Camp is a way to get kids out of the house. They are packed up—their names lovingly Magic Marker-ed onto their clothing tags—and then are shuttled off to some tick-infested wilderness, where a single ill-timed heart attack would leave them entirely to their own Machiavellian devices. At camp, you can learn new skills, like canoeing or making lanyards. You have allies, and you have enemies. You can get lucky and be praised for your successes, or unlucky and be put under house arrest because some other kid TP'd the counselor's cabin and blamed it on you. At camp, you will find nice people and mean people, joy and heartbreak. In other words, camp is life.

Girl Scout Camp

I was probably eleven or twelve when I was exiled...er...sent to Camp Kivawood, a camp for girl scouts. In the scope of all the camps I've been to, this one wasn't all that bad. It was a beautiful wooded setting, we slept in covered chalets rather than tents, and we got to do cool stuff like archery. The only problem that the counselors tended to be a bit draconian about the enforcement of rules.

A few of us were out hiking one late afternoon when the counselor called for everyone to return for dinner. This was the night we were scheduled to cook our own meals out by the campfire—pancakes, bacon, biscuits, etc.—and we had been looking forward to it all week. The other girls and I were out of earshot, though, and by the time we made it back to camp, everyone else had finished their meals.

Our counselor was livid. She thrust semi-sharpened sticks into our hands and proceeded to scoop out a large chunk of dough for each of us. Using only those flimsy sticks, we were given exactly two minutes to cook biscuits for our supper. Most of mine dripped off into the fire, and the one biscuit I managed to salvage only got hard on the exterior. I took one bite of that horrible, doughy center and decided it was a far, far better thing to go to bed hungry. The other girls did the same.

And then there were the group showers. This is one of those things grown-ups would never tolerate, but somehow, social norms dictate that it's perfectly fine for kids. One has to suspect there is at least a little malice at work here. "What can we do to exploit the painful self-consciousness of these adolescent girls?" they must ask themselves. "I know! Let's make them take their clothes off in front of one another!" At least in gym class there were separate stalls, although the lack of doors meant anyone who wanted could look in (think of the movie Carrie if you need a point of reference). But at camp, it was just these tall spigots sticking out from the ground, and we were expected to stand in a circle around it, hosing off only inches away from the other girls. Didn't they worry all this communal bathing would turn us into witches or cultists or something?

One day, I tried to leave my swimsuit on in the shower, but the counselor (who increasingly came to resemble one of the more malevolent characters in a Lemony Snicket book), reprimanded me and instructed me take my clothes off immediately. I was mortified. "If you don't take the suit off," she said sternly, "you won't get clean down there." (Here she gestured toward my swimsuit zone.) Yes, thanks, lady. This kind of hygiene pep talk really makes for a healthy outlook on one's sexuality later on. I guess it could have been worse, though. At least it wasn't like the mother from Sibyl, chanting over and over again, "dirty girl, dirty girl, such a dirty girl."

The thing I did like about girl scout camp was that I got to hear some seriously creepy stories. Late at night, with a single flashlight illuminating our faces, one girl might tell about a beautiful porcelain doll who kept killing people with her long fingers. The flashlight would be passed on to the next girl, who would tell about a sinister blue fog that came up out of a lake and swallowed some campers. And there was always some girl who told stupid, stupid jokes that were only masquerading as ghost stories. Anyone remember "roll the log over, roll the log over"? I won't go into detail about that one. Despite what you've been told, I do have some sense of decorum.

Next time: Bible camp!

Tags: lapsus