Circle M Youth Ranch

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As a kid, I was sent to some unexpected summer camps. None were regular Jewish camps, which would have seemed the natural destination for this child of a suburban Jewish family. For several years I went to a YMCA camp on the Chesapeake Bay called Camp Letts. The camp motto was “Let’s Camp!” Maybe that snappy slogan made it irresistible to my parents.

But the camp that made the biggest impression on me was the Circle M Youth Ranch, in Capon Bridge, West Virginia. My brother and I were sent there for two summers, when I was about 12 and 13. Unlike Camp Letts, the Circle M didn’t have a motto. But it did have a camp song. Unaccountably, this song has been an intermittent earworm for over half a century. It was sung to the tune of I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl That Married Dear Old Dad. Of interest, I Want a Girl was composed by Harry Von Tilzer in 1911. It turns out that Harry was born in Detroit in 1872, and his birth name was Aaron Gumbinsky. His parents were Polish Jewish immigrants. Maybe this Jewish connection is what drew my parents to send me to the Circle M. Anyway, the song went like this:

I want to go to Circle M
just to have some fun.
It is the camp, and the only camp
where I can have some fun.

A good old southern camp with colonel there;
horses, ponies, and cows need care.
I want to go to Circle M
just to have some fun.

Well, I did indeed have some fun. But I never understood why it was the only camp where that was possible; Camp Letts was fun too. Or at least so I thought at the time.

And what about the colonel there? Well, there actually was one—he ran the place, and was revered by one and all. His obituary is on the McGuinness Funeral Home website: Col George E “Smokey” Stover, USAF retired, passed away at age 87 on February 15, 2006. The Colonel was born in Winner, South Dakota and raised in Wyoming and Nebraska. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps and was a highly decorated WWII veteran. Among other things, he served on the staff of the Supreme Allied Commander General Eisenhower. After the war, while serving his country in Hawaii, he established a scout camp, which was named in his honor. Because of his distinguished service to scouting, he was presented with the Silver Beaver Award.

The obituary went on: “He retired from the Air Force in 1961 and established a youth summer camp and operated a 4,000-acre farm in Capon Bridge, West Virginia.” There it was! The obit concluded by observing that Col Stover was “an outstanding citizen, husband, father, grandfather, and friend; and one of the reasons they call it the ‘Greatest Generation.’ ”

I do remember the commanding presence of The Colonel at the Circle M, but I don’t remember the cows that needed care. On the other hand, I certainly recall all the horses and ponies–this nerdy Jewish kid from the suburbs learned to ride them. And even to single-handedly put on a saddle, bridle, and bit. Soon, I was actually competing in rodeo events—my favorite was the cloverleaf barrel race. At the final rodeo, I came in third. That earned me a white ribbon, which I proudly displayed on my bedroom wall for many years. Never mind that there were only five competitors in my age group.

My brother, though two years younger, was a very good rider. But he hadn’t quite got the hang of how to put on a saddle. The trick was to knee the horse in the ribs to make it exhale, then quickly tighten the girth. This prevented it from puffing out its chest in an attempt to keep the saddle cinched comfortably loose. One time Doug mounted after putting on his saddle. Then he dubiously yelled to the instructor, “Hey, Dave, I think this thing is a little loose!” He demonstrated the truth of his observation by rocking from side to side. On his third sway to the left, perhaps while his mount was in the middle of an exhalation, the saddle rotated around the horse, and ended up under its belly. But my tenacious brother hung on, and came to rest suspended upside down, framed by the horse’s four legs. I howled—the Circle M was indeed a great place “just to have some fun”! Even if it was at my brother’s expense.

The other memorable Circle M activity was skeet shooting. I don’t think I’d ever touched a gun in my life, other than one time gingerly stroking the grip of my father’s service revolver left over from World War II. But here I was, this kid on the verge of starting to study for his bar mitzvah, in Capon Bridge, West Virginia, learning how to handle a 16-gauge double-barrel shotgun. We shot at circular ceramic targets called “clay pigeons.” After carefully planting my feet and snugging the shotgun tight against my shoulder, in my most manly voice I’d yell “pull!” This was the signal for the counselor controlling the machine, called a “trap,” to activate it, flinging a clay pigeon high into the air. I followed its trajectory through my gunsite, and at the theoretically optimal moment pulled the trigger. On several occasions I actually scored; how utterly satisfying it was to see that terra cotta flying saucer shatter in midair! Sometimes, when the trap wasn’t working, we simply shot at coke bottles the instructors flung into the air. Amazingly, I don’t remember anyone ever getting hit by flying fragments.

Hoping to activate more memories–or correct the ones I had–I did some extensive Googling of “Circle M Youth Ranch.” There wasn’t much to show for my efforts: I gleaned two ads from 1963 (both featured at the top of this post), and a single article. It was from the June 4, 1966 issue of the Weirton Daily Times, Weirton, West Virginia. The story began, “Youngsters with a taste for the ‘wide open spaces’ and an urge to get away from home this summer can conjure up imaginations of the wild west on the Circle M Youth Ranch in eastern West Virginia.” So, apparently my brother and I—or perhaps more likely, our parents–had a taste for the wide-open spaces, and a wish to conjure up imaginations of the wild west. And it was almost certainly our parents, not us, who had an urge for us to get away from home for the summer. The article went on to state that “Recreation includes” swimming, canoe trips, boating, mountain climbing, archery, horseback riding, and “rifle and shotgun target shooting under National Rifle Association standards.” Yikes–who knew that in my youth I was taught how to shoot a gun by the NRA!

