I love the proud flag flown after a storm. The post-precipitation sunset, a series of massive cumulous stripes, a brilliant fading cerulean interrupted by bulky strokes of grey, indigo, and indignant vermillion. The radiance of these sunsets seems almost to emit from the buildings and streets, as if these inanimate things are rejoicing the wakening of life temporarily bestowed by the patter of the showers.

Perhaps this is why rainy day memories are so vivid.

The smell of rain, and the colors and terrain brought out only in storms, conjour very specific images of my summer camp, despite the fact that my summer camp days were usually sunny. When it rained, however, the entire camp population was herded into the refurbished stables for several challenging hours of songs and inter-age-group mingling. The intensity and variety of company in such close proximity perhaps caused inclimate days to be more deeply branded in my recollection.

Each age group, divided roughly according to the camper's grade in school, was named for a different Native American tribe; the teeny kids in Junior Camp, Kindergarteners, were named for the Tenderfeet, and the oldest and most mature, the 8th graders, were The Explorers, named thusly because they were on the brink of graduation from the sanctity of camp, after which they were eligible to embark on the illustrious explorative journey of Counsellor in Training (CIT), moving from there to Assistant Counsellor, and finally Head Counsellor. As Explorers, however, their only job was to act like hot shit. Between the year of Tenderfoot and Explorer were, in no particular order, the Iroquois, Cherokee, Choctaw, Algonquin, Cheyenne, Comanche, Pawnee, Wichita, Apache, Mohican, Mohawk, Navaho, and Pueblo. These tribes originate from all areas of the country, but we campers never learned about them, as we were too busy making lean-tos and ceramic ashtrays, and looking forward to our futures as hotshit Explorers. Yeah, that sounds like Anglocentric horseshit, but it wasn’t intentionally so. It was just camp.

Anyway.

In the rainy-day stables, each tribe had a stable designated for and decorated by that tribe and their counselor. The majority of the day, however, was spent with everyone in the stables' sprawling common area, singing songs (oh, so many songs ... how many verses of "The Cat Came Back" do you know? Only 758? You must not have gone to summer camp) and amusing ourselves under the lazy guidance of our young counselors, who were actually more concerned with their own social and sexual pursuits than they were with keeping a Tenderfoot’s tender fingers out of the kiln light sockets.

I developed my first real crush during my first year at camp, on a counselor 10 years my senior. It was one of those rainy days, and we campers were intermixed in the gut of the stables. In the communal confusion, I had somehow separated from my tribe and ended up in the lap of an adorable young man, counsellor for the Wichitas. I don’t remember his name, and barely remember his face. I only remember glowing under his attention, for which I, a normally very laid-back kid, found myself gently competing with other campers. (Attention which I believe I won, thankyouverymuch.) I was so young that I mistook my crush for sisterly affection, and it manifested in a fervent wish for an older brother. It was completely innocent, and realized only in retrospect, but I’ll never forget it. I still wish I had an older brother. (That was an unintentionally sketchy transition.)

Summer camp is also where I discovered my tendency to underestimate my own physical strength. Folks, I can be a brute. Sometimes, I have the endurance and the power of an elephant on steroids, but as I’ve never had any body but my own, I forget that my strength can be above-par, and my physical actions sometimes yield unintended consequences. This strength, coupled with having abysmal hand-eye coordination and the depth perception of a melting spoon, makes me rather a menace. I’ve already told you how accident-prone I am. If you catch me on a low-impulse-control day, I hope, for your sake, you’ll be wearing hockey gear. In third grade, I once pushed my good friend Erin off of a very highly elevated piece of playground equipment, sort of by accident. It was one of those platforms, reachable by ladder, from which the player was to descend via fire-pole. I remember standing on the platform, joking with Erin, when the completely hypothetical image of me pushing her flashed across my mind. However, no sooner had this image formulated itself into the mental sentence, “I wonder what would happen if …” that I realized that I was suddenly by myself, dumbfounded, on the platform.

I had unknowingly shoved my little playmate off the edge to the gravel about 12 feet below. She sprained her ankle, but was otherwise fine. It’s not like I blacked out or anything, and I realize that I was old enough to contemplate the consequences of pushing someone from a substantial height, but my visual mind pirated my logic and my body, and BOOM! Now, I’m old enough to blame that kind of thing on booze. Then, I just got confused and tried to explain that “I didn’t mean to do it,” knowing full well that that didn’t make any sense, when my actions outwardly appeared so deliberate.

I once bit one of my sister’s classmates, a boy 3 years older than me, because (a) he was bullying her, (b) he didn’t believe I would do it, and (c) I had always wanted to bite someone, and he totally deserved it. Looking back, that was pretty impeccable strategy on my part … What self-respecting 4th grade boy, eager to foster his budding mauchismo, would NARC out a little first grade girl for assaulting him? Ha. Jody Ryan, I had you by your as yet undropped balls. (That kid was still an asshole when he graduated high school, by the way, and he still bullied my sister. I’m glad I bit him.)

