Memories of My Misadventures: On Sex, Religion and Getting into Trouble

By John Sloat

For non-stop laughs that bring back visions of your own childhood blunders, Memories of My Misadventures is a humorous adventure the whole family can enjoy together!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Sloat
• Release date: Jul 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781604144154

John Sloat

John W. Sloat, a former Presbyterian minister, served churches in Pennsylvania and Ohio. He holds a B.A. from Denison University, 1954; an M.Div. from Princeton Seminary, 1957; and a Th.M. from Pittsburgh Seminary, 1977. Previous books include "Lord, Make Us One" (non-fiction, 1986) and "The Other Half" (fiction, 2001). Several of his sermons have been included in "Pulpit Digest," a national preaching journal. He is married to Helen Burdick Sloat, a psychiatric nurse, and they have three children and eight grandchildren. A pianist and organist, Sloat also plays the French horn, is a scratch model builder and leads spirituality groups.

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Memories of My Misadventures

On Sex, Religion and Getting into Trouble

John W. Sloat

Smashwords ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.

© Copyright 2011, John W. Sloat

No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Fideli Publishing.

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ISBN: 978-1-60414-415-4

For:

Madison Fox Sloat

A Budding Writer who inspired me to finish this book

and

Rachael Sloat Silverstein

A Creative Humorist who has the gift of making her world laugh

Chapter One — The YMCA Day Camp

1940-1941 — 5th Grade

Hi. My name is Peter VanNest. I grew up in a small town where everybody knew everybody else's business. And what everybody knew about me was that I had a penchant for getting into trouble. So I guess this book is a type of confessional, and that would make you the priest. I hope you will listen to my mia culpa with sensitivity and decide whether I am worthy of forgiveness.

Following are a group of stories that document my encounters with religion, with sex, and with the Law. I thought at the time that they were the normal activities of an inquisitive boy. My mother thought that they were evidence that I was heading straight to hell. See what you think.

The Westfield YMCA sponsored a day camp in the summer of 1941. My parents sentenced me to attend: they said it would provide me an opportunity to swim, make crafts, exercise and hone my sports skills. However, structure and discipline weren’t high on my list of favorite things when I was turning eleven, and I protested feebly, but the decision had been rendered by the highest court, and there was no appeal.

Camp was a one-week experience, from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Monday through Friday. It required that I walk down town alone, hop a #16 bus on North Jersey Street, ride for twenty minutes and walk several blocks to the YMCA. It would be inconceivable to send a ten-year-old on such a journey alone these days, but in that pre-war era — Pearl Harbor was still six months in the future — it was a different world. Everyone along the route looked out for me and I never had a problem.

My parents had registered me the previous week, at which time Herman entered my life. Herman, who looked to be about 30, was going to be the counselor for my squad. However, even at age ten, I could tell that Herman was several players short of a full team. He asked my name three times, having forgotten twice that he had ever met me.

On Monday morning, I arrived at 8:50 a.m. and immediately looked for my counselor. I spotted him easily, primarily because he was wearing enormous bright green suspenders that were holding up checkered pants. At first I thought he was dressed as a clown for opening day, but soon realized that this was his idea of stylish garb.

When he assembled his boys, I was pleased to see that Dexter, a friend from fifth grade, was on my squad. We fooled around for a while and then went into the gym for exercise class. The smell of chlorine permeated the whole building and inspired very mixed feelings in me. One of the reasons for attending camp was the opportunity to use the pool every day, but there was a problem: I didn’t know how to swim.

Later that morning, we got ready for our first pool period. I was suddenly stabbed by a shocking realization: all I had brought with me were a few coins for candy and my registration paper. I had forgotten to bring a bathing suit or a towel. In a panic about what to do, I hurried up alongside Dexter as we walked toward the locker room.

Dex! I said in a hoarse whisper. I didn’t bring a bathing suit! Then I noticed that he didn’t have one either.

He shook his head. That’s OK. We don’t need suits. That relieved my mind a bit. I figured that the Y would provide them.

Herman, already dressed in plaid swimming trunks, led us to a row of lockers, told us to pick one, memorize the number and put our clothes inside. I was next to Dexter and I waited to see what he was going to do. Dexter was an aggressive, outgoing person who wasn’t afraid of any situation. That’s why I liked him. He was everything I wasn’t.

When I turned to follow his lead, I was startled to see that he was already stark naked and stuffing his clothes into his locker. I whispered frantically to him, Where do we get the bathing suits?

He looked at me as though I was mentally deficient. We don’t wear suits in the pool, jerk! I already told you that!

Thunder rumbled in my head. I was exceedingly self-conscious about my body at this age. So much so in fact, that when my mother took me to see her female chiropractor, I refused to take off my undershirt and the doc had to manipulate my bones through my clothing. Now they were expecting me to take off my pants? In Public? I looked for the door, wondering how long I would have to wait for the next #16 bus home.

Herman came by and cut off my escape. Hurry up, George, he said in his lazy way, you can’t go in the pool with your clothes on.

He called everyone George or Freddie because he was incapable of remembering names. I looked at him and asked a desperate question: Can’t we wear suits if we want to?

Nope, he said matter-of-factly. "The lint clogs the drains. We swim au naturel at the Y. You don’t want to be a sissy, do you?" His challenge confused me because he and the other staff members were wearing bathing suits.

By this time, the rest of the boys were running around the locker room as naked as babes, the working ends of their plumbing flapping in the breeze. The idea of having to live through a moment like this had never occurred to me in my wildest nightmares.

I don’t want to go swimming today, I told Herman miserably.

"You don’t want to miss swimming, he said with a gleam in his eye. Boys who don’t want to go swimming get tossed in the pool, clothes and all."

OK, I said, somewhat relieved. I thought he was giving me an alternative.

But then, Herman continued, we have to hang those clothes up to dry, so you’ll end up going to lunch in your birthday suit.

It kept getting worse, like a slippery descent into hell. Almost all the boys had taken their showers and were already headed for the pool. Herman was still hovering over me, waiting. Looking at his determined expression, I finally gave in and stripped. He walked me to the shower stall, an open area in which a dozen other boys were lathering up, and he watched as I joined them. The water was quite hot, which relaxed me at first, but it also cheered up my little fellow and made him proud. I was horrified. I ran to the shelf where the towels had been piled, but by that time they were all gone. With nothing to cover my embarrassment, I tried to hide among the others as we made for the pool. Herman, however, standing by the pool door, noticed my condition, smiled, and saluted.

We stood in three rows — I slouched in the middle of the back line — until they sorted us out into swimmers and non-swimmers. Then I raced