away! summer, 1965

“This way, Nan,” Terri yelled into the wind, waving her arms like a semaphore above her head. She was standing on the grass by the flagpole where a group from my unit sat, waiting for me.

I happily walked up the path from the Lodge, clutching the hand-stitched mail bag carefully. The courier for our unit, Samoset, the camp’s senior scouts, counselors-in-training, or CITs as we were called, was close to my heart.

I smiled into the breeze and, as if time had stopped, I immersed myself totally and physically in the delight of this moment.

The sky blue cloak shimmered with a brilliance that whispered of the beginning of autumn.

The warm sun was diluted with a delicious and soft breeze, creating a balance of heat and cold in my bare arms that captivated me completely, calling me present. It was the last weekend of my two-summer counselor training program at my beloved Girl Scout Camp Archbald. Actually, this summer was the climax of the ten summers she had spent here at camp, loving this place on earth, memorizing its trails, breathing in its scents, mastering its skills, and flourishing in its rigor and love and encouragement. This weekend was our zenith – we would get our reviews of our CIT training days, fire building day long tests, song leading, camp crafts, tent pitching, waterfront skills and teaching. practice with the younger units. After receiving our scores, we would be initiated into that rarefied world of counseling, which held profound power and meaning for all of us. Next summer we would return to camp to become, like our heroes before us, the genial, loving, competent, and all-knowing counselors who have raised and loved us through the years, up to this very moment. . We would become his wonder and carry on his tradition of compassionate and loving consideration for all.

It was a heady moment, as we were on the threshold of this profound initiation.

I quickened my pace, trailing my dirty Keds on the dusty driveway, running toward my friends who were sitting, sprawled in a tottering horde. I smiled at their collective expansion and began delivering the mail, tossing the beloved envelopes to each recipient with a flourish and flick of the hand:

“Margie Regean, for you,” with a flick of my wrist.

“Terri Z., and you too,” tossing a cream envelope in her direction.

“Miss Gladys Roth, ah-haaa,” I yelled, and began to run around the sprawling unit, holding the coveted letter from my dear friend Gladys over my head as she chased after me with feigned fever. Guffaws and laughter followed us, only to be interrupted by our call for lunch as the camp bell rang. Our mock fight broke out when Gladys pounced on the letter, tripping me in the process. As we fell to the ground, laughing, the rest of the mail was distributed quickly and efficiently. We got out, shook our butts, and walked as a loose group down the hill toward the dining room.

Walking down the hill, I reflected, considering my amazement and my love for this place. More than camp, I thought, kicking up the familiar dust. This place was my solace, its girl-focused experiential outdoor education culture, exactly what my heartbroken girl needed. I lived from summer to summer, counting months, weeks and days until my return to this sacred land. Remarkable things happened here: I counted, I shined, I was completely loved and completely accepted for who I was. The camp was the miracle of my life, the place where I came to life.

We climbed the rickety and all too familiar steps to the south side of the dining room, the door creaking behind us, and found our seats at the three perpetually sticky tables designated for Samoset. Our two counselors, Ginny and Scarlett, were notably and unusually absent from lunch. I whispered to Gladys, “I wonder where Ginny and Scarlett are?”

He shrugged and whispered, “Maybe they’re still processing the test results.”

The leader of the grace, a senior scout, stood at the front of the dining room and raised her hand as silence spread through the room. She led us into one of my favorites, “God Has Created a New Day:”

God has created a new day.

Silver and green and gold.

Live for the sunset to find us

Worthy to hold His gift.

The voices floated together with that Girl Scout magic of harmony and perfection, the music filling every niche in that open space of gnarled pines that surrounded us. I loved thanks at mealtimes; though my Jewish sensibilities tried to contain my heart, I was often filled with feeling and warmth when I participated in them. It would be years before I began to consider the power and gift of underlying faith that Girl Scouting offered me during those first exciting years, my first touch of tender conviction that I was not alone.

We chattered through the meal, our mouths full of white bread, full of ourselves, our trails and tribulations from the CIT tests all but behind us. I felt both peaceful and excited. No one failed the program. Sometimes the girls had to repeat certain phases of training during special mid-year camp sessions, but that was rare, almost unheard of. And frankly, I knew my own skills. I knew he was a star in our little galaxy of explorers: he was a good swimmer, a white cap, the highest designation. My canoeing skills were accurate and reliable. I could quickly build an effective, dynamite teepee-like fire formation, find my way around a campsite, and my teaching practice with the younger campers, despite my terror, went well. I was known and loved for my abilities: the complete dichotomy with my life in the city, where I was hesitant, withdrawn and riddled with doubts.

