In several of Gary Paulsen's novels, the main character's name is never stated. The Foxman, Tiltawhirl John, and Fishbone's Song are all like this, as is The Cookcamp; the five-year-old protagonist is simply referred to as "the boy." It would seem these nameless characters represent Paulsen himself, though the books range from factual memoir to somewhat fictionalized accounts of the author's life. Chicago, 1944: World War II is forcing fathers and husbands to go fight for human liberty across the Atlantic Ocean. Such matters shouldn't concern a five-year-old, but the boy's life turns upside down after his father leaves. His mother takes a job and looks for someone to watch the boy while she works, but quality babysitters are rare; he'd almost be better off by himself. The boy takes it in stride when a man—"Uncle Casey"—moves in, but catching his mother with Casey in a compromising position one night on the couch turns out to be the catalyst for the boy's departure from Chicago. He is sent by train to spend summer with his grandmother, Anita Halverson, at a work camp in the Minnesota woods, and this is where our main story commences.
No one is there to meet him at the train depot, but the agent agrees to keep an eye on the boy until his grandmother shows up. When she does—a strong older woman, dark hair streaked by gray—the boy launches into her arms without hesitation even though he doesn't know her. His grandmother's embrace is a steady point of reference in a world where a father can travel overseas and may never come back, and where a mother sends her child away all because of Uncle Casey and the disturbing sounds they make together on the couch. Worry and loneliness melt from the boy's shoulders as his grandmother carries him to the truck. The driver, an easy-going but physically imposing man named Carl, accelerates through miles of dense woods to the camp where the boy's grandmother has her trailer, near where laborers are building a new road. The boy's grandmother works as cook for the men, and he finds out what that entails the next morning.
The boy sleeps hard: a pure, deeply rejuvenating sleep, but his grandmother never seems to rest. She's up before the sun to set out plates and cups for the men's breakfast, and cook large quantities of filling food to hold them over until midday. The boy eagerly helps her, glad to be up and about with the men before they depart for work. It's a carnival of sights and sounds when they tromp into the trailer to break their fast: all the men are as tall and well-muscled as Carl, and eat like Clydesdale horses. They spit out their snoose chewing tobacco, pulling any remnants from the lower lip with their fingers before piling their plates with pancakes, stew, biscuits, whatever has been prepared. After eating, they head off on their loud construction vehicles to the worksite. Breakfast is a breathless, invigorating experience for the boy, but right away it's time to start making lunch, and his grandmother could use some assistance. For once, he's not only wanted, but needed.
Cooking and cleaning, learning to sew, baking fresh apple pie and doing sundry tasks for his grandmother, the boy never lacks stimulation. He has time to play outside, and fancies the little animals that come so close to him without fear; a chipmunk snatches a bit of pie crust dough from his hand, to the boy's everlasting delight. He hardly thinks of his mother or Uncle Casey at all. He loves watching the men at meals and the quiet, gentle company of his grandmother before sleep, when she sings to him in Norwegian and tucks him into bed. The boy's curiosity is piqued the first time the men gather to play the card game whist, their voices raised in competitive fervor. Gustaf, a bald man who looks stern but has a soft disposition toward the boy, lets him sit in his lap and be his whist partner, a thrill for a five-year-old yearning to take his place among stout, strong-willed men. Gustaf decides the boy should come participate in the road work tomorrow, and the anticipation is nearly more than the boy can stand.
Awakening almost before his grandmother, the boy assists with breakfast as usual before heading out. Gustaf lets him help steer the big cat tractor, which climbs a massive pile of gravel at an impossible angle to fill the men's trucks one by one with loose stone. Dust, dirt, and noise thick in the air, the scent of wilderness all around...could a more sensuous experience exist? Riding the cat is like an amusement park ride, but important work is getting done. At midday the boy eats right alongside the men for the first time, attempting to scarf down huge quantities of food like they do in spite of his little stomach, and then it's back to the hustle and clamor of the job. Part of him looks forward to evening alone with his grandmother, to tell her every wondrous thing he saw and did today. This is true belonging.
Gustaf isn't the only one who takes the boy to work. Carl has a turn, as do all the other men. The boy knows they could do the work themselves, but having him along is a joy for both parties. The weeks pass in a blur of energy and anticipation for each new dawn, curiosity at what challenge might be next, and the privilege to tackle it beside the hard-working men. In his happiness, the boy even opens up about Uncle Casey to his grandmother, casually describing what he saw on the couch that made him dislike Casey. Upon hearing this, the boy's grandmother adds a new part to her day: after he goes to bed she writes letters to his mother, openly crying as she does. Why is she upset about Uncle Casey? The boy tries to console her, and his grandmother is cheered by his sweet concern, but perhaps the time is at hand for his summer in Minnesota to end. Indeed, lately the boy has started missing his mother, a feeling of emptiness growing at being apart from her. It increases into a sadness his heart and body can't contain, but is his mother ready to receive him back? Will his father ever return, or is normal life permanently broken? His dual connection to loved ones in Chicago and Minnesota tug him in opposite directions, but we have only one life to live, and choices must be made. This summer will crystalize those choices for the boy and his family.
Not every Gary Paulsen novel brims with beauty and wisdom, but The Cookcamp does. The boy can't understand all his own complex emotions about being sent away from home in Chicago, but the cookcamp is exactly what he needs. His grandmother and the men adore him; being the center of their affection and attention is a salve for the hurt in his heart. Each day working beside Gustaf, Carl, or one of the other men is a memory he will treasure for life. These rugged, admirable men who want to spend their days with the boy become sacred to him. At the tender age of five he has found a way to plug into the workforce and do useful labor so he's fully satisfied at night when his head hits the pillow. We all crave purpose, and the boy has found a measure of it before his first day of elementary school. What a wonderful way to spend a childhood summer.
Most impressive of this book's philosophical points is the apple pie metaphor. The flood of flavor from his grandmother's apple pie is amazing, washed down with condensed milk that tastes of the tin can it comes in, but something puzzles the boy. "There's so many things in it," he remarks to his grandmother. "In the pie. So many different things and they aren't all good, but when they are in the pie they are good." Apples are too hard for his teeth, the boy explains, cinnamon can be overly potent, and too much sugar nauseates him. But, "When you put them all together in a pie they taste good and make me want to eat more and more and even drink the milk with the tin in it. How can that be?" Most significant experiences, and life as a whole, are composed of elements sweet and vile, soothing and stressful. Even being at the cookcamp turns out that way. You can't judge an experience based on the individual ingredients that go into it, only by the taste of the finished product, which can be good even if not every ingredient is to your liking. Life is a recipe that seems absurd at times, but in the end if we loved the pie, our efforts were worthwhile. We can't know how it will turn out until the baking process is complete.
Tally up The Cookcamp as another superb Gary Paulsen novel, a poignant reflection on one's cherished bygone days. There's nothing like the emotion and immediacy of childhood; its memories tend to be indelible. The book's concluding chapter, "Portrait", is a loving reminiscence on Paulsen's own grandmother, who navigated ninety-two years of sorrow and joy on this earth. The sting of missing her is palpable in his words. I love John Ward's cover painting for the hardback edition of this book; the portrayal of the cookcamp tucked in among the Minnesota wilderness is verdant and cozy. If you enjoy Gary Paulsen's more contemplative novels—The Haymeadow or The Island, for example—be prepared to add The Cookcamp as a new favorite. I love his writing like no one else's.