Gettin' The Blues

(Ever the inquisitive child (I haven't changed much with age), I was always into something. This was one of my most memorable adventures into foolishness.)

Hoorah! 1957 and it was the first day of the annual month-long family summer camp-out! I was seven, gangly, energetic, air-headed, excited and full of enthusiasm. I lived for the summer camp-outs and endured the rest of the year. The camp-outs were better than Christmas! Mom had made me a Jacob's-coat-colored duffel bag and the night before I had jammed into it all the clothes and things I could imagine needing. I had a big stack of comic books for enroute consumption, my teddy bear and a couple toys. I was hopelessly eager to hit the road. We finally left and the drive was a blur of comic images.

Hours later, Daddy stopped somewhere in the California Sierra Nevada Mountains. We set up tents, tossed out sleeping bags, stashed duffels – um – duffels? Um. Mom? Um. I left my duffel on my bed.

She slashed me liberally with her razor-sharp tongue for eternity (I never forgot my duffel again!). It boiled down to, "Do without." When finally released, I allowed myself to start breathing again and took a moment to be grateful I was still alive to breathe. I was also grateful California summers were warm. My entire wardrobe now consisted of one red plaid short-sleeved shirt and one pair of green bermuda shorts plus shoes and socks.

Enough contemplation! It was finally time to run amuck. I ran wild, entertaining myself with found objects and my humming imagination. Sticks, rocks, plants, feathers – what's this? A dry-cleaning bag they slide over the clothes. What a wonderful color of blue! My parents had told me it was dangerous for kids and, after all, it's trash and I should throw it away – but what a wonderful color of blue! I stood in the dirt road that wandered among the campsites and lost track of the fact I was within view of my own camp - and Daddy. I was mesmerized. What a wonderful color of blue! Wouldn't the whole world be beautiful seen through that blue bag?

I knew the danger of suffocation, but if I was re-e-eal careful – if I gathered the edges almost to the end like putting on a sock – if I held on re-e-eal tight – if I slid it only over the top half of my head – if I especially did *not* get it past the bridge of my nose – then I could see the world colored that wonderful blue.

Oh. It was so-o-o pretty. Turn and look. Turn full circle. Turn and see Daddy.

Just then, he saw me and bellowed. My dad scared me. He was so big, so strict. My hands rocketed to my sides, my eyes flew wide open, my feet sprouted clamps from the soles nailing me to the earth while the bag gently and gracefully unraveled to envelope me. Mom's head spun around so she could evaluate the current disaster. When she saw me rooted to the spot like a frightened fawn with the bag billowing in and out against my face like a jellyfish in a race, she almost collapsed into a fit of giggles. Knowing Daddy would probably kill me (I knew it, too!!), she figured she better get to me before he did and before I suffocated. She sprinted across camp, reached out faster than a striking snake, snatched the bag away.

Instantly I galvanized into action! I swapped front with back and spirited down the lane so fast I must have burnt a trail. I crashed into the biggest evergreen in the park and shinnied up it, swarming clear to the swaying top, clinging there like velcro. From that aerie I watched the other kids and various camp activities. I watched the sun set, dinners eaten and cleared, campfires flare and smolder. I did not watch the stars that night, having to always look down. Daddy had been known to climb trees after me. Conversation faded out, dogs stopped barking, lights were snuffed and, finally, only the owls and I were awake.

I oozed down the tree, stealthily tiptoed to camp and washed the hands, arms, legs and cheek I'd torn rushing up the tree in a panic. I also brushed my teeth, figuring I'd better not push my luck and maybe it would count in my favor come morning. When I unzipped my tent, it sounded like a thousand fingernails on a blackboard screeching into the night. Somehow, my parents didn't come out to chastise me. I slithered into my bag almost sick with relief and slept like the dead.

The second day dawned. Life went on as though nothing had happened with the exception of my uncharacteristic good behavior. I never, ever played with bags again, never, ever climbed trees for refuge again and never, ever took Mom for granted again.

Looking back, I think those muffled sounds coming from my parents' camper just before I dropped off to sleep must have been hysterical laughter stifled with pillows. After all, my parents have a warped sense of humor (much like mine). Years later as an adult, I joined a women's affiliation with Mom. When she recounted this story over coffee to the women, she punctuated it with helpless giggles and ended with an outright guffaw. We all howled with laughter, but my limbs and cheek tingled with the memory of the tree. I recalled, albeit with a grin, how my muscles had ached for days afterward. And I still don't play with bags, I climb trees now only for short periods of time and I still don't take Mom for granted!

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Copyright 1998-2004 Colleen D. Bergeron.
Last revised: December 22, 2004.