Camp Hang Loose

By Chuck Anderson

Mennonites and nudists clash in a battle of will, only to form an unholy alliance for the mutual good.
The Crusaders piled on the buses in a demoralizing stream. They seemed not the slightest bit intimidated by the nakedness of the enemy, and hurled stinging insults at the object of their moral scorn. “Degenerates! Perverts!†they shouted, snapping pictures so they could be reminded of their reverent indignation in the years to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Anderson
• Release date: Jul 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781773020853

Chuck Anderson

For many years as a church pastor, Chuck Anderson read the daily obituaries to make sure he had not lost any sheep during the night. As he read, he found himself laughing out loud at the funny names of real people who had lived with such interesting names. Soon he began to collect these names, and the idea for this book was born. Next, Chuck sought out the talents of Randy Evert and illustrator Jack Lindstrom to help us see what these people might look like. We believe that this is the first book of funny names that actually illustrates the interesting people.

Book preview

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CAMP

HANG

LOOSE

Chuck Anderson

CHAPTER 1

On a fine day in June, two men were jogging. The older of the pair was just shy of what is generally considered the age of retirement, yet his body was still tight and muscled. His hair was cropped to the scalp, but he sported a bushy mous­tache to offset this self-imposed baldness. He loped easily along in front of his pale-skinned companion, a man in his mid-twenties, fleshy of body, his hair a rust-colored tangle. The physical description would suggest they had nothing in common. However, this was not the case. They were both stark naked.

The first part of their route took them along a pleasant trail through a bushlot owned by the younger man, but eventually they emerged into the bright sunlight and ran northward along the edge of an open field choked with weeds. The younger man pounded along flatfooted, bathed in sweat. He could see his companion clearly, fifty yards ahead, covering ground effortlessly. He cursed the older man silently then shouted for him to slow down. His plea ignored, he sprinted to make up the distance, but his running-mate glanced back over his shoulder and picked up the pace. Damn the old bastard. He never passed up a chance to show him up.

Rather than push himself to exhaustion, Abraham MacSwale slackened his stride. He had nothing to prove. The physical exertions of the past winter and spring were proof enough of his stamina. It had been no easy task overseeing his gang of five bushwhackers as they cut a road through the bush and cleared a site for the campground. The recreation hall itself had taken nearly two months to complete. It would have taken much longer than that had he not left the propane warmth of his trailer, with maddening frequency, to prod his sullen crew away from the fire and back to work. It took a man with ambition and initiative to do what he’d done, he reminded himself. Not just anybody could turn a dream into reality.

Come on, man. Move it along. The older man was running backwards, taunting MacSwale. I’d be ashamed to show that body anywhere. he yelled. Are you sure you want to go through with this?

MacSwale suffered the insult quietly. He had expected as much on the first day and he was determined not to let fear bully his resolve. He had to get in shape mentally. Afterall, a person couldn’t extol the virtues of nudism if the sales pitch was tainted with modesty. As for the running, that had nothing to do with getting in shape physically. It was a concession on MacSwale’s part in return for a promise from Burnside, the camp recreation director, to think seriously about implementing a program that wasn’t designed to weed out the weak and physically incapable. Under normal circumstances, MacSwale would have been comfortably reposed in his trailer, sipping a rum and coke, and reflecting pleasurably on his accomplishments over the past nine months.

Just a year ago, his wife, the beautiful Sheena Cooper, heiress to the Cooper Wholesale Plumbing Supplies empire, had made it clear that if he left her father’s company the marriage was over. But Abraham MacSwale was a man of principle, misguided in some people’s opinion, and he could not accept the fact that the lavish lifestyle they enjoyed was not of his doing. Since child­hood, he had dreamed of becoming a wealthy entrepreneur and he needed his freedom to realize this potential. He had to leave, if only to give himself the chance to fail.

It wasn’t his intention to deprive Sheena of the luxuries she’d always known. He simply wanted to earn them on his own, and he foolishly thought he could persuade his wife to have faith in him. Three months later, his dream collapsed and he saw himself for the fool he was.

