Last updated with new photos: November 11, 2004

You Can Go Home Again

Hi folks, I'm Jeff Kisseloff (CE 1964-1971). Some of you might remember me as a skinny kid with big ears. Others might remember me as an obese kid with tiny ears. If you do, that wasn't me. Here's me back ca. 1968. I've gained about two pounds since then. On my left is my brother Alan. He was a waiter, and I think he wore that same t-shirt the whole summer. Anyway, recently I took a trip through time back to Taconic, Connecticut and thought I'd share some photos of the journey on a Web site. This is not going to be a fancy web site, as I have the visual design sense of Stevie Wonder, but I'll put it up there on plain pages until I can steal some nice looking graphics from other sites.

It just occurred to me that I might even put up a guest book so if anyone wants to check in and look for old friends they can, but it also occurs to me that you have to know how to do that. In the meantime, I did find some code to add a forum where we can re-connect with those who we purposefully disconnected ourselves from so many years ago. Click here to go to to the forum Want a chance to call your old nemeses names? Now you can! Click here to go to the chatroom. If you have a scanner, you can also email me old photos or camp memorabilia and I'll post them. If you don't have a scanner and foolishly want to trust me with your valuables, email me and I'll give you my mailing address. Send anything. Send me a package, even. At 49, I'm finally able to eat candy without having it be confiscated. Click here to email me.

I just had another thought (Norm Gurian always said I was brilliant — "a mental giant" was his usual term of endearment for me) — a where-are-they-now page so you can see what your old friends (or enemies) are up to. Here it is! although beware, that's a misnomer. Most of my information is about 27 years old. In the meantime, here are some photos from the trip. I'll keep adding more when I find the time to do so (I'm a very important and very busy fellow. Donald Trump is always pestering me for favors), so you might have to bookmark this page and visit it a few times to see something new.

I'm suddenly feeling very ambitious. I'll try to launch a memory page where we can have anything we want to remind us of our summers of yore. Maybe even a trivia question or two. For instance, what was the name of the winning Olympic team in 1964? Who spilled a fribble in Ira Lippel's Camaro (and lived to tell about it) What was the chemical makeup of bug juice? Which organ could Frank Bass touch with his tongue?

Note on the photo above: the dining room (now pink) shot through the counselor's lounge, which no longer exists. the small building on the left is the old office. I knocked on the door to see if Dottie Goldstein would let me call my parents, but no one was there. You can see one of the matures' bunks to the right of the dining room. It's a frightening thought that the "matures" were probably younger than I am today, except for Harry Scheiner, of course, who was 67 years old when he was born.

This is the upper ballfield from my old perspective out in leftfield (I refused to play rightfield on political grounds). Note the bleachers. Alas, the wooden planks are gone as is the scoreboard and the dugout. Home plate, however, is still extant. Let's continue the tour to another favorite site:

Any guesses? That's right, it's the linen shack, and that's me making an ass of myself pretending I'm making out with an imaginary person in front of it. That's fitting. Most of my girlfriends were imaginary in the old days, too.

The dining room door was padlocked, but I haven't seen a lock yet that could keep me from my goal — especially those that hang open in the latch. It was a bit creepy being inside after thirty years, like floating around the Titanic in a submarine. Maybe the strangest thing was that even though the place is filled with crap, it was as if I was last inside yesterday. All the plaques are up, and I swear so were a few blicks that we tossed up onto the ceiling in 1967. Here's a shot looking over the garbage from the boys side to the girls side of the dining room:

Here's a shot looking up at me about to desecrate the 1971 plaque. The wild look in my eye, which one might think is typical of a looter caught in the act, is actually the result of smacking my knee against an upturned table, the wood only slightly harder than one of the veal cutlets that I might have served on that very table. In fact, I think their remains are being used to fill in the cracks in the walls.

Here's the waiters plaque now liberated. I remember most of these people. Eighty-six in waiter talk meant that the kitchen was out of a certain item. Considering the quality of the cooking, this was generally a good thing.

Let's head out to the boys' camp, shall we? This is a shot of the last bunk I occupied in 1971. My last day in camp, I removed the door and oiled the hinges so we could sneak out that night and pay a visit up top. I moved dramatically closer to manhood that night, courtesy of 3 in One baseball glove oil. Here I am over thirty years later, and I'm proud to say when I opened the door, it didn't squeak a bit:

Remember the racquet ball courts? Well, the termites got to 'em. That's Sue in the foreground. In the background is the boys' boathouse:

And here's the lake with a view toward the boathouse. No sign of the Cropsy Maniac.

