applied to and paid for college myself, when I arrived home one Thanksgiving (I went to school 760 miles away in Indiana) after a 14-hour car ride, my father blocked me from entering the house.

An unpredictable man, known mostly for his temper, dad called me a parasite, there to “take, take, take.” So, despite the cold (plus I was hungry and tired), I turned away and headed into the gray streets. Willie, all of 9 years old, called out for me to wait. He threw on a jacket and accompanied me, as we wandered for the next couple of hours.

Contrabaroness, Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Northern_Green_Frog_-_Tewksbury,_NJ.jpg
After dark, we returned. My father, who took his dinner alone, had eaten. And, as was his custom, drank and dozed off. Willie and I came into the house, without incident.

Such love, loyalty and strong-minded behavior from a young sibling, you don’t forget.

During Willie’s party, a lone bird song come from the park-like woods beyond the backyard fence. The call belonged to the beautiful Indigo Bunting, and it sounded like these emphatic repeated inquiries: “what, what, where, where, why, why.”

To which I answered “here, with family and friends. In community, in celebration.”

That warm evening, we heard the “twang” calls of northern green frogs coming from a small nearby watercourse. Their exclamations, from one amphibian to the next, reminded me of campers in 1969, sitting in a circle, buzzing with the news that the Turner children had a new brother.

As night set in, fireflies blinked in mesmerizing flashes over the lawn. Did you know that fireflies illuminate as a result of a chemical reaction produced inside their bodies? Such light production is called bioluminescence.

People also light up inside. You may not always see the glow, but it has a name. It’s called love.

Scott Turner is a Providence-based writer and communications professional. For more than a decade he wrote for the Providence Journal and we welcome him to GoLocalProv.com. 

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