KEEPSAKES AND DISCOVERIES AND MEMORIES, OH MY

Staring into my shambles of a closet I pondered all that could be accomplished. And then I spied a container of mementos and pulled that sucker down. Opening up that Pandora’s box offered up a whole mess of nostalgia. Huddled up to that receptacle, all scooched over, in full anticipation…I was transfixed and transported for HOURS. It was filled to the brim with impassioned letters of love, grammar school assessments, youthful prose, photos I had clean forgotten existed and remnants of notes that had passed between the rows of my sixth grade classroom…each and every object-of-affection offering a window to my past.

I WAS NOT PREPARED

Folded beneath that pile of keepsakes I stumbled upon my Girl Scout sash – troop 1611 – all loaded up with silver dollar sized badges earned by completing specific tasks. Some of those circular tokens indicate the obvious efforts I laid claim to…first aide, cooking, reading, sewing…while others leave me a bit puzzled. Did I find a buried treasure? Looks like I did. Drink a cup of coffee? It appears so. Took a magic carpet ride? In case you doubt…here’s the proof.

And attending a 12-day overnight stretch at Girl Scout Camp should have earned me a special commemorative badge of SURVIVAL.

Glamping

Upon arrival to this scouting rite of passage, my cousin and I were shown to our little home-away-from-home quarters. We were four girls to a tent – a wooden platform, draped on all four sides in khaki canvas, furnished with four cots where we plonked down our sleeping bags. A red fire bucket adorned the outside of the dwelling; serving as the finishing touch. Mornings brought to light the bats that had committed hara-kiri in that water-filled bucket.

My cuz and I quickly recognized our new comrades as being the more courageous, so we hammered out a deal. Those brave warriors would fish out those dead chiropterans for us and, on top of that, knock off any creepy crawlers that crossed our paths. (as for our end of the bargain – we offered nil, nada, bupkis) And yet, even our accommodations being the farthest from the latrine wasn’t a deterrent for our brave tent-mates…one yell, “there’s a spider!!!! and they would come bounding down the hill like the super star scouts they were. Our heroes!

Survival of the fittest

In quick time, our leaders alluded to something about chores needing to be done in order to keep everything in tiptop shape. And with that came daily inspections…sleeping bags stretched taut, floors swept, duffle bags stored beneath cots…they took this sh*t seriously. Along with those housekeeping duties, our entire unit of 20 was separated into subgroups where we were expected to buckle down to work. My chain gang of gawky 10-11 year olds spent days digging ditches outside the latrine. Were our parents informed of this forced labor camp?  I think not.

Ah…the romance of the great outdoors

Around the campfire, fire a-blazing, guitars in hand, snuggled closely together, our delightful counselors time and time again sang us a heart-warming tale about a little boy dying a laborious, painful death. Oh, AND stories about a mass murderer, named Stumpy, who could materialize from the opposite side of the lake to kill all us little scouts. Panic-stricken, I burrowed my way into my cousin’s sleeping bag where the zipper got stuck and we almost suffocated. Next day… she got lost in a canoe with a girl we called Pickles whose mantra was “we’re gonna die”. We shoulda bailed right then and there.

Such sweet salvation

My parents did send a giant sheet cake to my unit in celebration of my eleventh birthday. (Wait…was camp supposed to be my b-day present??!!) And following the usual rigmarole of song and eating of cake, my counselors clued me in on where the leftovers would be stashed – and that I could share my bounty at any time. I turned to my cousin with a conspiratorial smile…but little did she know what was about to go down.  When the coast was clear I grabbed her and we hightailed it over to the cupboard hiding that sweet treat where we quickly stuffed ourselves full of that finger-licking confection. Every. Single. Morsel.

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

In my stockpile of memorabilia, I found two separate bundles of letters having to do with camp – one pile outgoing – one pile incoming. And they are quite contrasting in tone. Incoming, my mom and dad wrote that they were sorry to hear that I was NOT enjoying myself. They proceeded to use the ‘little engine that could’ as the metaphor in their pep talk by encouraging me to think…I like my camp, I like my camp, I like my camp. How did I not rip that letter to pieces?? My outgoing letters included the following subtle phrases, “I hate this place”, “I cry all day long”, “here are my tears” (encircled on the paper), “I’m digging ditches”.

Now you tell me…didn’t I make myself…perfectly clear, perfectly clear, perfectly clear?

THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Returning home on the bus, after that grueling getaway, I recall those familial faces awaiting our release. Making a mad dash for the exit we piled out of that cruiser. Even my rough and tumble squaddies kissed the ground and ran headlong, tears streaming, straight for loving arms. The finger-pointing would come later.

Was camp character-building? Did it encourage self-sufficiency and inspire a love of overnighting with a bunch of incompetent counselors? NOOOO. But the memories, dredged up by my rendezvous with that hoarded container, are all worth the price of attendance…no refund necessary.

But perhaps grounds for a mea culpa.