Kingswood For Life Issue 3

LISTEN TO THE LOONS
But I digress. Bill was phoning that day to alert
me that a certain camp named Kingswood was soon to be
on the market for sale. ?Nice folks running it, but they
cannot get the campers to attend.? Of course, I knew
about Kingswood. We had always played them in tennis
and baseball during my Camp Norway years. Not only
did I know its location on Lake Tarleton, but I also
surmised that a hiker on Webster Cliff could probably
see the camp property from a perch along the edge of the
cliff. Please forgive my ulterior motive for immediately
calling for a Wachusett overnight to Webster Mountain,
with me named as leader. After a great hike and filling
supper, I assigned the campers various duties to be
supervised by my assistants, and I took off towards the
cliffs just below our summit camp site (same one we still
love to use to this day.) I had to work my way a bit
further to the west than anticipated, but soon enough
Tarleton came into view and soon thereafter, the
unmistakable buildings of the Main Lodge, Dining Room
and Waterfront cabin. I must have sat there over an
hour, just staring down below me towards my dream of a
lifetime. I can recall nearly coming to tears over the idea
that maybe this camp would one day be mine ? either to
make it work or to blow it!
In August of 1983, the Wipfler family ? Bob,
Alice, Rob (9) and Mike (4) gingerly walked down the
now very familiar camp road towards the lake. It was a
gorgeous afternoon, but the place seemed nearly deserted.
It was eerie, actually, and one of my sons said something
to the effect of ?let?s get out of this spooky place.? When
we finally reached the Waterfront beach, we saw our first
sign of life ? 3-4 boys attempting to build a raft out of
small tree branches. The remaining 17 campers were out
of camp on a bike trip, we were told. Soon thereafter we
stumbled into the owners, and I popped the ?are you
considering selling this camp? question. They pretended
to be insulted and we soon departed with our heads
between our tails. Seven days later, the directors called
me.
Mr. Marsh was delighted. His negotiations with
the sellers took nearly a year and a half, and they were
continuous. Sam left no stone unturned. Long story
short, he kept finding ways to lower the price. Looking
back on those days so many years later, I now know for
certain that Sam had a good point on every concern.
Septic issues were his number one bugaboo, and, well,
most of you know the story of the 2015 all new system,
replacing the one we built in 1992. Sam was right!
But, oh how the sellers disliked Mr. Marsh. All
the more a good reason for Alice and me to celebrate that
we had him on our team, not theirs. One time, the
seller?s agent took the train all the way from Vermont to
Washington, DC only to be dismissed from Sam?s office
after five fruitless minutes of conversation. ?You are
going to ruin the deal,? I nearly cried to him.
?Nonsense,? he replied, ?You are going to get a business
you can afford to run.?
One frosty day in January, 1985, I was
Unmistakable view of camp summoned from Webster's from my Cliff Landon classroom to the telephone
in the Headmaster?s office. It was Sam. In his
characteristic tone, he growled at me, ?Robert, do you
really really want to own a camp?? ?Yes sir,? I said with a
quiver in my voice. ?Well, then you?ve got one. Get to
work.? Next time you come to Kingswood, take a drink
from the Bubbler fountain. There you will find the
plaque that honors Sam Marsh, which ends with the
words, ?whose great efforts made Kingswood
possible.? Indeed.
We owe it all to Sam Marsh, pictured below.