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“What are you giving up for Lent?” has become about as meaningful as “What are your New Year’s Resolutions?” I have to be honest: I haven’t given anything up for Lent since I was a kid. I’m considering it, this year. What prompted this? I was repenting my gluttony (seriously - I’ve lost 43 lbs. and gained back 30 - that’s disgusting) and renewing my commitment to good nutrition and fitness (again) and looking for a SparkTeam that might help me figure out why I’d sabotaged myself after such significant success, when I ran across one called 40 Days and 40 Nights (for Lent). Not a member, yet?

What caught my eye was the mention of bread, and how giving it up had once led the team leader to lose a good chunk of weight.

And thinking back on when I first started losing weight, bread was one of the things I cut out cold turkey. I like bread. I especially like bread with butter on it. One piece leads to two. Two leads to a sandwich. With cheese. But I can eliminate bread and not feel too deprived; if I don’t taste it - don’t think about it - I can live without it just fine. I don’t feel particularly “deprived.” I think of it with longing; I’m tempted. But…life goes on. Maybe it would be good to give up bread again.

I remember the first time I “cheated” on the diet (I hate calling it a “diet” because it was really just eating healthy, making better choices, limiting portions) - I think it involved having a piece of pizza. And what is pizza? Yummy stuff - on bread. So pizza’s got to go, too. And fried foods. Popeyes. Because… well, because. Greasy food’s bad for ya.

Now, I realize that the giving up of pleasurable things is supposed to be penance for our sins - and maybe it is - but ultimately, I’m going to reap the rewards, in better health and weight loss. (I think there may be a deeper spiritual message in that, but I’m not sure I’m up to playing connect the dots. Suffice it to say that if penance were truly akin to punishment, I should be forcing myself to eat chocolate - or bread - until it comes out my nostrils…which, tempting as that sounds right now, after having had carrots and Lean Cuisine for lunch, ain’t gonna happen. I’m all out of low-fat chocolate, palm-kernel oil blobs, anyway.)

I like this notion of adding something for Lent. Some of the things I’m thinking of adding:

• Learn to make Simnel Cake and bring two or three to church on Mothering Sunday (not to be confused with Mother’s Day). (Here’s another recipe.)
• Exercise. Regularly. Or don’t eat the Simnel Cake!
• Be brave; get out there and “just do it.” Camping, book signings, volunteering, school visits (if they’ll have me)… Just do it.

So, what are you giving up for Lent? (Yes, you - feel free to add a comment. It’s not like a private golf course where you can’t step on the grass - c’mon in, chat a while.)

25 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? 26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? 27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? 28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: 29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Matthew 6:25-29 (KJV)

I’d like to be crazy, sometimes. Crazy people are like the lilies of the field; it falls to God or others to take care of them. Notice how Matthew never mentions the industrious honey bee that ensures the lilies’ survival. Or the farmer who toils in the field to grow the grain the geese feast upon. Like it’s all manna from heaven…

But speaking of manna from heaven, if you ever run across grain that looks like coriander seed, is waxy-white in color, and tastes like fresh oil, eat it and be thankful. Smile, eat, and keep the retching down to a dull roar. Whatever you do, don’t ask for meat. Verily, that annoyeth the Lord.

…the LORD will give you flesh, and ye shall eat. 19 Ye shall not eat one day, nor two days, nor five days, neither ten days, nor twenty days; 20 But even a whole month, until it come out at your nostrils, and it be loathsome unto you: because that ye have despised the LORD which is among you, and have wept before him, saying, Why came we forth out of Egypt?

Numbers 11:18-20 (KJV)

Hmm. You give your kids the best of everything: fruits, vegetables, milk, bread - and still, they prefer McDonald’s. So you say, “Fine. Let’s go to Mickey D’s. But you know what? You’re getting to be a big kid, now, so let’s get you three double Quarter Pounders instead of that Happy Meal. In fact, you could probably use a side of chicken nuggets and a couple of large fries, couldn’t you?”

“Oooh, can I really get all that?”

“Can you eat it all?”

“Yes!” The kid’s chest puffs out. They’re feeling all grown up. You can almost hear the chest hairs sprouting.

“Sure, then. But you have to eat it all. No wasting food, okay? Deal?”

“Yay!!! Deal!”

You know how this goes, right? The kid’s eyes light up. He’s in McDonald’s heaven. About halfway through the first Quarter Pounder, he’s full - but he knows he can’t admit that to Mom or Dad. He dutifully finishes it off, picks at a few fries, looks up to see if anyone’s watching. They are. Reluctantly, he picks up the second Quarter Pounder… By the third, he’s about got Quarter Pounder coming out his nose and ears, and he’s turned a lovely shade of puke green.