As long as I was already Googling, it occurred to me to see if the colonel’s son was still around—the obituary notice said that Colonel Stover passed away at the home of his son, James, of Ruidoso, NM. He immediately popped up on LinkedIn. I learned that “Jim” is the Director of Emergency Services at Lincoln County Medical Center in Ruidoso. And not only was he too in the medical field, but it appeared that Jim and I were was almost exactly the same age! So he was undoubtedly at the Circle M when I was–maybe it was Jim who won the blue ribbon in the cloverleaf barrel race when I got the white. So I wrote him a warm, maybe even a little gushy, message to his LinkedIn account telling him who I was and saying that I’d love to learn more about his growing up on the Circle M Youth Ranch. I was excited about embarking on an extended correspondence; perhaps he even remembered me as an especially unusual camper. But alas, I never heard back.

I did one final round of Googling. The only new thing that came up was a tiny entry on the website of the Secretary of State of West Virginia: On April 20 1967 “Circle M Youth Ranch and Camp, Inc. was dissolved by court order.” It didn’t say why.

So I’m left with fond memories of a corny camp song, skeet shooting, and cloverleaf barrel racing. I wonder what else went on at the camp that I don’t remember. But my only potential link with the Circle M didn’t respond to my note. I wonder why it was dissolved by the court. But the website didn’t say. And I wonder why my parents sent me and my brother there in the first place. Did they just randomly come across one of those tempting ads in the newspaper and think, why not? Did they learn about it from friends who gave a glowing recommendation after sending their kid there?

Or maybe there was a deeper reason why they sent me first to Camp Letts, and then to the utterly goyish Circle M. Even though they were raised in very Jewish parts of Brooklyn and Pittsburgh, when they were growing up in the 1930s anti-Semitism was rampant. Maybe they, the children of immigrants, wanted to embed my brother and me in the wider American culture, giving us the chance to experience things that were not available to them. Like going to a YMCA camp, and to a good old Southern camp with colonel there. Where we could do very non-Jewish things like ride in rodeos and learn to shoot guns. I’ll never know. But whether I ended up at the Circle M simply by chance or by careful parental calculation, I value the experiences I had there, which were unlike anything else I experienced growing up. Maybe that’s why that song has stuck in my head all these years.

Doctors don’t give shots

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Just after I gave her the vaccination, the woman beamed and said, “Thanks so much, that was a great shot!”

“Not bad for a doctor, eh?” I replied modestly.

She laughed. “Doctor, I have to tell you something. When I was sent to your table and saw that you were a man, my heart sank. I prayed that you were a nurse, and not a doctor.” We both cracked up.

“I understand,” I said. “Doctors don’t give shots.”

It’s indeed true. I gave maybe two or three shots in medical school, and after that no more for over four decades. Until a few months ago. Then the Bainbridge Island Medical Reserve Corps asked for volunteers to give covid vaccinations.

Fortunately, my wife, Annie is a nurse. So she gave me some great pointers (get it?). She even had me practice on a poor, hapless orange. Next I watched about a dozen YouTube videos of nurses teaching how to give a shot. Curiously, every one was different; in fact, there was a lot of mutually exclusive advice. Some instructors insisted that it was vital to pull back the plunger before pushing it in; others said that was completely unnecessary. Several said you had to pinch the muscle and skin up in a tent before injection, another said to flatten the skin by pushing down and out with the fingers. One claimed that making a Z-track was essential; two others said Z-track injections were a waste of time. Do a slow, steady controlled insertion. Pop the needle in like a dart. And on and on. I concluded that no matter how I chose to vaccinate, I’d be doing it wrong.

As I drove to the Bainbridge Island Senior Center for my first shift, my stomach was in a big knot. I thought how easy all the Covid testing I’d been doing for the last few months was—after a few swabs, I felt completely comfortable with my technique, and could focus on connecting with the person I was testing. But giving shots was a new skill; I was once again an extreme non-expert. I fantasized ahead to the time when I felt as comfortable giving an injection as I did with nasal swabbing, and so many other medical procedures I’d ultimately mastered.

There’s an old saying in surgical training programs: “See one, do one, teach one.” But in the vaccination clinic this sequence was attenuated even further: The first step was entirely skipped, and I was assigned a station, given a few instructions for how to draw up the Moderna vaccine, and left alone to vaccinate. (I’d already gone over the package insert in detail, so I was quite comfortable with how to handle the vaccine.) I approached one of the other two vaccinators (a nurse, of course), introduced myself, and asked that she watch me to be sure I was giving a proper shot. Fortunately my first victim was relaxed, which helped me relax. I cleansed the deltoid with an alcohol swab, gently pinched the muscle and skin, darted the needle, and injected without withdrawing. No one yelled, jumped, or even sucked in their breath. I asked my patient how it went; she simply said, “fine, I hardly felt it.” My fellow vaccinator went silently back to her own station, and I proceeded to uneventfully give shots to thirty or so people.


