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THE DIAGNOSIS
I suffer from a debilitating and incurable disease. No research foundation or national charity is dedicated to its eradication; and the disease has left me, and over a thousand other victims, facing increasing pain and suffering as the years progress. However, before I enlarge farther on the agonies that befall our small group, let me assure you that we collectively enjoy every moment of our affliction. This has become part of our lives, and it gives us strength as we face many of our problems.
We have not been attacked by an ordinary virus, but by a very special virulent type, which we have picked up over a long period of years as a result of our association with a small camp for boys in Maine. The disease is lingering, and in my case has done much to limit, and at the same time, expand my life over a period of some 60 years, with no end in sight. I refer, of course, to the scourge of Moose Pox.
I can explain my exposure to this rare disease in one short sentence, but I will need the rest of this book to explain that sentence. The sentence is: "When I was eleven years old I was sent away to summer camp." The explanation and results are more complicated.
—from A Bad Case of Moosepox (Price, 1986 p. 2)
There is a camp in Maine, where each summer boys come to spend 3 1/2 or 7 weeks camping, canoeing, hiking, swimming, cooking, singing, acting, reading, talking with each other, and just hanging out. A Philadelphia schoolteacher founded it as a Quaker camp in 1922 when Boy Scout troops were burgeoning. Flying Moose Lodge (FML) has continued now for 82 years, and attracts boys mostly through word of mouth from across the United States, and as far as Puerto Rico, England, France, and Japan. It is a small camp of no more than 50 boys, and keeps to its 1922 roots with no electricity, no phone, and no showers. Boys still sleep in open-walled tents and Adirondack-style shelters; they still bathe in the lake; and they still cook over campfires.
This summer a new boy showed up with his father and grandfather, whom had both come to camp as campers and counselors. His grandfather, upon hearing about my research, cornered me and began relating stories of his father who attended in 1923. Like the thousands of other Flying Moosers, they were carriers of Moosepox.
My own exposure began the summer of 1993. I had worked at a camp in Seattle the previous summer and met a woman there who insisted I meet her college housemate who worked at FML. Two emails and a 5-minute call to the director later, I was hired as an assistant director. That summer I was amazed at the diversity of activities, the opportunities for real problem solving, the camaraderie, the trust in boys' sense of self and safety, and the tradition of Flying Moose. The summer of 2003 marked my tenth summer, and really the first year that I considered myself a part of what makes Flying Moose Lodge what it is. It goes far beyond me however, but for many campers and counselors, I am as much a part of their camp experience and memories as the old 1885 lodge, the hand-built cedar and canvas canoes, or the tradition of hand-cranking ice cream on Sunday mornings.
Harrie Price III started his association with FML as a camper in 1927; he returned many years as both a camper and then counselor; he bought the camp in 1940, and ran it as director/owner until 1985 when his son took over the operation of it. In that span of 62 years he had collected, and was central to, many stories of the camp. When he retired in 1986 he wrote them down in a self-published book called A Bad Case of Moosepox. Because, in many ways his life paralleled and was central to the camp, I strongly felt that in order to understand the camp, I need to understand his life. However, there are many lives I could study -- people who helped make the camp what it was and is. As I mentioned above, my own ten years have helped shape the camp. So I feel that a history that focuses on the site itself, rather than on any individual lives associated with the site, would offer a more complete and multi-voiced story. The compound perspectives in a site history guide more directly to the issues I am examining.
Where life history work focuses on one individual, usually contributing as a living participant in the work, site history will rely on multiple voices -- informants developing and building on and each others' contributions and offering additional perspectives where needed. In my study, I am not able to access Harrie Price III, the most significant member of my study, because death cured him of Moose Pox in 1988, though the side effects of his affliction live on in his son and those who knew him as camp director when they attended Flying Moose Lodge.
In choosing to do a Site History, I am pulling liberally from the methods of Life History, and the concerns that accompany it. Over the past ten years that I have helped run their summer business, Flying Moose Lodge, I have come to understand that the Price family, like many in New England, protects their privacy vigorously, and is wary of having their summer pastime under the scrutiny of the public -- and even friends. Nonetheless, through my work with them, I have earned their friendship, respect, and trust. They are willing to help me in my research as much as they can, provided I remember and respect that this is not their research project, and that they are busy with their own lives and priorities, including a full-time Nurse Anesthetist's job and twin one year-old boys.
