Camp Anderson

Songs From the Wood

This story will feature:
hannahmfoley01
twiggs3075
StavageForRoggieT
PilotOfTheStorm
2020kpool
moonwistle
mistinthemirror
Wicked_Annabella
This chapter doesn't really feature everyone, but I wanted to have everyone down for my own reference.
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1973
Jon Anderson's POV

"It's a fine summer day, isn't it Ian?" I say to my friend.

"Of course it is!" he replies, splashing in the river, fully nude. I don't care, it's our ritual. He bathes in the river, I worship the sun in a tunic every night while the other campers look away in horror.

Wait, I should tell you how this all began......
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A Couple of Days Ago

"Ian, I know this doesn't make any sense to you at all whatsoever, but I'm genuinely scared of having all of these people here!" I sway back and forth on my feet, trying to avoid a panic attack, "I must just get too overwhelmed and have an asthma attack! There aren't any doctors out here in the forest!"

Ian snaps on a glove, "You don't know that!"

"Ugh, please don't touch me, Ian," I hold my body in a protective stance, and Ian laughs at me.

"I'm sorry, little friend," and Ian sits in a big wooden chair, "You can handle being in a band with a bunch of pretentious whack jobs, so I think you'll love this!"

I sit down next to him, "You make a good point. Grumpy Old Rick does toughen a man up quite a bit."

Ian hugs me, "I bet he does." He strokes his chin, "Say, you don't think Bob and his little friend group of hippies will mind us, do you?"

"I hope not!" and I shiver, "I heard he's brought his crazy girlfriend with the lamps."

"That's right, David Bowie told me to watch out for her," Ian even seems a little shaken up by the very mention of her. "Oh well, perhaps we can still have fun with her."

"Can we not?" I ask somewhat politely. Then, I think about it, "Actually, this camp could use a little spice. We only invited Freddie, Jeff, Bev, and Robert, right?"

"Oh no!" Ian laughs like the merry Scotsman he is, "We've got all of their bands, man! In addition, we've got the Pink Floyd boys-,"

"NOT ROGER WATERS!"

"Also, we've got the guys from Genesis, your band mates, my band mates, the guys from Roxy Music-,"

"I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR BRIAN SCREWING SOME GIRL AT TWO IN THE MORNING!"

"That's nice to know, Jon, please air your complaints to the head of this camping trip," Ian laughs.

"Hey, we are the heads of this trip," I cry.

"Then cry yourself a river, baby," Ian says. He pulls out his flute, and starts Pop Goes the Weasel, of all things.

"You are so useless," I say.

"You know who isn't useless?"

"Who?"

"Hannah and her friend Lily. I called them up and they'll be helping to counsel this whole thing. Also, Sara will be our official cook!" he says this rather proudly. I guess he is good for something, I'm impressed.

"Thank you for that, buddy," I sigh.

"I even packed you an extra inhaler in case you have an attack," Ian smiles.

I hug him, "You are such a good friend."

"So are you. You are incredibly sweet, I seriously don't know why you don't have a girlfriend."

I slump down in my chair, "Don't even get me started."

"I won't, Jon," we both laugh together, happily awaiting the start of camp.

I ask, "So, what are we going to call this camp?"

"Camp Anderson!" Ian declares, "See? I made t shirts!" he muddles through a bag, "and hats!"

"That's nice, Ian."

"Ooo, and also key chains, coffee mugs, football flags, posters, commemorative plaques, and this weird little duck thing."

"When did you do all of this?" I look at the giant pile of stuff that's been dumped in front of me.

"I don't know, I just did it!" he declares, picking his flute back up, "I just did!" He whistles a few notes and says, "You should get some rest, buddy. They will all be here bright and early tomorrow."

"That means I have to get up early, doesn't it?" I whine.

"Of course it does! We are roughing it out here! You must suffer a little bit!"

"Seriously! Bob Dylan is NOT roughing it! He has got a television, air conditioning, hot running water, a sauna, a hot tub, an indoor bathroom, a dishwasher, and God knows what else!"

"Good for Bob! We, on the other hand, will exist as our Scottish forefathers!"

"I'm Welsh," I mutter.

"Fine, whatever Celtic or Anglo-Saxon roots you come from!"

"Aren't some of our friends Americans?"

"Whatever!" Ian shouts.

"I don't really care, man," I say, "Just so long as I don't have to eat sheep's brain or something. I vegetarian, you know."

"Well, good." Ian says, "I'm not."

"Feel free to eat whatever, though. I'm okay with it."

Ian slaps me on the back, "I know you are, chum, that's why you are an angel."

We smile at each other for a few minutes, and then start heading off to bed.