Morals:

• Waste not, want not.
• Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.
• Don’t be a little ingrate, you snot-nosed brat. (God had His bad days as a parent, too. I now feel a little better about the time William and I had that battle over strained carrots and he somehow ended up with a spoonful of them dripping off the end of his nose. At least he didn’t have a nose dripping off his FACE… Playing the leprosy card seems a little harsh, even for God.)

5 And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. 6 But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. 7 But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. 8 Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.

Matthew 6:5-8 (KJV)

Or, as my dad used to say, “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.” My closet is my head. My conversations with God, one-sided as they often are, are between Him and me. My prayers, more often than not, consist of things like, “Oooh, cool rainbow! Thank you for that,” or, “Gee, I appreciate the vote of confidence here, but they’re always saying you don’t ask us to carry burdens greater than we can bear, and I think I just heard three vertebrae pop…”

Really. My needs are few, and I’ve already been given the means and the ability to take care of most of them without having to ask for divine intervention at every turn. Thank you for that. I keep thinking that Divine intervention is for things like…Darfur. Iraq. And a culture where it’s becoming increasingly commonplace for people to kill their babies and dump them at the side of the road. My needs, such as they are, can wait.

Katie is #11 on Richard Blackwell’s “10 Worst Dressed Women” list for 1989. When she was a year old, I wrote to about 160 celebrities in a variety of fields: entertainment, sports, law, science, medicine, music, etc. and asked them to send her birthday greetings, since a first birthday is a major milestone in her life, but not one she’s likely to remember. Over half of them wrote back. My parents had been on two cruises with Mr. Blackwell, and he asked which list we thought Katie would like to be on: Best Dressed, or Worst. Well, who remembers who’s on the BEST Dressed list?

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Mr. Blackwell, what do you think now? Erma Bombeck wrote one of my favorite letters to Katie:

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Of course, I made sure to tell Katie all about this album and all about Erma, but I guess it didn’t register. Not really. But at 19, she’s in college, and some of the names are starting to mean something to her. So this afternoon, I was helping her with her speech, “A Brush with Greatness,” and I reminded her about the album and all the celebrities who had taken a few minutes to wish her a happy birthday. I started to tell her about this letter, and she blurted out, right on cue: “Who the heck is Erma Bombeck?” See? Erma really did know everything.

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Now there’s a little slice of history; it’s particularly appropriate now that Katie is old enough to vote, and we have our first female candidate for President of the United States.

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This is the one I was so sure wouldn’t answer, and yet…he did. Federico Fellini. I was utterly amazed when I opened this envelope and tucked it into my daughter’s birthday scrapbook. There are so many more: Jonas Salk, Theodore Geisel, Hank Ketchum, Lillian Gish…amazing.

One thing I learned through this labor of love: the bigger they are, the nicer they are. It might have been prophetic - I never did get a response from Michael Jackson. But from Bob Hope, Michael DeBakey, Arnold Palmer, Larry Holmes - I got personal notes or autographed photos (sometimes both!). Past Presidents, Supreme Court Justices, Prime Ministers, and Ladies in Waiting all took time to reply.

It truly was a first birthday to remember, and a gift to cherish for a lifetime.

Friday evening, January 8, 1999

Katie and I loaded up the car with our camping gear, said goodbye to the menfolk, and headed for Matzke Elementary to meet the other members of Girl Scout Troop #5506: Chris and Danielle; Debbie and Brianne; Sheila and Heather; Renee and Nicole; Karen and Melissa; Toni and Jessica; Autumn and Ershekka. We stopped at Kroger’ s on the way to buy ice. We got to the school parking lot about 20 minutes before the other girls arrived, giving us time for a quick bathroom stop at the school. The drive up to Camp Misty Meadows, just north of Conroe, Texas, was fun. Katie and I munched on “contraband” snacks—Potato Air Crisps and gum-filled “rainsticks.”

If I hadn’t known where I was going, I’d have been lost—I’ve been accused of having a “lead foot,” but these other women drove FASTER! I goofed once on I-45 and got into a lane that ended in an exit. Toni was right behind me, but didn’t recognize me so she wouldn’t let me back into traffic! Some kind stranger about two cars behind us let me back in, and I caught up to the others quickly enough. We had agreed to meet again at Wendy’s near the outlet malls, then to caravan from there to the camp a few miles away. We were all surprised at how cold and windy it was by the time we got there. We went inside for a quick bathroom break, and when we came out again it was raining heavily.