I agree with Ellis and Bochner (1996) in who argue, "that personal, autobiographical modes of writing are vital for knowledge production in the social sciences" (p. 412) and will draw deeply from my own experiences and observations of FML. Additionally, Tierney (March 1998) suggests that the "search is to understand the powers of culture to define those particular ways that enable people to act and not act in particular ways ... how it is that he or she has come to act that way" (p 54, 55 "Life History's History" March 1998). In this respect, I approach my research as an outsider -- I've never directly experienced FML as a camper, thus I am the author who, as Tierney notes "is most often not the person he or she studies"(p. 58). On the other hand, my role at FML for the past ten years has been to help direct and pass on its culture to new campers and staff, which is something only insiders can do effectively -- or attempt something like the projects undertaken by biologists who feed wild birdlings with feathery gloves.
Typically, Tierney (2000) reports, a "life history of a white male who was a corporate executive would have been overlooked insofar as he not the 'Other'"" (p. 43). This tendency troubles me at this stage of my studies, as I struggle with issues of who has the right to study whom. As a white male, privileged in this society, I do not want to wield my position of power by engaging in Salvationist work. I don't currently feel qualified to save or give voice to any othered group, so I intend to begin my career in research with a self-reflecting study of a culture very similar to my own. It is here, in a sense "among my own" that I feel comfortable enough to research and critique. Because I am a part of the culture, I feel allowed to critique it from the inside. Moreover, because there are, I feel, many good things in the camp, it is worth illuminating for further exploration.
In the situation of my research, the power structure is somewhat even. The research subject is ostensibly a camp, but a camp that is steeped in the history and culture of the family that has been involved in it for over 70 years. This family employs me, so whatever power I have as a researcher is effectively balanced. I also have a deep love of the place, and find my solace among its cedars and pines, and its crystal waters. I am -- some might warn -- too close to my subject.
Goodson and Sikes (2001) warn about researching friends, noting that "doing research 'in your own backyard' can have unintended consequences" (p. 25). In the situation of my research, I have painstakingly developed the friendship and trust of a private New England family over a ten-year period, and must be very careful in my questioning to maintain that trust. I have witnessed their demeanor grow cold quickly when acquaintances pry too deeply into their personal lives. I will need to temper my questions, and -- considering their full-time jobs and twins -- the amount of time and direct involvement I ask of them. Instead I can rely heavily on documents and artifacts, and use them primarily as a 'check' of my research (p. 32).
In order to deal with this predicament, I need to fully situate myself and forswear any claim of objectivity. This study will not be written in the academic style described by Susan Krieger in Tierney (1998) as "designed to produce distance and to exclude emotion" (p. 63). Instead I acknowledge and will respect my love for the place, and will include that as part of my data. I will present it in a manner that encourages the co-construction of meaning by both reader and author (p. 61).
In many respects, this project focuses on the "antecedent process" that Dewey (1925) mentions in Experience and Nature when he notes, "The reason for appreciation, for an enjoyed appropriation, is often that the object in question serves as a means to something; or the reason is that it stands as the culmination of an antecedent process" (p. 397). I am looking at a Site History of a camp, as revealed in stories circulated among FML's directors -- those who set the activities for campers, and who carry the torch of the camp's historical situation. For example, Harrie Price III, in his book, speaks of "the magic formula" of what works at camp (p.89). Everything from the Tuesday-Friday trips to serving French toast Tuesday mornings has been experimented, challenged, and found to work well, to the point that it begins to take on a ritual-like meaning, and is passed down from generation to generation as the way things work at Flying Moose.
In my study, I will utilize triangulation of, and within, multiple data sources to maintain consistency (Stake, 1995). The data that has already been generated exists in three forms: A Bad Case of Moosepox (Price 1988), a 288 page book of stories of FML's history; silent 16mm film footage of the camp, seven hours encompassing1921-1973, filmed and edited by camp directors to market their vision of the camp. Additionally, my own ten years of direct experience helping to run the camp as an assistant director, along with informal interviews, emails, and conversations of two of its directors, family, friends, and camp alumni contribute data.
Considering that I am looking at stories and representations of camp, narrative inquiry plays significant role in constructing a site history. Connelly & Clandinin (1988) explain narrative as "the study of how humans make meaning of experience by endlessly telling and retelling stories about themselves that both refigure the past and create purpose in the future." Similar to case studies, Connelly & Clandinin (1990) go on to say that narrative inquiry seeks the voice of key participants in a particular time, place or setting. Gomez (1997) notes that "analysis of narratives are primarily conducted on the content of stories -- the actors and actions portrayed in them and the places and times in which actions located -- and/or on the discourses -- the words, voices, and forms -- people use when telling them."