Here's our bunk at nearly the very same spot in 1969:

Here's who they are: Bottom row, left to right: the twins Eric Schultz and Ernie Schultz (or maybe it's the other way around. They were so identical it was hard to tell them apart. They used to fool everybody.). Ed Chazen, who I just found on the Web and is some kind of gazillionaire. Check him out. Next to him is Steve Roberts, who was basically tortured as the new kid that whole summer. My guess is he's probably still recovering, and Bobby Dennison. In the middle row is Marc Berman. Next to him is some asshole whose name I can't remember and then Gary Traub. Gary and I were born on the same day in the same hospital. Different mothers though. I'm not sure whether it was different fathers. On top is Larry Isreal, then known as Monkey or The Monk or Muhhhhhhnk. Next is our long suffering counselor, Lance Beckoff and then Steve Albert, who, if I recall correctly, spent most of that summer in the bunk. In fact, I think this was the only time he came out of there the whole eight weeks. Holding his arm is our group leader, Sy Duhlberg. Was there a Jewish-oriented camp in America that didn't have one counselor named Sy? I actually remember the girl who is in the stern of the canoe. I can't remember her name, but I remember very quickly that she always had a lot of mosquito bites on her legs.

Let's get back to our tour. Want to guess what this is? Think lanyards.

Yup, it's the arts and crafts shack. I think somebody is about to make a real big ashtray out of those cinder blocks.

Below is pretty much impossible to guess at this point. Those rocks toward the left of the photo are probably all that remains of the rec hall's foundation. That's an entirely new home, as is the road. The bunks that were once at the top of the hill to the right are no longer there. Neither, hardly, is the hill. Hey, neither, hardly, am I. The hill is obscured by trees. To the right, out of frame is another house, which was formerly one of the junior bunks. I'll get to that in a minute, but first I want to pause to mourn the passing of the vibrant rec hall, the record shack and the inspiring flag pole, where Pete Berland once admonished me, "Kisseloff, if you lived in Russia for a while, then you'd gladly say the Pledge of Allegiance." Pete, who was truly a decent guy despite his patriotism, was right, of course. Reciting the Pledge every morning, saved most of us from being turned into a bunch of commie hoodlums, me, being the exception. Click here for proof. That's my site, or you can find me in the local Yellow Pages under "Hoodlums — Communist."

Below, we have Sue, once again, modeling for us what was once a rather pathetic football and baseball field. Alas, nothing is left except the humps. What's really interesting about this picture is the tennis court, which used to be the basketball court. The old tennis courts don't exist anymore, but if you look carefully on the right, you'll see a section of the old dock. Also, Mike Mehrig's old golf cage is gone. Mike, however, is still smacking the ball with his putter at the age of 146 and still telling anyone within earshot (including Peg, who was probably buried sitting in the front seat of their beat-up Chevy) that they couldn't hit a ball with a wooden pecker.

Now, we'll head down toward the water and turn around and look back up toward boys camp. The left house is the old bunk by the road, and you can see the house that has taken the place of the rec hall in the middle with the old junior bunk on the right. No backstop, archery area, water fountain, tether ball courts. Roz Serbin was still there, however, waiting to wash our hair and hoping to get Sidney out of bed in time for breakfast.

Let's just recross the road for a second. I was starting to run out of film, but I did manage to snag this shot of the girls' camp. That's college hall on the left and a few bunks on the right. They're in pretty bad shape. We didn't spend too much time hanging around, mostly because I was afraid the spirit of Norm might show up screaming, "Kisseloff, you idiot, get the hell out of here."

This was one of the more surprising views of the boys camp. You can see the old senior bunk on the right and the house on the site of the rec hall to the left. I understand how they can knock down a building, but how did they get rid of the hill?

Now, the camera turns, and here are the three smaller bunks, and up top is what was then the new sophomore bunk.

I forgot we took this shot. Here's me in front of the office, which if I'm not mistaken is now about half the size that it was.

All in the service of this Web site, I returned to the camp for some better pictures, committing two felonies in the process, tresspassing and burglary, and add a third if you count public urination. Anyway, let's return to the dining room.

Anyone remember the heavy guy at the piano? That's right, it's Ira Beckoff.

I spent hours idly staring at this plaque. I'd like to think it helped in some way make me what I am today — a
complete laggard who spends most of his days pointlessly staring out of windows. Fortunately, I've been able to
convince people that I am actually thinking of something important during this time.

This is what I remember about when they landed a man on the moon. We watched on a TV in the rec hall, but just
before Armstrong opened the hatch, the head counselor or the group leader insisted we go to bed because it was after nine. A guy was
walking on the moon but we had to be in our bunks! Anyway, I kicked up such a fuss (hey, I had been staring at the
outer space plaque for five years by then) that Lance Beckoff, our counseler let us go return so that could enjoy that
historic moment. Thanks, Lance.

This plaque brings two things to mind. One, that there must not have been a single person in camp that year with any
artistic talent. Otherwise, how would you explain this picture? Stick figures would have been better. Two, this plaque commemorates the year that I and
a several other malcontents conspired to take over the final tribal warfare ceremony and have everyone sing the closing
song from "Tommy" instead of the Camp Everett alma mater (at least we had good taste, if not good sense). Certainly,
the fellow in the loin cloth is an accurate depiction of my masculine state at the time. Anyway, we decided that
competition was a bad thing so we were all going express our togetherness (hey, it was the 60s, kindof anyway). I still have the speech
I wrote that night. I challenge anyone to come up with a more embarrassing piece of Camp Everett memorabilia than this.