At least we would be staying in heated cabins, or so we had been told. Just a half mile or so down the highway, we found the entrance to Camp Misty Meadows. It looked like a windy dirt road leading into the darkest heart of the wilderness. I kept telling myself it couldn’t be all that bad or they wouldn’t let a bunch of kids camp here in January. We checked in near the gate, then drove on to the parking area. According to the map we’d been given, our cabin cluster was about as far from the parking area as we could get. The rain had almost stopped, and I think we all said a little prayer that it would not start again until we’d had a chance to unload and haul our gear to the cabins.

It’s very dark in the woods at night. And very quiet, unless you’re with 9 little girls who are all flip- flopping between anticipation, cold, excitement, fear, hunger, tiredness, restlessness, and pent-up energy. The leaders told them to go grab some carts. The carts turned out to be great big wooden boxes perched on two wheels—rusted rims that might have had tires on them once, 30 years ago. For the first time that weekend, it occurred to me that we looked like pioneer women lugging the Conestoga wagons after the horses died. Renee, still recovering from surgery on her toe, was wearing a cast on her foot. She pulled her own weight—and helped pull the carts—throughout the weekend, putting some of us to shame. I’m not sure I’d have tried to go on a camping trip, let alone this one, with a cast on my foot. Her bare toes looked cold to the rest of us, but she assured us the cast kept them toasty warm.

Many of the wooden boxes had rotted or broken bottoms. We found the best ones available, and started unloading the cars. The leaders had told the girls that they had to do most of the work this weekend, and that they were to haul their personal gear themselves—only the adults’ stuff was to go on the carts. As Moms, we overlooked the fact that their sleeping bags and duffel bags ended up on the carts along with everything else; it was enough that the girls had to push and pull the unwieldy carts up the dirt path through the woods to the cabins in the dark. We passed two other cabin clusters before coming to a sign with the name of our cluster, “Low,” (for Girl Scout founder Juliette Gordon Low) on it. The first building we came to turned out to be the toilet and shower facilities. At least we would not have to use an outhouse or chemical toilets—these were clean and modem. There were four toilets, three shower stalls, and six sinks. The building felt warm, but I think only because there were no open windows to let in the wind. On the outside of the building there was a fire extinguisher. Inside, there was a supply closet with buckets, brooms, and mops.

We waited outside while the Troop Leaders, Chris and Debbie, inspected the cabins. They warned us of a muddy place right outside the first cabin; Debbie had slipped and fallen in it. In a cluster of six cabins, our Troop had three; we had all of Side A. The toilets and showers we would have to share with campers on Side B, but they did not arrive until later Friday night.

The cabins were NOT heated. They were wooden structures with wide windows on all sides. The windows were covered only with metal screens and tarpaulins that could be lashed down on the outside to block some of the wind. The floors were bare concrete, cold as ice. The roofs were made of sheet metal, and there were lacy, blue-black patterns of mold on the inside ceilings. Each cabin was partially divided into two sleeping areas with four cots on each side. The cots were not uncomfortable, but their metal frames were beginning to rust and mine creaked loudly in protest if I so much as inhaled deeply while laying on it. We did, at least, have fluorescent ceiling lights and electrical outlets; there were also electric fans for the summer campers, but we wouldn’t be needing them!

We chose our cots, unrolled our sleeping bags, and stored our duffel bags beside them. We grabbed our “sack dinners” and met at the kitchen area. The kitchen area was a covered patio divided in two by cabinets and wooden partitions. Inside the cabinets were pots, pans, skillets, metal plates, and utensils. Blue plastic crates hung by ropes from the edge of the roof provided space for drying dishes and cookware. At either end of the divider was a small closet containing a shovel, a hoe, a rake, a hatchet, and a saw. There were two large wooden picnic tables and benches on each side, two rusty, soot-blackened grills, and a cold-water faucet provided clean running water for washing and drinking. To the left of the kitchen area was the fire pit, surrounded on three sides by low wooden benches. It was still raining, on and off, so despite the bitter cold there was no talk of lighting a fire Friday night. Katie and I dined on hot chili from a Thermos, garnished with diced tomatoes, onions, and grated cheese. I made a small salad of the shredded lettuce and diced tomatoes. I had forgotten to bring the tortilla chips up from the car, but neither of us felt hungry enough to trek back to the parking area for chips.