I saw my world spread out before me. Despite the terrors of the coming year, my senior year (SATs, college applications, and leaving home), my launch into college would come after next summer, my first as an Archibald staffer, the perfect platform and inevitable release to life. This was great, it was everything I ever wanted.

We loudly finished this, one of our last meals as campers, and headed down the steps to return to the unit for break time.

And then, the strangest things began to unfold. We saw Ginny and Scarlett walking towards us. Something were friends, I could feel immediately. There was almost a chill in the air as they approached. Ginny, dark and compact, wore her typical straw cowboy hat sloping down, clashing with her oversized sunglasses. Although I couldn’t see her eyes or even her face through her mask, I felt her walk unsteadily, out of rhythm. She was an optimistic twenty-four year old, working on her Master of Divinity. But she wasn’t bouncing right now. And Scarlett, round and ruddy, looked ahead, through us, and past us. This was really strange for someone as sociable as Scarlett.

Our advisors were heading straight for us, marching directly into our path. We stopped abruptly under the old oak, its branches like open palms, spread out to collect the glory of heaven. All I could think about was the showdown in the movie, Gunfight at the OK Corral. There was a moment of long and unusual silence during which I could hear the song of my heart, its pounding rhythm. We look at each other in a deep and unusual silence.

Scarlett, the chief clerk, a college physical education teacher, coughed and broke the silence. “Nah, we need to talk to you alone.”

My blood seemed to run cold, my bones heavy, that lovely afternoon heat gone.

“Oh,” was all I could muster. My hoarse, pathetic, tiny voice.

“Let’s go up to Schoonover Hall,” Scarlett said, all professional, and turned, turning formally on her heel, to head up the small hill. Ginny, entranced, followed her. I felt the blood drain from my face, my hands became cold and tense. In slow motion, my breath getting louder in my own ears, I spun on legs that weren’t my own. I was being pulled towards my destiny.

I walked behind them, this in itself a strange and unusual experience. They were my heroes, my mentors. I never felt anything other than kinship and support from them, in an equal and open way. These were two women I knew very well, who knew me very well. But not at this time. At this time, there was no access. So I walked behind them, heavy steps, empty thoughts, waning air, legs heavy and thicker with each step. When I got to the top, they appeared on the banks of Schoonover, waiting for me.

I couldn’t breathe

Scarlett coughed. “This is hard, Nan, but we’re here to tell you about some of the decisions that have been made about your CIT tests.”

My lungs, already starved for oxygen, starved for energy, contracted even more, exhausted balloons, squeezed for fuel. My tongue, with its thickness almost choking me, forbade a verbal response.

She continued. “Decisions have been made…decisions about attitude, about maturity levels…”

Ginny squirmed, silent and petulant.

“Decisions about… the Lodge, Miss Anna, the administration…” She faltered, choking a little on the last syllable, rebalancing herself, her eyes fixed on the ground below me.

“Decisions on…it has been decided that…your skills and attitude are not up to the task of justifying your graduation from CIT tonight.” She leaned back on the bench with a sigh.

In slow motion, I saw myself slipping down a rabbit hole, a smooth, endless dark rabbit hole, losing my footing and ground at this moment, skimming the shoot, slipping away from reality. Scarlett’s words floated to me from a distance, from a galaxy a lifetime away from me. I heard practically nothing but my own heartbeat, and the sound of my body falling, sliding.

I woke up briefly from this nightmare to feel Ginny’s hand on my knee. She had removed her glasses, thrown her hat to one side of her, her face passionate and twisted:

“Miss Anna. This is Miss Anna’s decision. As the director of the camp, she questions her level of maturity and her ability to contain her actions. We challenge her to no avail.” Darkness seemed to flood her face and she spat, “This isn’t even about you.”

What? She certainly felt like it was me. This was about me more than any other time in my seventeen years.

The meeting ended, day turned to night, my pain slipped and slipped and took over every bone, every cell, every molecule of my being. This trauma, this rupture was a physical thing, alive, alive, that inhabited my body. There was no sleep, no celebration for the others who passed the training, no rejoicing around the campfire. Only my individual complaint and our collective disbelief filled the unit. We were, as a group, my friends and I, silent and disoriented. My grievance stunned me, plunged me into silence. The plug of my vital energy was disconnected. I had no future.

Darkness gripped Samoset that night with a deep, silent vengeance.

I lay on my cot in the cathedral of my tent, my other tentmates finally resting, unable to sleep. I can’t sleep tonight. I thought that maybe they would never give me the gift of sleep again. The grace we sang at lunch so long ago kept haunting me, running, running, flowing through my brain: it lives so that the sunset finds us worthy of Its gift to hold. The sunset had come and erased what was sacred, what was rightfully mine. The gift was no longer mine, no longer mine to hold.

I was not worthy

Not worth it.

Not worth it.