Other than the small minority who looked right at the needle and talked on during the vaccination, most people tensed up in anticipation. So I started telling everyone that I’d warn them just before I gave the shot; “I don’t believe in sneak attacks,” I said. Almost everyone seemed to appreciate that. But a few demurred, saying something like, “No, please don’t warn me. I want to be surprised–I like sneak attacks.” Like with just about everything else in life, one size doesn’t fit all.

After I introduced myself, the middle-aged woman sat down, started trembling, and teared up. She was clearly in the ‘tensed up’ category. “Please don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, and I’ll warn you just before I give the injection.” She shook her head and laughed. “I’m not nervous, doctor. I’m just so excited to finally be getting vaccinated!” After I gave her the shot, we celebrated together.

A young man came to my station wearing a sleeveless undershirt, fully revealing his deltoids–a vaccinator’s dream. His arms were covered with tattoos. I absentmindedly asked him if he was squeamish about shots. He brandished his tattoos and said, “Do I look like I mind needles?” I hooted, and apologized for asking such a silly question.

Arms with tattoos were fun to vaccinate since they provided a target. Once time, literally. The man had a bright red bullseye over his right deltoid. I told him it was an irresistible target, but when I did my measurement (three fingerbreadths below the tip of the acromion), it turned out that the tempting bullseye was too low. So I had to settle for one of the outer rings north of the target.

And speaking of tattoos, at a clinic at the Chimacum Grange, I vaccinated a man with “Loise” emblazoned diagonally across a juicy red heart. I found it very touching. I tentatively asked him, “Is Loise still in your life?” “Yup,” he replied and gestured out to the parking lot, “not only is she still in my life, she’s in my car.”


One of the wonderful things about this work was that I wasn’t being paid. And I had no quotas. So there was no time pressure; I felt free to take just as long as I needed. I explained to each person what sorts of side-effects to expect, and how to deal with them. I sensed that some people simply wanted to get the shot over with, and leave. I respected that. Others seemed eager to ask all sorts of questions about the vaccine, their health, and sometimes even to simply tell me about their work or their life.

People talked about their cancer, or kidney transplant, or a family member who was very ill. More than once I learned that a person wasn’t needle-shy because they had diabetes or rheumatoid arthritis, or another condition that required them to inject themselves regularly. Then sometimes we talked about what it was like to live with such a condition. These were brief, but intense, connections.

I was surprised to see Rafael coming to my station. He had done some wonderful gardening work for us a month previously. As I went over the potential side-effects of the injection I noticed that, even with his mask on, he seemed sad. When I asked him if he had any questions, he looked down, then simply said that during the time he was working for us his mother had died of covid. So he was eager to be vaccinated. I told him how sorry I was, and sat with him a little while after giving him his shot.


The environment where the vaccinations took place was quite unusual. It’s of course rare for any sort of medical interaction to take place in a large space—the typical medical consultation takes place in a little exam room with just the doctor and patient, and maybe a nurse or medical assistant. An operating room may have more people present, but they’re just the staff and a single patient, who’s the focus of all the activity. And even in the ER, the space is limited and curtained off.

But the vaccination centers were different. At the high school gym we usually had between 9 and 12 vaccinators per shift, and over 60 volunteers directing traffic, checking credentials, registering, monitoring, entering data, and keeping track of the vaccines. Over a weekend we sometimes vaccinated more than 2,500 people. I think many who came for their vaccination enjoyed getting a shot in such a big beehive of bustle. They were taking part in an event where they and everyone around them was there for a single purpose: to decrease the spread of a virus, and the illness, disability, and sometimes even death that came with it.

It’s hard to think of another situation where so many people are gathered together for precisely the same goal. At sports stadiums, large groups of people share the same space, but they’re rooting for different teams. At a concert it’s superficially all about the music. But the audience has a rather different focus than do the performers or the paid staff. Perhaps the most similar situation I can think of to a vaccination clinic is a religious service. But even there, people attend for varied reasons—the religious leader, the regular member, and the visitor surely have somewhat different motivations and expectations. At the vaccination clinic, on the other hand, we all shared a single, specific aim, no matter whether we were there to get vaccinated or to volunteer in some capacity. It was so good to be sharing in this goal; I think everyone felt it.


Just as this was a unique environment, it was also unusual in that it was such a simple and happy one. Especially for anything that had to do with medicine and health—there were no orders for further testing, shadows seen on the x-ray, referrals to specialists, or grim diagnoses that had to be delivered. Only a birthing center comes close. The gym was filled with yelps of celebration, elbow bumps of gratitude, and lots of selfies. So far I’ve given more than 450 covid shots. This has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my medical career.

(Note: I’ve made a few inconsequential changes to these stories to ensure the anonymity of each person I mention.)