Fitting these guidelines of narrative inquiry, I examine as a primary data source a veritable self-portrait of Harrie Price III, who perhaps most influenced Flying Moose Lodge. Much of his understanding of how the camp should be run came from his experience as a camper, then as a counselor, when Mr. Domivich was the director. The stories he heard as a camper, as well as those he witnessed play a big role in A Bad Case of Moosepox (1988). In addition to the stories told from the perspective of a respectful and reverent camper, he tells stories from his 45 years directing the camp. Many stories he had crafted, while others originated with staff, families, and campers, and were circulated time and time again over the years. In 1985, Harrie III gave up his role as the camp director to his son Harrie IV, although he was stuck around and quite involved in the day-to-day operation of the camp. In 1986, friends and family convinced him to write the stories down, and he did so in 288 pages. Beyond a mere collection of stories of the camp’s lore and history, A Bad Case of Moosepox (Price, 1988) indicates the foundational philosophies and cultural models behind the way Flying Moose Lodge runs. It is what Cole and Knowles (2001) term a "personal experience story" (p. 21), and as Goodson and Sikes (2001) indicate, this sort of document of self-reflection is valuable in life history research (p. 73).
I almost feel that A Bad Case of Moosepox begins as a testimonio -- with the words that begin this paper: "I suffer from a debilitating and incurable disease..." In some ways, it is a testimonio of "over a thousand other victims, facing increasing pain and suffering as the years progress" as represented by Harrie Price III's life at FML (p. 2). It may be a stretch to define A Bad Case of Moosepox as "resistance literature," but it does, in Tierney's (2000) words, "bear witness to a social urgency" of those who have been silenced, excluded, and marginalized by their societies" (p. 540). It also fits Beverly's description, quoted in Tierney (2000), as "a novella-length narrative in book or pamphlet form, told in the first person by a narrator who is also the real protagonist or witness of the events he or she recounts, and whose unit of narration is usually a 'life' or a significant life experience" (p. 540).
It turns out that the "debilitating disease" is a love for the place, and the only real silencing and marginalization of the middle and upper-middle class white males who have "Moosepox" is by friends and co-workers who haven't experienced FML, and tire of their constant praise and evangelism of it. Still, there is something in that much I found compelling enough to experience it for myself, and like any junkie, I too am hooked.
In addition to these stories, I have silent films and interview/observation to provide triangulation. Just about every summer from 1921-1939 founder/owner Mr. Domivich made silent films of aspects of the camp and edited them into movies that he could take and show to prospective campers and their parents. These silent films, although created to market the camp, also act as narratives. Shots and scenes were chosen, and at times constructed, to highlight what the directors wanted to emphasize about the camp. Essentially, the scenes form the camp director's vision of what Flying Moose Lodge is, and what boys are -- and attempt to persuade their audience why the two should spend their summers together.
In 1940, when Harrie III bought the camp, he also took over the filmmaking and marketing duties until 1974. The films total over seven hours, and were donated to the North East Historic Film Society in Bucksport, Maine, where I had digital copies made. Far from Hollywood, these films are, for the most part roughly edited into favorite scenes. Some scenes are set up, and there are some that are totally fabricated. One example is of a group of campers sitting around a campfire smoking corncob pipes; when the camera approaches them, they become surly and confrontational. Chris Price (2002) tells me that his father created this scene as a practical joke; he gave the boys corncob pipes with flour in them and asked them to portray a seedy scene of camp so he has a resource to show mothers whose boys he doesn't want at camp.
Kress & Leeuwen (2001) demonstrate that old films like these provide a source of multimodal discourse to examine. In their filming and editing choices, the directors tried to capture their vision of the camp, and so indicated their values, and the overall values embedded in Flying Moose. Decisions made in design and production of this film footage for marketing, Kress & Leeuwen (2001) assert, reveal discourse not only in content, but also in expression.
The primary research question must conform to the methodologies I use in this instrumental case study. Appropriately, then it will be a question that seeks understanding instead of proof, and centers on 1) the nature of the case, 2) its historical background, 3) physical setting, 4) and key informants (Stake, 1995). The question What values/cultural models are revealed in the stories of those who have directed Flying Moose Lodge?will provide a chorus of voices and perspectives through which a careful reading of the cultural models in directors' discourse/practice will reveal core philosophies and values.
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Connelly, F. M., & Clandinin, D. J. (1990). Stories of experience and narrative inquiry.
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Price, C. (2002). Personal interview.
Price, H. B. III. (1988). A bad case of moosepox. self-published.
Reed-Danahay, D. (2001). Autobiography, Intimacy, and Ethnography in P.Atkinson, A Coffrey, S. Delamont, J. Lofland, & L. Lofland (Eds.), Handbook of ethnography (pp.408-411). Thousand Oaks: Sage.
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Tierney, W. G. (1998). Life history's history: Subjects foretold. Qualitative Inquiry 4(1), pp.40-70.
Tierney, W. G. (2000). Undaunted Courage: Life history and the postmodern challenge. In N.K. Denzin, & Y.S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research, (pp. 537-553) Thousand Oaks: Sage.
An assignment for my Spring 2003 "Life History Theory and Methods" with Mary Louise Gomez
