Losing Camelot

In the middle of our small city there was a forest; a forest less than a mile from my childhood home. I felt the happiest in the whole world there. It was as close to a jungle a ten-year-old could hope to enter. It was not big enough to get physically lost in, but it was a place that made it to easy to forget the rest of the world existed. In the forest, I was King Arthur creating a “New Camelot.” I spent hours preferring the fantasy of being a mythic hero to anything the merely mundane world could offer. 

Elm trees, huge oak trees which always felt like the grandfathers of the forest, and a few pine trees covered most of the area. But there was a grove of birch trees which became my sanctuary. One hundred beautiful, tall, strong birch trees were my secret place of rest and comfort. Paradise in the middle of the city. In the early mornings with the sun just above the horizon the light came in at an angle creating columns of shimmering light giving the whole area a sense of glowing and vibrating. I was positive this was where King Arthur would build his new castle. One summer vacation I went there alone many mornings meditating before I knew there was a word for what I was doing.

The kingdom I was creating would be peaceful. My knights and I would gather at a huge round table just like what Arthur had created in the original Camelot. Lancelot and Gawain would sit on either side of me. We would gather weekly, making decisions for the benefit of our people. No one in our kingdom would be harmed. All would be treated equally. People could own property, but no owners would lord it over those who rented appartements as often happened on the street where my parents rented an apartment. Parents would help other parents. My father would teach them how to fish. My mother would teach them to bake bread and apple pie. Someone else’s parents would teach me how to spell.  

I loved this place because it was clear to me that it had a different spirit and energy.  For most of the summer, I was very careful not to reveal anything about it. It was my secret. 

Then I screwed it all up. 

I don’t know why I did it, but I brought another kid, Ricky Carlson,* to my beloved sanctuary. I guess I wanted to share my vision, and of all the kids I knew Ricky reminded me most of Lancelot. 

When we arrived, he looked around for a minute and said, “Yea, trees, what’s the big deal?” He shrugged his shoulders, dug in his pocket pulling out a jack knife, which was required equipment for any boy of that age in the 1950s. Immediately he began carving his initials into the flakey bark of the nearest tree. I could not believe it. He wasn’t even doing a good job, only scratching letters with single lines instead of double ones as any good wood carver would have done. I didn’t know who to strangle, him or myself for being so stupid as to bring him here. To keep from screaming I picked up a stick from the ground and carved a very sharp point at the end of it with my own knife. This would be the New Excalibur, the sword of Arthur. I wondered how Ricky would feel when I shoved the sword into his eye and carved my initials on his skin. One eye would be enough, as Arthur is a just and merciful king. Later, I would decide if he would be banished from Camelot. 

Much to my relief he said, “This is dumb. Let’s go play ball.”

“Yeah,” I replied, eager to leave knowing I’d made a big blunder bringing him here and hoping he would just forget about it. And in truth some of my thoughts about revenge scared me. I knew if we stayed much longer I would either lash out with my sword or tell him of my fury at his cutting up my trees. But I kept silent; I believed sharing my feelings would subject me to ridicule which would last a lifetime. 

**********

Four or five days later, Ricky and two other neighborhood kids stopped by our apartment to get me to come out with them. I assumed we’d play ball, so I reached for my glove, but they made it clear today was not a baseball day. Ricky said, “You won’t need it. We’re going into the woods you showed me last week.” As soon as those words came out of his mouth my heart went into a step nosedive. “We built a fort. Coolest thing we ever did.”

Johnny, one of the kids, bragged as was his habit, “Wait tell you see it. It is the best fort ever. It took us three days.”

When we got there, I was shocked. This was so much worse than I could have foreseen. They had made a very strong, powerful fort. Cutting down many of my birch trees and nailing them to other trees to construct what seemed able to last a long time. Four walls, a doorway, and the beginning of a roof. It was inconceivable. They had savaged my sanctuary. Camelot had been pillaged by a barbarian horde. 

Ricky announced, “I snuck a bunch of my father’s tools and a can of his nails. Then when we were done, I almost got caught sneaking them back into the cellar. My mother almost caught me. That would not have been a good thing.” His parents were known for being very strict. 

“This place is so great. I bet next week we can make the roof waterproof,” Johnny proclaimed. “Every time my parents are fighting, I’ll come here even in the rain.” 

Chuck, the third member of the new architectural firm, pointed at me and ordered, “This place is just for us no little kids here, keep Billy Thompson and the Mason brothers out.” 