The carnival circuit had slaked his thirst for money throughout highschool and university, so he went back to it temporarily as the means to provide himself with a stake. He worked day and night the whole season on the Crown and Anchor wheel only to be destroyed in the end. But Sheena didn’t have the guts to do it herself. She let the maid do it.

Tell Sheena I’m here, he had said to Jameen, the maid, when she opened the door to the Cooper mansion in Rosedale which had been their home. He had been in Toronto for three weeks at the Exhibition, but hadn’t the courage to confront his wife until he was certain that he could return with enough cash to impress her. He put it off until the Ex was over and he’d scraped together every penny he could. Tell her if she doesn’t come down I’m coming up.

Easy mon, soothed Jameen, pulling her robe tighter. Miss Sheena not here, mon.

Don’t give me that. It’s seven o’clock in the morning. Where else would she be?

Europe, mon.

Europe?

Gone to Europe with Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. Gone for a long time.

The news rocked Abe, but he was defiant. Then I’ll just stay here until they get back, he threatened, glaring at Jameen and daring her to stop him.

Mr. Cooper tell me to phone the police if you try that. He get some kind of court order, said Jameen, producing an official looking document from the pocket of her robe.

Abe read the restraining order in disbelief. It forbid him to set foot on the property without permission. For a brief moment, he thought it might be all her father’s doing, but then Jameen handed him a folded sheet of paper which left no doubt in his mind. The words were burned forever in his memory.

Whatever you do don’t hang around here. You’ll only end up in jail which is probably where you belong. You have embarrassed me cruelly by walking out on my family. I thought I was marrying a man who would be content with our arrangement. Daddy feels badly that he misjudged you, but just imagine how I feel having to tell everyone that Daddy caught you embezzling the company. We had to tell them something you understand. Daddy and I have started divorce proceedings on grounds of mental cruelty and desertion. Daddy says you won’t get anything so don’t even bother trying. I will never understand why you did what you did. I thought I gave you the life you wanted and that I could expect a husband who would run the company when Daddy was gone. When you started talking about loving me and taking me away I was shocked. Whatever gave you that idea? I can only conclude that you wanted to destroy me all along. And I did nothing to deserve it! I was always discreet about my affairs, even before we were married. It doesn’t matter now. Just remem­­ber, you had it all and you blew it.

Sheena

P.S. I never used it, but I’ll be glad to get rid of your stupid name. Remember! We have nothing to discuss. Ever! Just co-operate with the lawyers so we can get this over with. I’m anxious to start a new life.

Abe crumpled the letter into a ball and dropped it at his feet. When he looked at Jameen, he saw that she pitied him. He recoiled in shame and left without saying another word. He had to get away. As far away as possible from those mocking words on paper.

Later, after hours of aimless driving, he found himself on a deserted beach somewhere in southwestern Ontario. The early afternoon sun felt warm. He stripped off his clothes and lay naked in the sand, wallowing in self pity and savaging the fabric of his manhood with thoughts of Sheena. A cuckholded husband. A fool. She had discarded him as easily as an unselfish thought. Well she wouldn’t have to worry about him bothering her anymore. He’d disappear off the face of the earth. As far as he was concerned they didn’t need a divorce because there had never been a marriage. It would be like he’d suddenly dropped dead in a place where no one would ever find the body. That way, it would take years for Sheena to be free of him. She deserved as much.

He drank heavily to ease his melancholy, and after awhile he drifted into a sense of timelessness, head thrown back, eyes shut, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and the relaxing massage of rum on his taut nerves. Somehow it felt good to be laying there naked, purging himself.

He began to melt into his environment. He watched a swallow soar boldly skyward up the face of the cliff. He saw a fish break the surface of the water to seize his refracted quarry with precisioned skill. He followed a bumblebee from flower to flower and was impressed with its diligence for the common good.

And then he had seen himself.

Why should he punish himself for being the way he was? Every creature on earth was equipped to do what they had to do. He had an instinct for making money. All he lacked, because of Sheena, was confidence...how fleeting it was. How he would enjoy marching back into the world stark naked, stripped of conformity, and announcing to everyone who had ever doubted him that he didn’t give a damn what they thought...

A partridge, spooked by MacSwale’s thudding stride, suddenly thumped into the air. Distracted, MacSwale took his eyes off the ground to follow the bird’s flight and didn’t see the rock hidden in the long grass. He tripped over it and sprawled headfirst into a patch of stinging nettles.

