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Posted on: 7/19/2008 This is a gathering to celebrate the life of William Forrest Dawson. Buck. I don’t know where he picked up the name, but it suited him, perhaps one of you knows the story. Buck had many stages in his life, athlete at Michigan, soldier, promoter of the Swimming Hall of Fame, writer, husband, father and camp director. He was successful at all of them because he was a fierce competitor. Buck loved winning. One of the first summers that I was here, I used Katie Mann as my crew in the annual Chikopi regatta. Due to a freak wind shift, we finished about an hour before everyone else. We beached our boat and went up to the field to join her father and Buck watch the race. Mattie finally looked at her and said “I thought you were sailing.” “Well, we finished Dad” was her answer. Buck laughed, put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You have a job for life!”. And so I am here Somewhere along the way he chose a time of life that he enjoyed and although the years passed, physically and mentally he was 22. Old enough to know better but young enough to give it a try. Buck had unerring aim with a crunched napkin at the dinner table. Buck’s singing voice left much to be desired, but his performance of E Hunya Gah and Queenie, The Queen of the Burlesque Show, usually brought down the house. And just when you put this guy down as an idiot, he’d stop short, and with an eye that could pierce the future and the past he would give a lecture on Matt Mann, the pioneer who settled this place or what was happening in the world. Nobody moved or whispered. They listened not only with their ears, but their heads and hearts and were made richer. That discipline that could separate fun from fact is probably made him a successful writer. Buck’s memory was phenomenal. He could recall instants in time, records, people, and idiosyncrices of people. Anyone who saw the Swimming Hall of Fame under Buck’s leadership knows what I mean. It was crammed with ribbons, medals, pictures, and memorabilia from a thousand places. It took awhile to find things...but they were there. All you had to do is look and remember. Although the Swimming Hall of Fame is still there, it misses Buck’s touch. But the connection stood camp in a very good way. As the greats and near greats came through, buck would invite them to spend time at camp. And they would come, Cecil Colwin, Penny Dean, Don Mattingly, it was like a revolving Olympic and national door. Swimmers served as counsellors and punished our likes with their strong strokes. Swimmers started here, Richard Quick, Diana Nyad, Jocelyn Muir, Mac Teske; each summer was like a gift. And if those names don’t ring a bell with you, ask Bob to explain. These were the glory days of the camp movement before every university coach had a series of weeklong camps and houses the campers in University dorms. Camp is a harder sell now. Who will send their child to a seven week camp without lights in the cabins? Our guests came unwillingly because of Buck and Rosemary....and stayed and had a good time mostly. Buck could charm anyone but he had troubles with the mice problems. Mostly, the weather was nice and our guests would spend a good deal of time outdoors teaching, coaching and laughing with Buck. Canoe trips with Buck nearly ended always ended up with an ice cream. I went once to Burks Falls. Some ran, some kayaked, we canoed and had the locks at Magnetawan lift us towards our destination. But bedding down in one or two tents with the whole camp, no bathrooms, while Buck trotted the campers another five miles for ice cream was not my idea of a camping trip. But Buck enjoyed every minute of it. I really think he enjoyed being uncomfortable and brisk. Perhaps the army made him take comfort in wherever his sleeping bag hit the ground. He loved teaching by example as well as words. His classes in high jump were classic. Actually the whole camp came under his watchful eye as he stomped around from class to class to see that things were going right. He made the trips to the barrel and back long after he couldn’t see the barrel. He loved to see the swimmers coming into the dock, getting ready to run back to camp. He loved camp. He loved the campers, he loved being involved, handing out sticks at the end of the swim or run, deaf, blind, eh would still bang on my window, “are you in there? I have an idea...”. He was twenty two and still questioning the world before him. Buck loved....and we loved Buck.