We shared the chili with Danielle and Nicole, since they were the first to say how yummy it looked and weren’t shy about asking for some! Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough for everyone—we were teased for not bringing enough to go around, and I think ours was the only hot dinner eaten that night. (Credit for the idea goes to Julia C., Katie’s violin teacher. She and her family are veteran campers. She also loaned us a sleeping bag and two spare blankets.) The girls were divided into three “patrols”: the lions, the cheetahs, and – some other critters. Each team took turns at various daily chores, such as fire-building, cooking, and cleaning. Katie was assigned to the lion patrol. After dinner we went back to the cabins to settle in. Our cabin mates had been assigned to us by the Leaders. Not everyone was happy with the arrangements at first; one of the girls was in tears and the first of a few catty remarks were whispered among some of the moms and even some of the girls.

Autumn and Ershekka were assigned to separate cabins (their mother had not come with them, so I assume that had to do with the ratio of girls to adults). Conspiracy, rebellion, and open defiance had been a joke before we left—some of us threatening to bring steaks to grill or Kahlua to flavor our camp coffee, or making midnight runs to the nearby Wendy’s if the girls dropped our dinners on the ground by the campfire while they cooked. Now there was precious little humor in it—the conditions seemed ridiculously harsh for a bunch of 9 and 10 year old girls (and their mothers!), and none of us could see anything “fun” about this adventure yet. For better or worse, we were captives; the camp gates were locked at 10.

At first, the girls behaved as if it were a slumber party. They got into their jammies, pushed their cots together, and tried to play games and tell “ghost stories.” Not one brave soul in the bunch, they decided to skip the scary stories and play charades. Autumn acted out the word “moon” by “mooning” the others. Some of them pretended to be highly offended, but they all got a good giggle out of it. All I could think was how brave and silly this girl was—after all, it was already below freezing! I could hardly stand the thought of taking my clothes off to dress for bed! We had arrived at camp just before 8 PM, but by the time we finished dinner and headed for the cabins it was almost midnight. Everyone was tired and cold, and before long even the girls wanted to crawl down into their sleeping bags, tuck their heads in like turtles, and go to sleep. Katie had fun arranging her sleeping bag and extra blanket, and seemed warm enough once she was situated. We roomed with Karen, Melissa, and Ershekka.

Karen and her daughter, Melissa, had brought sleeping bags, but nothing really warm to wear. They dressed in layers, but it was layers of short sleeved t-shirts and shorts. Karen swore to me that she wasn’t cold, but I felt colder just looking at her. Autumn and Ershekka had nightgowns and satin slippers. Their sleeping bags were fine for living room slumber parties, but not enough for the dead of winter. Their mother, for medical reasons, had not been able to come with them, and we all tried to look out for them as best we could, but most of us hadn’t brought much warmth to spare. Hypothermia was a real worry. We turned out the lights.

The girls giggled and made noises for a while. They even sang the theme songs from Teletubbies and Blue’s Clues, then started talking about serial killers who stalked defenseless girls camped out in the middle of the woods. Karen and I were the only ones who had actually SEEN the Friday the 13th movies, and we started making Mrs. Voorhees’ theme noise at each other—”hee hee hoo boo. . . hee hee boo hoo.. .“ I said that anyone who overheard us and hadn’t seen the movie might think one of us was about to give birth. Karen giggled. The girls didn’t exactly “get it,” but pretty soon everyone got the creeps just from talking about scary things that go bump in the night and agreed to settle down and be quiet.

Outside, an icy wind raced through the trees. Inside, my legs felt cold as marble right down to the bone. I thought, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake.., at least I won’t have to get out of this sleeping bag, find the flashlight, and trudge to the bathroom in the cold.” I hoped that Katie would be all right, and wondered if we should’ve tried to sleep in one sleeping bag to share some body heat. The temperature outside fell to below freezing. At 2:00 AM, I woke up and realized I hadn’t died in my sleep. I was disappointed, though, that I had only slept for about an hour, and that there were many more hours to go until daylight, and that I really WAS going to have to pull on my shoes, grab the flashlight, and check out the bathroom facilities.

The wind was really loud, but it didn’t sound like it was raining. Damn—if it had been 5:00 AM, I might’ve been able to lay there and put it off until sunrise. Then again, it wasn’t likely to be any warmer at sunrise, and it might be raining then. The cot creaked loudly as I shifted my weight and sat up to put on my shoes. It shrieked when I stood up. I thought surely it would wake everyone in the cabin, but they all seemed to be sleeping soundly. I wondered for a moment if they had all frozen to death in their sleep. I checked on Katie, and was relieved to see that her breathing was steady and she wasn’t huddled in a ball trying to stay warm. The extra blanket in her sleeping bag must have helped some. She looked comfortable enough. Her cheek felt warm. I gasped as I opened the cabin door and the cold wind hit me in the face. The bathrooms were just two cabins away, and I walked quickly, careful not to slip in the muddy place next to the first cabin.

