I went to a Methodist choir camp outside Detroit when I was eight. We sang, swam, played tug-of-war over a mud pit, and did lots of dishes. After that, my memories get blurry. In the middle of the week, I had a nightmare and fell headfirst out of the top bunk onto a cement floor. Dr. Reed examined me at four in the morning and determined I had suffered a mild concussion. He also laughed at how my camp sailor's hat no longer fit because of swelling. The legacy of that accident is a bald spot on the back of my head which is visible to the naked eye when I get a summer haircut.

I went to Circle R Ranch Camp where I was bitten on the thigh by a horse. I had an enormous, oval bruise with teeth marks in it. Faint traces were still discernable two years later. I also went on various Girl Scout camping trips. In one session of Girl Scouts, the leader brought in an expert to tell us how to brush our hair properly. The Girl Scout manual had instructions on how to run in a ladylike manner: move more quickly, but take little steps. It explained how to get out of a car in a ladylike manner: keep your knees together. That was pretty much what we heard about birth control, too.

Every evening at church camp, our youth minister, Cam, would award the Green Weenie. It went to the person who did the stupidest thing that day. First, Cam would solicit nominations in the dining hall after dinner. Then, he would introduce the Green Weenie, a raw hot dog. He would hold it up, and we would bow down in front of it and cry HAIL GREEN WEENIE! HAIL GREEN WEENIE! Then, Cam would tell the story of each nomination for that day's Green Weenie, and hold up the Green Weenie as an applause-o-meter. The Green Weenie would appear very alert, trying to gauge the amount of applause. Then, the Green Weenie would consult Cam by sticking himself into Cam's ear (no hands). Cam would appear to be listening very attentively, and finally, the winner would be announced. The person who won had to carry the Green Weenie around in his or her back pocket the next day. I only won it once, for beating up a boy.

When I was in junior high I went on a week-long co-ed canoe trip with some students of my home room class. I remember only two things: sweating during portages and when my teacher Mr. Barell said in front of everyone, "You're the only person I know who would visit the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and wear eye shadow." Blue. Max Factor. No mirror. Painted on with salivia every day -- I was roughing it after all.

I went to YMCA camp one summer when I was 12 or 13. My most vivid memory: the flag incident. The entire camp, a couple hundred kids and their counsellors, were gathered around the flag pole one evening for the lowering of the flag. Now, the head of the camp was a Lutheran minister. Let's call him Pastor Ray. Pastor Ray had a 13-year-old son who spent his entire summers at the camp. The son tended to take the lead in Capture the Flag and other activities. He was kind of a snot. There at the flagpole, Pastor Ray demonstrated how to fold the flag, then asked for a volunteer. I'd never folded a flag before but I thought I had watched carefully and I bravely stepped forward, right there in front of all the kids from all the cabins. Of course, on about the second or third fold I made a mistake. Pastor Ray snatched the flag angrily from my hands, saying 'you don't know what you're doing.' Then he gave it to his son and had him do it.

The site is Forest Home, an absolutely gorgeous place in the San Gabriel Mountains outside San Bernardino. The wake up song blaring daily on the P.A. was "Little Deuce Coupe" and lights out was "In My Room" -- it was Southern California after all. There were ten girls in my charge - all high school age - and although I had never spent much time with kids up to that point (and was scared to death the first two days), it was great. On the last night, I overheard - well, okay, one of the "less popular" girls tattled, that there was going to be a break out at 1 AM and the Raiders cheerleader hopefuls of the bunch were headed out to this huge waterfall to meet the boys from cabin 10. So at 12:30, I sneaked out and, with the help of a few "donated" belts strung together, I tied the whole gang of the little darlings into the cabin. (No hormone-ridden, El Capitan-climbing 17-year-olds on MY watch!) Next day at breakfast, the girls found out why they couldn't open the door, and I was pummeled with Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. Actually a couple of the more brazen hussies stuffed a few down my bathing suit. Savages! Later I was chased down to the lake with paint-filled balloons. What a blast! They liked me! THEY REALLY LIKED ME!!!! And I liked them right back. I drove home to Pasadena with whipped cream in my hair and paint on my face, arms, and legs. But in LA, who noticed?

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