The Camping Life

I was a Brownie and then a Girl Scout from 1952 to 1956. That last year I was too embarrassed to let anyone outside my family know that I was a Girl Scout. It was not cool in the seventh grade.

I had read that Debbie Reynolds proudly walked through the halls of Burbank High wearing her Girl Scout uniform all four years. I admired her chutzpah, but I couldn’t even bring myself to wear that uniform in 7th grade. I remember selling the famous cookies one Saturday in 7th grade, and we had to wear our uniforms when selling out in public. The uniform consisted of a dark green skirt and a white blouse. I could have passed as a civilian except for the fact that we had to wear our a sash with all the badges we had earned sewn on (I to think that was a badge, too!).

On that last day I would ever sell a cookie, I was relieved that we were selling at a church in downtown Ontario. I knew none of my friends would be coming to a church — especially on a Saturday.

All of that being said, I did learn a lot from the Girl Scouts

I first camped with the Brownies back in 1952. We practiced in the backyard of the Girl Scout meeting house. We made all-in-one dinners in foil and buried them in hot coals. We roasted marshmallows and made S’mores with chocolate bars and graham crackers. You know you have to get the marshmallow to just the right roasted point, then you slap it on top of a Hershey’s chocolate piece, which, in turn, is on top of another graham cracker. The hot marshmallow melts the chocolate and is great tasting, but let’s admit it; a S’more is a great- tasting delicacy no matter how you slice it. You can’t really screw it up, and I often didn’t have the patience to slowly roast the marshmallow. What I did was to catch the marshmallow on fire and then when it’s cool enough to touch, you pull off the skin.

We prepared all our cooking pots for use over an open fire by smearing a paste concocted of laundry powder and water all over the outside of the pot. At clean-up time, this peeled right off the pot — theoretically.

We washed our tin cups and dishes and utensils by putting them in a mesh bag and then dipping them, alternatively, into soapy hot water and then plain hot water, which, of course, we had boiled in that soap-slathered pot. We hung the bags on a clothesline we had rigged up between two trees.

I used these techniques on the only camping trip our parents ever took us on to Sequoia National Park. That trip was the ideal I looked for the rest of my camping life. We had the perfect trees, which goes without saying, the perfect spot with a picnic table, and bathrooms nearby. Deer walked thought our campsite, and there was rumor of a bear roaming the forest.

We Girl Scouts soon graduated to real camping in Peter’s Canyon in Orange County where it rained the entire weekend, and from which many scout groups departed, but not us. We were tough. Or, more likely, our leader, Mrs. Brown, wouldn’t let us leave. She was a tough brown nut of a woman, and she could spit as far as a man could.

Next was Lake Arrowhead in the San Bernardino Mountains. We camped on the south shore of the lake, and our camp number was “22.” I remember this number because a skunk ran through our camp and one of our pup tents, which news spread like wildfire throughout the campground.

Within a matter of minutes, we heard, through the trees, in a sing-song manner, these words: TWENTY-TWO, P-U.

When I was twelve, I signed up to go to Camp Conifer in the San Bernardino Mountains — for ten days. Most of the girls went with buddies, but I, for some reason went by myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends — or was it — just no friends that were still Girl Scouts.

We learned table manners — you should cut your toast into quarters and not put your feet on the table — but more importantly I learned about the different lives we all had. I fell in with the two charity girls in my camp. They were kind, shy and quiet, and I was drawn to them. The rest of the girls seemed very high-strung and uber-emotional — a type I try to avoid to this day — unless, of course, one is born to you.

One night, under the stars we all got into deep discussions. It was everything from starting our “periods” to “my father doesn’t love me.” It went from there to divorced parents, dead parents, mean parents, selfish siblings and my-boyfriend-dumped -me.

That night we learned that our camp counselors had problems, too. One of them had just experienced a broken engagement. This was serious stuff, and it made us feel more grown up because she shared with us.

There was a lot of hysterical crying and girls practically shouting their most intimate feelings.

My new friends and I mostly listened quietly.

Around 10:00 that night, here came the camp administrators.

An elderly (she was probably about 35) woman came up to me in my cot with my blanket over my head and asked, “So, how are you?” “I’m okay,” I told her, shyly. She gave me a pat on the shoulder and said, “You can’t know how relieved I am to hear that,” and she moved on to the next trembling cot.

I was SO homesick, but my parents received glowing reports from me in the letters I sent home. Those letters described all of our activities and hikes, which, on paper, DID sound good. I even missed my sister and brother, and when I got that first letter back from home, I cried and cried — quietly, of course.

Mom and Uncle Jack were there to pick me up when I returned to the Scout headquarters. Mom excitedly asked me if I’d had a good time— because of those letters. I told them I hated every minute, and they both had a good laugh over that.

And my brother and sister? I went back to fighting and arguing with them within five minutes of my return.

As I look back on it I think about how I really felt. I wasn’t an especially dramatic little girl. Was it because I wasn’t “allowed” to be? My siblings and I were taught to show adults the utmost respect, which had many aspects of good, but did it stifle us to a certain extent?

My sister and I often talk about our children and the fact that they have minds of their own and are not interested in our opinions about how they should live their lives.

We ask ourselves if our parents ruled by fear? Our kids were definitely not afraid of us, but at the same time respectful (mostly) — just more independent. To this day every once in awhile I can feel a tiny bit of reproach from my mother when I misbehave even though she’s been gone from this earthly plane for almost ten years.

The Girl Scouts were good for me, and I did learn lots about responsibility, camaraderie and the different lives we all lead.

The End