The bathroom was warmer than the cabins. The Troop Leaders had brought toilet paper and the toilets flushed—in circumstances like these, one can be inordinately thankful for small blessings. On my way out, I discovered a small heat lamp in the ceiling, located the timer switch, and turned it on. The coils began to glow. I stood under it for several minutes; the warm glow felt so good I didn’t want to leave. But I was tired, too, and knew I’d need a few more hours’ sleep before starting the day. I hoped that the timer worked properly, that the heat lamp wouldn’t overheat and set fire to the bathrooms, but I didn’t spend a LOT of time worrying about it.

When I got back inside the cabin, the girls were still fast asleep. One of them murmured something; another snored. Karen shined her flashlight in my eyes and whispered to me that she hadn’t been able to get to sleep at all. “Have a Triscuit,” she said. “Would you like a Pepsi, too?” We munched Triscuits, spicy bacon rinds, and Snackwell cookies for the next 30 minutes, savoring our guilty pleasures. We had been told by the Troop Leaders not to bring snacks, and that we weren’t supposed to have food inside the cabins. I could imagine Debbie scolding us, saying, “What kind of an example are you setting for the girls?” Looking back, I think maybe the girls set a better example for us in some ways, and I’m very proud of Katie. She handled herself responsibly and with surprising maturity all weekend. I saw a side to her that I HOPED existed, but didn’t expect to see surface for years to come.

Finally, I had to get some sleep, so I padded back to my own cot on the far side of the room, took off my muddy, sandy shoes, and crawled back into my turtle-shell of a sleeping bag. I closed my eyes and drifted back off to sleep, hoping sleep—and morning—would come quickly.

Saturday morning, January 9, 1999

At 5:00 AM, I had to make another trip to the bathroom. I figured I might as well take my toothbrush along and start getting ready to face the day. It was still dark, still cold, still windy. It was another two hours before anyone else got up. There wasn’t much to do but lay in bed and think warm thoughts. Once everyone woke up and got moving, we started a charcoal tire in the two grills in the kitchen area.

The lion patrol—Katie’s team—was to do the cooking. We dined on sausage and eggs scrambled with diced potatoes. It was very tasty. The cleanup patrol had to wash all of the cookware, dishes, and utensils in three buckets of water, but that would have to wait until after horseback riding. By the time we were done building a fire to cook over, cooking breakfast, and eating breakfast, it was time to go to the barn. I longed for a microwave or an automatic dishwasher!

Katie’s toes were ice cold; her lips were purple, cracked, and blistered. I was worried that she was showing early signs of frostbite. I held her foot in my hands and tried to rub some color back into her toes, but they were white and no amount of rubbing made them pink again. I hadn’t realized how thin her socks were, but they were too thick to double up and fit into her shoes. I gave her a pair of mine. I told Chris, Debbie, and Renee about my fear that Katie was developing frostbite, and they suggested wrapping her feet up in plastic bags. Katie didn’t want to wear grocery bags on her feet, but I told her it was better than losing her toes to frostbite. Debbie and Renee also made her go back to the cabin, change into her flannel jammies, and put her jeans back on over them. Renee loaned her a woolen cap that covered her neck, too.

I prayed that I wouldn’t have to rush Katie to the hospital later. Was I committing child abuse by letting her stay here at all? Katie asked me if she got frostbite, would the doctors try other things to save her toes before they cut them off? I assured her they would, if they could, but asked her if maybe it was time to call it quits and go home now. No, she insisted that her feet already felt warmer and that she’d be okay.

There was another bit of excitement Saturday morning—Autumn found a mouse in her duffel bag! One of the girls caught it and let it go outside. Later, we heard that it had met up with campers on the other side of our cabin cluster, and we hoped it stayed there or ran off into the woods! We headed off to the barn. The adults who wanted to were allowed to ride, too. We had to wear borrowed boots and helmets, neither of which were comfortable. I made a small protest—after all, my riding instructor had told me years ago that I did a better job of keeping my heels down in tennis shoes than I did when I wore boots, and adults are not required by law (as are children) to wear helmets. I would definitely wear a helmet if we were going to jump, but some of these girls had never ridden a horse before! We weren’t likely to trot, let alone jump. But I wore the battered boots and ill-fitting helmet because I wanted to ride.