This is a better view toward the girls side of the dining room than the one posted above. Clearly, those mattresses are
not from camp days. If I recall correctly, those thin-striped cloth-covered slabs we slept on were rejects from Sing-Sing
prison as being too-lumpy for killers and thieves

This begins the walk toward girls side. I don't remember whether that structure on the right was there during our day.

The infirmary, looking a bit gray in the gills, just like we did after Friday night hamburgers.

As you look back from college hall hill, these are two of the three bunks on the left.Toby Glick picked a lot of mosquito bites in here.

These two bunks were behind college hall. I've been told that one of them was a dance studio where people spent many
hours learning the hokey-pokey (which is, by the way, what it's all about).

This is the view from college hall. That's the infirmary on the left, and the linen shack on the right. The linen shack looks
forelorn without a flock of horny 14-year-olds around it groping each other among the bushes.

This is a view toward the back of the matures' cabins from the girls basketball court. I believe it was a dunk by our greatest female
athlete, Jayne "Vanilla Thunder" Kolber, that shattered the backboard and knocked it to the ground.

This building is situated near the linen shack. I have no memory of it whatsoever, but I'm sure Eric Schultz made out with someone in there.

Back to the boys side:

Here we have just crossed the road. Thank God, there was a CIT still on duty when I got there.

Continuing the walk toward boys' side. At this point it was getting a little creepy. I still think the Cropsy Maniac is hiding among the trees.

Here are two workers' cabins, which look like something out of Appalachia. Had I been five years older when I left camp, in a minute I
would have had those guys unionized and striking for better living conditions. No wonder the kitchen help used to pee in the bug juice.
And I don't want to tell you how they poked the holes in the doughnuts.

My first year, that was bunk seven and eight, I believe. These bunks housed the youngest kids in camp, the kids' whose parents were really
anxious to get rid of them. You'd always see sheets hanging on the line outside the bunk, because every night someone inside would have
an accident. I'm talking about the counselors, not the kids. To the right may have been staff cabins.

These rocks are all that remain of the rec hall and the AC shack, from where the world's scratchiest reville record was played every
morning (except the time someone substituted the Mad Magazine song, "It's a Gas."

Another view down to the lake from the rec hall rocks.The brown splotch is the approximate location of one of the tether ball courts.

What remains of the pagoda. The ear-splitting mechanical claghorn that turned all the residents around the lake into anti-semites is gone.
But, I swear I can still hear Steve the swimming counselor, yelling in a very high squeaky voice that was imitated for years,
"Ok, when I give the signal all out. Ok, all out."

I love this shot, because you can still see the bleachers among the trees that have sprung up mightly quickly. How many mornings did I sit
there first period with my buddy next to me, cursing the fact that soon we would have to dive into that freezing lake. Just thinking of that
makes a certain part of my anatomy recede to a warmer spot.

Now, permit me to get out my burglary tools. I came a second time looking for any evidence besides the plaques that we were actually
there, that this was actually our camp, and there inside the small senior-waiter bunks I found what I had been looking for: graffiti.
All I can say, is thank God for the prom, because without the prom there wouldn't have been shoe polish. Let's begin:

This says "Bob '66 Loves Susan Futterman." I wonder if Susan loved the fellow with the curious last name.

Think Kenny Zaslov is still proud of his nickname? I wonder how he would match up with
Billy "The Hose" Losoff. Those group showers could give a kid a complex.

The owner's grandson, tsk, tsk.. I wonder if he was the one who wrote on an other bunk, "Harry Scheiner is a fat, bald asshole"
Actually, I think it was Harry's wife Nellie who wrote that.

The white paint says "Steve Dennison 61-69" Those are actual cubbies on the left. I looked at those and all I could think about was
how we had to have our shirts folded and lined up laundry style. I think inspection was my the most terrifying time in camp. I was
lived with someone who was an Air Force veteran, and I swear she used to put hospital corners on the bed. I could almost handle
that, but I drew the line at her tossing a nickel on the blanket to see if it was tight enough

Four boys and a counselor or two shared that small sink for the summer. The shower and toilet were behind the door to the right.
Martha Stewart is enduring less intimate conditions than we did. (Plug in analagous joke about prison conditions here).

"Superman" Gene Kirschenbaum.

This is one of about 50 David Ascher signatures that still remain. The guy signed his name more often than Mickey Mantle.

My father would be very disappointed. I, of course, would never do such a thing. I was, and remain, perfect. Below it says "Ricky
Silverblatt loves Judy Levy. Next to that says, "Eddie Bernard slept here in 1962." Why he would want to sleep on a wall I don't know.

This was written inside the door of Pete Berland's bunk. It's interesting to ponder the different implications if he wrote it or Debbie did.

Let's take a break and go to Frank's for some jaw breakers and a Fanta.

I'll post some more soon. Come back and visit.

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