A Fistful of Fig Newtons by Jean Shepherd Read Free Book Online Page B

sneakers could be stuck in the mud, looking down at me. Oh, ugh
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    I glanced to my right. Why the hell do I always manage to land in the slow lane? My lane had come to a complete halt. The temperature gauge crept over 200. Oh, God
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    I deliberately forced my imagination to rescue me from this dismal trap. Think uplifting thoughts, that’s the ticket. Truth. Beauty. Liberty. The one thing you don’t get in a tunnel–Liberty. A mental picture of the great statue flashed in my brain
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    Yes, the Statue of Liberty, as awesome a piece of Slob Art as the Margate Elephant ever was, also stares out over the dark ocean’s waters. Was it the Statue of Liberty herself that set the whole
pattern for American tourism, culminating in Disneyland with its incredible transistorized Abe Lincoln?

    Disneyland could only have been created in America. My country ’tis of thee, of thee I sing. What is it in our national psyche that makes us create Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy; the Emerald City and Fantasyland, U.S.A.? Nowhere else in the world do they build fake rivers filled with plastic crocodiles and mechanical natives hurling dummy spears at rubber rhinos, complete with little orange-and-yellow signs reading PICTURE TAKING SPOT so that this curious adventure can be recorded for those poor souls left at home
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    No wonder every Russian dictator who comes to our shores has an insane desire to visit Disneyland. They believe in Utopias too
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    The Utopia Complex has afflicted us from the day that the first American stubbed his buckled shoe on Plymouth Rock. A sad, hopeless dream very much like inventors ceaselessly trying for Perpetual Motion. It seems so simple. The wistful little slogans: WAR IS NOT GOOD FOR LITTLE CHILDREN AND OTHER GROWING THINGS: HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS, are all by-products of Utopianism
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    Maybe that’s why Disney hit the double jackpot. He created one, in real, vibrant, living styrene and for a few hours, for a price (even Utopia has gate receipts), you are back in the world of good witches, ukulele-playing bears, and “real authentic” Penny Candy stores where the prices start at forty cents per jawbreaker
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    We can even imagine a Utopia for gaffers, where they have toy stock markets that always go up, transistorized octogenarians that play Vincent Lopez hits
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    No, Childhood itself is a Utopia to Americans. Childhood, in fact, is an actual place. Like any other place, it is wide open to the cruel jibes of we buffoons. If Jersey can take it without crying, why not Childhood?
    Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Of course! I had not thought of it in years. I settled deeper into my worn naugahyde seat. The horn blasted again behind me
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    Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee …
The Mole People Battle the Forces of Darkness
    “Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Boy, what a great name!” said Schwartz as we squatted down, tying sheepshank knots at a scout meeting. Troop 41 was scattered around the church basement.
    “Camp what?” Flick asked, snapping his rope at Kissel’s bottom, causing Kissel to kick him on the knee.
    “Nobba-WaWa-Nockee,” Schwartz answered. “Didn’t you see that sign on the bulletin board? Take a look. Tells you all about it.”
    Flick, Kissel, and I read the notice:
    CAMP NOBBA-WAWA-NOCKEE, A BOY’S CAMP IN THE SYLVAN MICHIGAN WILDERNESS. BOATING, LEATHER-CRAFT, AND A WELL-BALANCED, HEALTHFUL DIET. UNDER THE PERSONAL DIRECTION OF COL. D. G. BULLARD, U. S. ARMY (RET.), CAMP DIRECTOR. SPECIAL RATES TO BOY SCOUTS.
    There was a penciled note at the bottom: “See me. Mr. Gordon.”
    Mr. Gordon was our scoutmaster. He drove a truck for the Silvercup Bread Company, the official bread of all us kids, because they sponsored “The Lone Ranger.” Somehow, because Mr. Gordon worked for Silvercup, he seemed to have a direct connection with the Lone Ranger and Tonto, and he never denied it. We clumped over to Mr. Gordon, who was instructing two kids in artificial respiration. One lay flat on the concrete with his tongue hanging out,