“This is Girl Scout Camp,” one of the counselors reminded me with a smile that mixed patronizing with slightly sympathetic. “I’m starting to ‘get it,” I thought. Girl Scout Camp was survivalist boot camp for little girls. We got about 30 minutes of basic riding instruction in the ring—”Walk on,” “Easy now,” and “Whoa!” were the key words. They showed us how to mount and dismount. (It was all slow motion—no flying dismounts for this class!) I rode Bud, a golden appaloosa, and Katie rode Sniffer. Both were beautiful horses and very well-behaved. It looked at first like I would have to ride without stirrups, since the girls in charge couldn’t adjust them long enough for my legs. But another girl came over and fixed the problem just before we started to ride.

Proper spacing and pacing of the horses on the trails was important, so we were told that if we could look between our horse’s ears and see the hooves of the horse in front of us, we were fine. Otherwise, we were to pull back and release the reins while saying “easy now” or “whoa.” We left the ring and made two painfully slow circles through the woods, then the ride was over. I wanted to break away from the line and take Bud for a good canter across the field, but figured they’d have me mucking out stalls for a week if I tried it.

Katie did a good job of controlling Sniffer and looked good sitting tall in the saddle. I thought what fun it would be for her—maybe for the two of us—to take lessons somewhere close to home where we might really be allowed to ride and she could experience the thrill of a good gallop across an open field. By the time we hiked back to the cabin cluster, Karen and Melissa had called it quits and gone home. I never even had a chance to tell them goodbye.

After the cleanup patrol did the dishes, using water heated over the campfire, the Troop Leaders showed the girls how to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on the foil-lined bottoms of upended coffee cans. The cans had vent holes cut into their sides, and were placed over “buddy burners”—small cans (like tuna cans) filled with cardboard strips and paraffin wax. The firestarters (lion patrol) lit the burners. Katie learned how to strike a match and start a fire. The fires had to be tended carefully—some burned too hot, some went out too soon and had to be relit. But miracle of miracles, it is indeed possible to make a grilled cheese sandwich this way! If the sandwiches hadn’t gotten chilled by the frigid air on their way to the table, they’d ‘have been delicious! There were baked beans and chips, as well. These little stoves are designed for single use, so they didn’t have to be washed. But the baked bean pot, dishes, cups, and silverware had to be scrubbed. Again, water was heated over the campfire. One pan of hot, soapy water was used for scrubbing. One pan of hot clear water was used for rinsing, and a final bath in chlorinated water insured disinfection.

Some of the girls soon got dishpan hands from scrubbing and scouring cookware in the cold. I checked Katie’s feet again, and they looked fine—a nice, healthy pink. Her lips were another story. By now, there was a red ring of dermatitis around them from where she’d been sucking them into her mouth, trying to alleviate the dryness. I told her to use some more Neosporin and stop licking them. I didn’t mean to lecture—I was worried and hated to see her in pain. But Katie bristled like a porcupine and I backed off. She did use the Neosporin, though, and her lips looked better by Sunday. As of Tuesday, they still had a long way to go towards healing.

Toni and I were asked to go find some pine cones, since I had forgotten to bring any from the back yard. We found a good supply of them near the swimming pool; many of them were still attached to small, dried branches. We brought back about twice as many as we needed. Later, she and I were asked to go into the woods to find more firewood. Renee had brought a box full of good logs, but the idea—I guess—was to live off the land and fend for ourselves as much as possible. It occurred to me that I should be glad the Troop Leaders brought food and didn’t make us forage for tasty bugs. We found lots of good, dry wood. Most of it was covered in greenish gray tree fungus, which burned but produced a lot of smoke. Once I realized that, I started trying to scrape it off before tossing it on the fire. I got a little pickier about what we bothered to carry back. Because Toni and I sneaked off now and then to the parking lot for a cigarette, Katie assumed that’s where we’d gone each time we disappeared—even though I usually mentioned to her what we were doing before we headed off on one of our “hunting and gathering” trips into the woods.

Katie told me, three days after we got back to civilization, that she wished I’d spent more time with her. I wanted to cry. I felt like I’d failed “Mother/Daughter Camping 101,” even though I’d have wimped out and gone home Saturday morning if not for the fact that I love my daughter and she kept insisting she wanted to stay! I was sorry we hadn’t spent more time together, too—but I hadn’t wanted to push it. For a professional communicator, I’d done a lousy job of communicating with my own daughter all weekend. Maybe longer.