His companion heard an anguished howl and looked back in disgust. Then, feeling a very small measure of concern, he jogged slowly back toward his fallen running-mate, his face screwed into a sneer. In all his years, Sergeant Major, Eugene Burnside, retired, had never come across such a pathetic crea­ture. He glared contemptuously at MacSwale who was frantically fashioning mudballs from dirt and saliva to apply to the rising welts on his body. Won’t do any good, he said at length. You’ll simply have to endure.

MacSwale struggled to maintain his composure. Had the old coot been subject to employee sub-servience, things would have been different. As it was, Burnside had volunteered for the duties of recreation director without pay. He could do this because he enjoyed the benefits of an ample army pension as well as generous interest payments from astute investments he had made over the years. It gave him the freedom to insult the man who’d been too cheap to hire someone.

Thanks for the concern, said MacSwale through clenched teeth. Your tolerance for pain is remarkable.

I’m surprised you feel any discomfort, smirked Burnside. Perhaps a shot of rum from that canteen slung round your neck would be in order. It shouldn’t be necessary though. It being your only sustenance, and at such bodily levels already that I suspect you would be quite safe for a month or two without your daily topping up.

Why do you insist on exaggerating my use of alcohol? replied Abe testily.

If I was you, I wouldn’t accuse anyone of exaggeration. I’ve seen those brochures you sent out.

A typical teetotaler, thought Abe. If used correctly, alcohol was a potent source of creativit­y. Camp Hang Loose was proof of that.

A stirring piece of fiction, said Burnside. He was referring to the Camp Hang Loose brochure which Abe had written to lure prospective members. The Camp Hang Loose marketing philosophy had been primar­ily directed at apart­ment dwellers in the city. Living in concrete bunkbeds, they were prime can­didates for escapism and self-improvement themes.

Your problem Burnside is that you have no vision.

And you have no grasp of reality, retorted Burnside. "Camp now, then later enjoy the luxurious comfort of our modern rooms is the way you put it, I believe. I can recite the whole thing by heart. Saunas...whirlpools...squash. Physically fit the fun way. Au naturel, you will find the confidence that has always eluded you. Strip away the stifling cloak of conformity...discover the real you. Nudity is a state of body...immorality is a state of mind. Experience a spiritual metamorphis at our Open House Weekend. Sign up at half price...

I intend to deliver on everything! exploded Abe. You make it sound like I’m a crook.

I’m merely implying that you suffer serious psychological delusions once in awhile. I’m relatively certain that as a fetus you were quite normal.

What about the response? snapped Abe. In truth, he had been swamped with inquiries.

I think it will be a different response once they see the place, said Burnside acidly. I’ll admit you have a rather sleazy gift for manipulation, but...

What about the two week money back guarantee? countered Abe.

Two weeks...two months...two minutes. It won’t make a bit of difference. The majority probably won’t even bother to get out of their cars.

You can leave any time you like, said Abe. In fact, it might save you a lot of embarrassment.

Oh I won’t be embarrassed by your failure. I shall revel in it.

Abe said nothing and got slowly to his feet. As soon as the memberships started rolling in he’d fire Burnside and replace him with a real recreation director. Someone who wasn’t so damned critical.

Burnside suddenly decided to attack in a different direction. Why didn’t you call out before collapsing? You shouldn’t feel so competitive. Afterall, I’m only three times your age. To underscore his physical superiority, Burnside picked up a stick and annihilated a buzzing deerfly in mid-air. He was constantly flailing the air with sticks, a carryover from his military days, as was the tassled beret he sometimes wore to protect his shaved head from the sun. MacSwale suspected that he shaved his head to cover up the fact that he was going bald.

At least I’m not going bald, said Abe, instantly regretting the remark as childish.

Frankly, I’m floored by that remark, replied Burnside. I’d have thought you’d welcome a scalp disease. You must admit that particular shade of red isn’t very becoming. It reminds me of a stain in the bottom of a sink.

Let’s go, said Abe. It was fruitless to trade insults with Burnside. It was the only form of social intercourse he knew. And by the way, I didn’t collapse. I tripped over a rock.

