Camp Celio

My sister, Judy, was first a C.I.T. (counselor in training) and then, a year later, a full-fledged counselor at a Camp Fire Girl camp in the Sierra foothills. Judy was what everyone referred to as, "a late bloomer." My two oldest sisters, Martie and Nancy, were sort of the stars of that little trio of sisterhood. Martie, or Martha Sue, was a black-haired, gray-eyed beauty. Her fashion and style reminded me of Annette Funicello. With her cropped black hair and pillbox hat, I have to guess that the similarity was somewhat intentional. But since I was born a full fifteen years after she was, I may be unaware of half a dozen other fifties starlets who shared that style. Anyway, my other sister, Nancy, was the one everyone referred to as, "the beautiful one." She was a toe head blond as a child and had a gorgeous, pearly-white smile that I always envied. Yes, big blue eyes, a winning personality, and some voluptuous curves put her over the top. Nancy - or Nan as we called her - had confidence and a great sense of humor. Martie was more quiet and demure. Both were popular with the boys. In Nancy's case I think that it may have been something of a burden from being too popular. And then there was Judy.

My sister Judy was one of those beanpole girls in adolescence. Hers was a tall, thin frame. She wore a shy expression and was extremely quiet. In social settings, she loved to fade into the woodwork wearing her horn rimmed glasses and smiling with those two chipped front teeth (our parents should have had those fixed for her). Anyway, this shy, retiring girl was the one I was used to at home. The youngest of those three, Judy was the closest to my age. She was only my senior by ten years. And though I never gave it a second thought, she had been the cherished baby of the family until I came along as the unexpected caboose. I usurped her prized "baby" status. At home, we fought. She whined back then that I was a "spoiled brat" because I always got my way. Actually, that sounds about right. I had the gift of persuasion, let us say. Some people call that spoiled.

But my point, before I began this rambling, was that Judy was more or less seen and not heard. She lived in a hopelessly messy room with the door closed. Then she went off one summer to be a C.I.T. and I missed her terribly for three long months. The next summer, my mother had a stroke of genius: I would take the long ride and attend the camp where Judy was to be a counselor.

My session was just a week long, but in many ways it felt like an eternity. Scared and uncertain as an eight-year-old, I rode several hours from our home on the peninsula up into the hills of Grass Valley. I apprehensively got out, looking for the security of that familiar face. Searching the crowd of counselors and incoming campers, at last I saw my big sister. I ran to her side and pulled at her sleeve. She ignored me completely. There were apparently no parents around here to force her to treat me well and it was her chance to give me a taste of my own medicine. I think Judy saw me as the little star of our household. She would show me that, here at beautiful Camp Celio, the tables had turned. Here she was a star.

Honestly, I almost didn't recognize her. And the counselors all had camp names. She was, "Miss Zelda." I'm not kidding...and she chose that herself. Lucky for me, Miss Zelda's best friend from home, Marsha, had also found a job at camp. Marsha would look at me. In fact, Marsha even smiled at me and took me under her wing. Though nothing could completely remove the sting of my sister's snub, Marsha's attention went a long way to heal the hurt.

I don't remember any of my fellow campers or my own assigned counselor. I remember the "kiosks" where we slept - a sort of screen cabin. We each had a cot. I remember that I got my Red Cross intermediate swimming certification at camp. I was ahead of many of the other girls my age because at home we had a backyard pool. The pine and eucalyptus forest canopy stretched above us. We froze at night and took salt tablets with our lunch because of the heat. (You'd think that water might have been a more appropriate supplement.)

I was appalled at having to take "three camper's bites" of everything from cream of wheat to beef stew. The best parts of the week were: s'mores, singing by the campfire, and swimming. Those songs made a big impression. We didn't attend a church by that time, and I loved to sing. I think I still know almost every song we learned there. Marsha taught me a bunch of fun gymnastic tricks and paid special attention to me. She called me "Karie" as my family did at home. I needed that.

The little trauma I suffered that week was an odd one. We were with our counselor and were allowed to play in a rocky stream. I discovered a small silver coffee can full of clear liquid and dumped it into the stream. I'm not sure now if I knew what I was doing - and by that I mean, I don't know if I realized what I was pouring into the stream was gasoline. I also am not completely sure - but I believe I was harshly scolded and sent to my kiosk. Someone, I know, explained to me that this action would kill the fish, the frogs, and other animals. I vividly remember sobbing into my pillow believing that I had destroyed the ecosystem and caused vast extinctions through my actions. We also got in trouble that week for poking at a bat who was on the little foot bridge. We thought for sure the bat was dead and, surprise, it was alive. Little Karie, nature terrorist.

When the time at last came to leave, I remember getting a lump in my throat. I hated to leave camp, leave Marsha, and even Judy. We had experienced the mysterious Council Fire the night before and we had made it. We had survived homesickness, camp food, bug bites, stubbed toes, cold nights, hot, dry days, punishment, guilt, and blisters. No wonder Judy loved camp. She could spread her wings and be herself. She could overcome fear and convention and family norms. Here she was a leader and a member of a cool elite class: the counselors. (There were rumors, too, about boy counselors across the lake.) We little campers only got one week of this bliss. The counselors stayed the whole summer.

It sounds pretty John-Boy-Walton to say it, but I knew I would never see Judy the same way again. There had been a transformation. She had shown me that she was no longer, "Judy Bug." This summer, her true identity had been revealed. She was, indeed, Miss Zelda. And Miss Zelda didn't take any guff from little sisters.

When she came home at the end of the summer, she was nice to me. It was great. Much better, in fact, than when she had put up with me before. I knew she wasn't being nice this time because she had to. She was nice because she wanted to be. Judy was no longer a late bloomer. She had bloomed.