It seemed to me that every time I tried to spend time with Katie, she shrugged me off to busy herself with some chore or a game with her friends. I didn’t think that she was angry with me or that she didn’t want me around, but she didn’t seem inclined to chat and acted irritated when I put an arm around her for a hug. I didn’t want to embarrass her with unwanted displays of affection. I wanted to give her time to play with the other girls when they weren’t too busy working. Offers to help her with her chores were usually turned down, maybe because the Leaders had so often said that the girls were supposed to be doing all the work themselves and learning all these skills. And we mothers had work of our own to do, as well. And maybe I didn’t offer to help enough, because my “help” so often turned into subtle criticism—”you should be adding smaller pieces, the fire’s going to go out if you pile all those big ones on it”—or unwanted advice—”be careful, don’t cut yourself doing that!”

Knowing that, and seeing how well Katie handled her work without my interference, maybe I backed off TOO much and made her do TOO much by herself. Now and then she asked me to do a little something for her, like fixing her a hot chocolate, which I was always happy to do. I thought maybe she felt that if she leaned on me just a little, she’d end up leaning on me more than she wanted to. Or maybe I was afraid we’d both end up admitting we were in over our heads and head home—I wanted to go home, but I didn’t want Katie to feel as if she had to go because I wanted to. I dont know—but I do know that if she had told me how she was feeling, or if I had told her how I was feeling, maybe we could have worked out ways to make more time and fun together, just the two of us. We were longing for the same thing, but were unable to tell each other.

Saturday afternoon, January 9, 1999

We made bird feeders out of pine cones, peanut butter, and birdseed. The girls had fun spreading peanut - butter over the pine cones and rolling them in a pan full of birdseed. Brianne made a feeder out of a wooden stick, too. We put the feeders on newspaper. After everyone had washed their hands, the girls took them out on the trail and stuck them up in the branches of trees. They made a human pyramid and I took a picture of them. For a little while, everyone was smiling, happy, and having fun.

Renee tended the fire most of the day, and it made a warm and pleasant gathering place. Katie helped her to break some of the larger branches we’d dragged back to camp, usually by propping an end on the bench and jumping on the weakest spot. Sometimes they had to saw their way through the thicker ones, using the dull camp saw. Katie enjoyed breaking the wood and helping to keep the fire going. She didn’t play at it or idly poke at the coals as so many of the girls did, and I never felt that she was putting herself in danger.

Watching my daughter, I saw plenty of proof that she was capable, trustworthy, and resourceful. After what seemed like hours of trying to get everyone organized and together in one place, we set out on a scavenger hunt. Katie and I had made up lists. Mine was a little more detailed (probably too detailed, but that’s also probably why the Leaders chose to use it instead of Katie’s, thinking it had more “educational value”). It was already late afternoon, and the sun was just above the treetops. We divided into two teams and hiked around two circular trails in opposite directions, making something of a figure 8. The girls brought back some of the items they found, those they could fit into pockets; others they left in the woods. We saw animal tracks and decided they were bobcat or mountain lion tracks. That was a little spooky. I reassured the girls that bobcats weren’t all that big and wouldn’t attack humans unless they were cornered, scared, or terribly hungry. I hoped I was right.

Autumn wrote down names and descriptions of objects found, using our backs for a writing table. We gathered up sticks and small logs for firewood on the way back to camp. Never come back empty handed! By the time we got back, it was cold again. Katie had lost one of her gloves. After her hunting desperately around the camp, sure someone had taken it, I remembered chiding her for carrying it in her headband, slung over a large branch she was hauling back for firewood. I groaned—the last time I was sure I’d seen it, we were way out on the trail.

Now, it was cold and dark—even if it was out there, I might never spot it. I told Renee what I thought, and she grabbed her flashlight. It put out a nice, strong beam of light, giving us about twice the visibility of mine. Amazingly enough, she spotted the glove just past the first bend in the trail, and we headed back to camp. I wanted to scold Katie for being so careless, but I was mainly relieved that her hands weren’t going to freeze that night. I asked her if she remembered me telling her that carrying the gloves that way wasn’t such a hot idea. She did. I told her where I’d found the glove, and she apologized.

A little while later, she traded her gloves for Brianne’s mittens, and shortly after that, one of the gloves was missing again. I wanted to scream. The missing glove was soon found again, but I wondered if it had occurred to Katie that fingers could be lost to frostbite as easily as toes. It wouldn’t be easy to replace a pair of gloves out here; I doubted anyone had brought a pair to spare.

The cooking patrol was busy by now cutting carrots, green peppers, and onions for our “foil dinners.” Some of the girls had too little to do, and they began poking at the fire. Sparks from the fire drifted up into the night. One girl would poke at the fire from one side of the grate, sending a small, glowing log rolling out towards a girl on the other side of the grate. They stared, fascinated, into the flames.