Shall we go back? suggested Burnside. I don’t want to ruin you.

No. I want to take a closer look at the beaver pond. If it’s deep enough I’d like to put up a diving board.

Oh yes, the olympic-sized swimming pool...

It’s only temporary.

Don’t get defensive.

I’m not, replied Abe, defensively.

Perhaps, mused Burnside, It might be a good idea to remove the snapping turtles first. However, if you explain that the situation is only temporary, they might co-operate.

Snapping turtles?

By the way, what kind of liability coverage do you have?

They don’t bother people, do they? MacSwale was uncer­tain of Burnside’s sincerity.

They’ve been known to nip off the odd toe or finger...anything that’s dangled in front of them actual­ly. He paused. Could be quite dangerous for nudists, don’t you think? Especial­ly the male members.

I’ll have it dragged, said Abe, shuddering at the im­plication.

Good idea, agreed Burnside, looking up at the sun. We’d better be off, he said. I want to get back early enough to put in a good afternoon’s work on the obstacle course. Perhaps you could give me a hand slinging the ropes across the ravine...that is, if you’re not too busy creating a pack of lies to bilk the unsuspecting consumer.

Before Abe could fire off a condemnation of the proposed obstacle course, Burnside was off and running.

This is not a bloody boot camp, shouted MacSwale. I want recreation...not torture. You promised a volleyball league. Burnside hooted in disgust. For the hundredth time, Abe wished he had been paying Burnside a salary. At least then he would have had the pleasure of firing him.

Despite Burnside’s pessimism, Abe was convinced that Camp Hang Loose would be a financial miracle. Land in Widdington County had been cheap enough. Twenty-five thousand dollars for a seventy-five acre bushlot had swallowed only a third of his working capital. More important though, was the isolation factor. The camp itself was located in the center of the property and surrounded by dense forest. Bordering the camp on three sides were vacant farms whose rocky, begrudging soil made them ex­tremely risky investments for anyone other than liberal-minded, weekend farmers from the city. The nearest town, Squireville, was five miles to the north, conveniently apathetic as small towns go, and governed by reeve Vern Beagle, an extremely accom­modating politician who, for a modest fee, cut through miles of red tape and granted Camp Hang Loose a township license to operate as a health farm, which, of course, is what it was.

All this, yet Camp Hang Loose was within a two hour drive of Toronto, a pressurized metropolis full of neurotic conformists eager to put some distance between themselves and the horde.

As they ran, Abraham tried to put Burnside’s prediction out of his mind. To him, his whole life up to now had been a rehear­sal for the big show. Burnside was jealous of his ability to think big, but in that regard he was no different than anyone else. Even his own mother had called him a dreamer and was forever nagging him to go into law, or medicine. Dreamers wind up broke or in jail, she warned. Just like your father. How she knew that to be the case, Abe didn’t know. Neither of them had heard from him in over twenty-three years. In fact Abe had never known him.

Arthur MacSwale, a Scot who plied the Great Lakes as a second class engineer on a series of rusted freighters, had abandonned the family nest when Abe was six months old. It is possible that he held his baby son a time or two, but Abe had no recollection of him. He didn’t even have a picture to go by since the wedding had been a hurried affair and boycotted by his mother’s family who knew Art better than he knew himself. The only proof he had of his existence was a postcard from Capetown, South Africa, in which Art apologized to Miriam for shipping out on her, but he made it clear that he wouldn’t be coming back. He did make one request however, begging Miriam not to change the boy’s last name. It seems Art was the last surviv­ing male of the MacSwale clan and he was afraid, since he never intended siring any more offspring, that one day the MacSwale name would no longer grace a census scroll, or as in a lot of cases in his muddy lineage, a prison roster.

Miriam counselled her son on the value of an education because she feared that he would wind up a drifter like his father. Out of respect for his mother, Abe persevered through school suffering at the hands of educators who tried to douse his creative fire for making money. In elementary school, as a fledgling entrepreneur, he’d been expelled twice for conducting legitimate businesses. On the first occasion, he’d been sandbagged by the principal for selling copies of homework assignments, then later, as his expertise matured, he came under fire for