We sat around in the fort for a while telling stories and complaining about another losing season for the Red Sox. Chuck had stolen a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from his mother, so smoking was also on the schedule. They lit up immediately. I resisted initially but succumbed to the pressure and also lit up. I inhaled and almost gagged. “This stuff is horrible. If I have more, I’ll throw up. I’ll puke in your fort.” That is what I said. I meant was “This fort makes me want to puke,” which was not said. 

Johnny challenged me, “Come on, Campbell, be a man for a change. You’re always the chicken.”

“No, if I have more of this crap, I’ll barf on your fort.” I always hated throwing up but the idea of barfing on their fort would have been worth it. Very satisfying.

“Such a fairy. You’re always the fairy.” 

I knew that any further words might escalate, with fists replacing words, so I shut up and looked around for the stick I’d sharpened the other day. The odds were three to one. I knew I needed Excalibur to even the odds. Surprise would be my only ally. I’d attack Ricky first since he was the neighborhood’s best fighter who needed to be disabled. Then Arthur would turn immediately to Chuck. A lightening slash to his eye would also drop him to the ground. While both were writhing in pain, I’d face Johnny who would have begun to get the message. But he was slow to react to most things and would be confused. One last slash and he too would be disposed. Arthur, still being just, would take only one eye from each, thus not totally blinding them.  As quickly as the fantasy flashed through my brain a sliver of reality returned. Blood would be everywhere, upset parents, perhaps even the police would have to be faced. The Arthurian fantasy would have to suffice for today. Arthur quickly retreated and made it look like Graham was cutting some pine branches for the roof.

**********

I mostly avoided them for the next few days until one morning I told my parents I was going fishing in the lake just north of the birch trees. On the way to the lake, I detoured to the fort intending to wreck their stupid desecration of my trees and my Camelot. It was the only way to retaliate. They vandalized my sanctuary so I would destroy their atrocity. I didn’t need Arthur or Excalibur, just the hammer in my fishing tackle box. They would never suspect me; after all, I was the fairy. It would be blamed on kids from north of the woods. 

The closer I got to my destination the more fury I felt rising again. I arrived grateful for the increased light just as the sun was coming over the horizon.

It was gone, already destroyed. Three walls were ripped from the trees to which they had been nailed. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. The fort got what it deserved but I was robbed of my chance for revenge. I left and went fishing, and by the end of the day I knew I was relieved. 

**********

Summer vacation was ending. On the first day of school, what always felt like the worst day of the year, I learned what had happened. They, once again, were the culprits. They ran out of cigarettes, stories, and complaints about the Red Sox.  So they destroyed the fort with the same determination with which they built it.

“You should have been there. We took a nutty on the place,” Johnny informed me gleefully. 

“Wide Load was with us. He just kept crashing into the walls until they broke.” Wide Load was a heavy kid from the neighborhood who was quite capable of running right over me and any of the other kids when playing football. 

“It was better than the three stooges,” Ricky chimed in. “I was Larry, Johnny was Curly and Wide Load was Moe.”

I gave a fake laugh. The coolest thing ever was cool for a few days until destroying it became the new coolest thing. Fortunately, the school bell rang. We all trudged into the building. 

**********

From that day onward, the first day of fifth grade, I knew I did not belong. I saw how different I was from those around me. The sense of not belonging has meant a lifetime of being pulled in two directions. On the one hand, I wanted to get along, have friends, and connect; on the other, I saw that I connected better with trees than with kids. I wanted acceptance but too often that meant fighting, cutting down trees, and keeping my mouth shut so I could be what other people expected me to be. I mostly pretended.  The only thing I was interested in that other kids also liked was baseball and I was good enough to play most of the time. The things I really cared about mostly made no sense to other kids or worse yet meant becoming the object of scorn. To many kids I was the “fairy,” or “chicken.” To adults, I was “too sensitive” or a “daydreamer.” Fitting in meant bending myself into a pretzel. Only as an adult did I understand that what motivated me was different than what moved other people. Not better or worse. Just different. 

I’ve lived my whole life as a nature mystic. The natural world is where I find solace, comfort, peace, and companionship without the need to imagine I am King Arthur. 

I am still straightening out the pretzel.

I still love Birch trees.

I still find peace in the natural world. 

*Ricky, Johnny, Chuck and the rest of the kids in this essay are pseudonyms.

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C. Graham Campbell, Ph.D., was born in Canada and immigrated to this country with his parents at the age of three. He is a 75-year-old retired psychologist and a late blossoming author. He has a master’s degree in theology, a doctorate in pastoral psychology and training in Spiritual Psychology. He retired in 2020. He now spends most of his time involved with family, writing, meditating, and exploring what being an elder means.