September 24, 2007

September 21, 2007

For weeks, I’d been stocking up on camping supplies. I was tempted to buy ski jackets and woolen underwear, but the weather forecasters were predicting highs in the upper 90s and lows in the upper 60s, so I packed shorts and t-shirts and tank tops and bathing suits. I bought a tent, a sleeping bag, a self-inflating pad, a camp stove, a 5-day cooler, a folding chair, propane tanks, plastic containers, a cast-iron skillet, an aluminum coffeepot – J.J. teased that if a hurricane roared up the Gulf and knocked our house down, we could live in my tent and survive on my supplies until it was rebuilt.

I got checklists from Sue D. and programmed David V.’s cell phone number into speed-dial on my cell phone. David’s a colleague of mine who used to be a park ranger where we were camping;  as it turned out, he and his family had plans to camp at Lake Somerville the same weekend. I think he may have suffered just a moment’s regret about telling me that…

Anyway, by the time we left on Friday, I was (surprisingly) starting to look forward to our trip. I stuffed all the gear into my Honda Accord and had just enough room for William and me. If J.J. and Katie wanted to go, we’d need two or three cars. We were to leave as a group by six, which meant we’d be on the road by 6:30 PM. That guaranteed it would be dark by the time we got to the lake. I had practiced pitching the tent in the back yard, on a sunny afternoon, but I had visions of spending Friday night in my car. Mr. R. assured me that someone would help me set up my tent. “You should be here when we make the boys pitch tents blindfolded,” he said.

Finding a good spot by moonlight and a lantern is tricky. “Make sure there are no anthills,” advised Mr. L. Anthills. Hmm…hadn’t thought of that, yet. Thanks. Spiders, mosquitoes, coyotes, and now fire ants. What next?

Something screamed in the dark. Gnats swirled around the lanterns, so we shut them off.

Scoping out the bathroom facilities – that’s “what next.” A semi-private bush would’ve worked just fine, by this time. I envied the guys that, just a little. Someone kindly pointed towards a light off in the distance, down a barely visible road. Barbie kindly went with me. We didn’t bother with lanterns or flashlights, so we had to walk carefully, lest we step in a gopher hole. Or a snake hole. I hope those really were gopher holes, because if I was out there sleeping with snakes that big…

The women’s room was clean, stocked with toilet paper, and full of tree frogs.

When I say “full of tree frogs,” I meant it gave a whole new meaning to the expression, “When frogs fly out my butt.” Or into it. We had to kick the commodes to evict the frogs before we sat down. Just the thought of having tree frogs jump up between my legs was almost enough to make me hold it in for the next seventy-two hours. Several small green frogs with bright yellow polka dots had taken up residence in the paper towel dispenser, and a few lurked in the folds of the plastic shower curtain that served as the door to one of the stalls. On any given night, there were at least twenty to thirty little green tree frogs climbing the walls or poking their heads out of holes.

Looking back, I think they kept the spider and mosquito population down.

But like I said, the facilities were clean and well stocked, and I’m not particularly freaked out by frogs, so it was fine.

With a little help from Mr. L. and Mr. R., I managed to pitch the tent. Barbie and I checked on the boys, then settled down for the night.

I was restless. I crawled back out of the tent in my stocking feet, and headed down towards the lake. The moon was less than a week from being full; it was so bright that the stars were barely visible. I heard the croaking of frogs, and an occasional splash – fish?

An unearthly scream shattered the quiet.

“Hello.”

Holy cats. I about jumped out of my skin.

“Hello. Who is that?”

“Mike.” He was lounging in a chair, gazing at the night sky.

I plopped down on the grass, forgetting to check for gopher (snake) holes or fire ant mounds. Something brushed across my forehead. Just a hair, no doubt.

Another scream.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to sound coolly interested, unafraid.

“Geese.”

Plop. Splash. Screeeeeeeeeam!

Of course. Geese. Why didn’t I think of that? Evil, red-eyed, vampire geese on the prowl for unsuspecting campers in the wee hours of the morning…tossing the bones into the lake after they sucked out all the marrow… An overactive imagination is an occupational hazard for us writers. When you’re as filthy rich as Stephen King, and you make your living writing horror novels, people call it “eccentric” and pretend to be fascinated. When you’re a wife and mother of two kids, and make your living writing technical documentation, people tend to make circular gestures with their forefingers at their temples, and whisper things like, “Batty as that bridge in Austin.”

We talked for a short while and watched for the Space Station, or shooting stars, or planes. Finally, fresh air and a long day got the better of me, and I crawled back into my tent for the night.

(to be continued)

Well, frankly - the jury's divided.

OMG, that's foul.