Of toothbrushes, ceramic mugs and bullies gone by

It's probably the oldest thing I own and I see it everyday.
Every ... single ... day.
Three or four times a day, actually, because I like to practice good dental health.

My "Goddard Youth Camp" mug, circa 1975.
It's a dingy old  relic but it serves a purpose.

I'm referring to the mug I use to house my toothbrush; a thick-handled, ceramic (I think) mug that, to the best of my recollection, is at least 38 years old.
Across the front of it reads: "Goddard Youth Camp," a camp I visited as (I think) an 11-year-old growing up in the suburbs of Dallas.
Camp Goddard is located in Sulphur, Oklahoma, a town I know little about, other than the fact a map is telling me it sits between Dallas and Oklahoma City, not far off the I-35 freeway (I looked it up; thank you, Internet).
For our purposes here, the camp's exact location is irrelevant because that's not what I remember about it.
What I DO remember, is the lake -- The Lake of the Arbuckles (thanks again, Internet) -- the cabins, the trees and the bullies.
The lake, cabins and trees, I remember fondly.
The bullies, not so much.
Funny thing, though. The bullies are what I remember best ... or, at least, the most.
Now, before I get myself in trouble with the Camp Goddard folks, let me state without equivocation, I have fond memories of my time there, nearly four decades ago. I was a fifth grader, having just moved with my family from the suburbs of Kansas City to Plano, Texas.
My fifth grade teacher, Ms. Nollner, was a saintly, wonderful person who immediately took pity on me even though (or perhaps because) I was a misfit full of hyperactive energy. Looking back on it, I was a confused kid, freshly relocated to a new home and desperately trying to make new friends. I struggled to fit in and Ms. Nollner knew it, so she somehow got me and a few other boys from my class invited to Camp Goddard for a week.
As I recall, our fathers camp up for at least one night, possibly more.
The dads weren't around when the bullying took place, that was just between us boys.
To the best of my knowledge, the bullying wasn't particularly heinous or cruel, just sort of mean and a bit hurtful.
It wasn't physical, it was mental. Unkind words, teasing from a group of boys whose friendship I wanted but never got.
Basically, the stuff 10- and 11-year-old boys do to each other.
I bring up the bullying for two reasons: one, to point out that it existed 38 years ago (and well beyond that), just as it still exists today; and two, to note that I survived it, for lack of a better term.
And while I'd never suggest the bullying I "survived" was harsher than what misfit kids face today (far from it), I think we're fixated on it today, far more than we were 38, 40, 50 ... 100 years ago.
Bullies come in all shapes and sizes, always have. They come from all walks of life, too. And those who are bullied also come in all shapes and sizes, and from all walks of life. It's worth remembering that one needn't be gay or straight; black or white; skinny or fat; short or tall; redheaded or blond to be singled out and bullied.
I fear we've lost sight of that fact today.
Bullying isn't fair, isn't fun, isn't right in any of its forms. But it's a fact of life, just like the biology of lakes and pine trees and the unique smell of cabins in the woods.
And that brings us back to the mug that houses my toothbrush.
I don't remember how I ended up with it, I only know I've had it for at least 38 years. Somehow it survived Camp Goddard and well beyond, from fifth grade through high school graduation; college and even through 26 years of marriage.
For as long as I can remember, I've used it as a place to park my toothbrush. It sits there, dutifully, near the sink, patiently waiting for me to stop by for a quick brushing.
It's the oldest thing I own and I'm glad I've got it because it reminds me of simpler days and long-ago memories, some pleasant and some not-so-pleasant ... but all of them meaningful.