There was a smartass boy in my class in 2nd grade who always bragged about his math skills. I socked him in the stomach, again because it was something I had always wanted to do. It was fun. The contact of fist on gut is very satisfying.

(By the way, I’ll have you know that since then, I have never pushed anyone off of a high place, bitten anyone, or punched anyone. Been there, done that, got it out of my system. I’ve never, ever been a malicious person, unless someone messes with my friends or my sister.)

Given my often unintentional brutishness and impulsiveness, I’m not the greatest partner for stage-combat, in which timing and subtle restraint are of paramount importance. Unless I’m careful, a dramatic push against the wall turns into a full body-slam, a simulated half-nelson into a neck-crunching stranglehold… God help the world if I ever take up fencing. I’d find a way to turn epee to skewer.

One fateful summer, perhaps my favorite in my camp recollection, I had so many minor injuries that I frequented the camp nurse’s office even more often than the diabetic kid who needed thrice-daily insulin shots.

There was the Trust Game (ha), in which my partner took my hand and led me, blindfolded, directly into a giant oak tree at such a velocity that I bounced off the bark and landed on my ass on a bed of pine needles, and took off the blindfold to find blood coursing from my nose onto my shirt, lap, and freshly scraped shins. My poor partner looked like she wanted to die. I went to the nurse’s office.

There was the game of Capture the Flag, (this was back when I was a budding jock) when I triumphantly crossed the goal line, looking over my shoulder to smile at my teammates. Looking backward and running forward is not a wise thing to do, especially for me, and I collided with a picnic table. As I fell to the grass, my thigh remained in contact with the unsanded corner of the picnic bench, and I ended up with a deep, angled gash in my thigh. It didn’t bleed right away, and I remember looking down curiously at the mucusy yellow of the wound, getting up, and trying to “walk it off.” “I’m fine,” I said proudly, trying not to pass out as I went to get a drink of water from the fountain by the pool shed. Then I looked down to see a determined torrent of blood rushing down my leg and into my sock. Again, to the nurse’s office. For a few weeks after that, I had the grooviest wound that made me look like I had narrowly escaped a harrowing knife-fight. Damn, that cut hurt like a bitch … I remember lying on the couch watching Ducktails, and being fascinated by the throbbing. I still have a bitchin’ scar.

That was also the summer of the poison ivy. I think that’s pretty self-explanatory. Itchy ooziness + impulsive child = infectious scabs, and infectious scabs = nurse’s office. (Therefore, through transitive theory, itchy ooziness + impulsive child = nurse’s office. Yeah, but if all that’s true, then “nurse’s office – impulsive child = itchy ooziness,” and “infectious scabs – itchy ooziness = impulsive child”… Oh, fuck this.)

But … all those injuries could have been karma.

Never let your kid play Red Rover.

So, near the beginning of that fateful Summer of the Nurse’s Office, me and my Algonquin tribe were killing time between lunch and swimming with a wholesome game of Red Rover. You know, the game which starts with two equal teams of children tightly clasping hands to form two opposing horizontal chains. Then, the teams take turns “calling over” members of the opposite team with the chant, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send [member of the opposite team] right over.” The summoned person then separates from his/her team and runs, full-speed, at a pair of linked hands in the opposite chain, with the goal of busting through the link to the other side. If he/she succeeds in separating the hands, he/she can return to his/her own team. If not, he/she becomes “captured” by the opposite team and must join the end of their chain.

Well.

This particular game started out boys-against-girls. Guess who was the first girl “called over” to bust up the boys’ chain. Go on, guess.

Yup. ‘Beans.

Having already proven my brutish 10-year-old athleticism and high tolerance to pain, yet maintaining a friendly and “nice” attitude appropriate for girls, I had generated quite the following of drooling Algonquin boys. (This brutishness is somehow less valuable in the quest for romance, these days. Alas. If only dating was like being picked for kickball.) I was thus a highly desirable asset to any Red Rover team. So, after a brief huddle, the boys called,

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Kelly right over!”

I blushed, scanned the line, and backed up for my running start.

Halfway to the boys’ chain, I noticed that Davin, the little boy on the end of the line, was grimacing and holding on to his neighbor for dear life … with two hands, pulling his partners hand and anchoring himself to the ground, leaning back to create the tautest of bonds. Cheater! No two hands allowed! Right? That’s just the code. So naturally, I took it upon myself to reinstate tribal order, chose little Davin as my target, and veered directly into his illegal double-hand-hold.

Little Kelly did, indeed, bust through the chain and return to her team. (Victory!)

Little Davin, however, went flying. (Casualty!) Like, little dude was FLYING.

Little Davin landed several feet away from his original illegally-anchored spot, his grimace of (cheating) determination crumbling into one of extreme pain.

Little Davin went to the good ol’ Nurse’s Office, where he waited for an ambulence.

Little Davin returned to camp 2 days later with a cast on his arm.

Woops.

I just realized a truly hilarious coincidence.

Remember Erin? The friend I pushed off the platform? Well, she and I remained friends through high school, where she matured into quite the hottie and had many dramatic boyfriend relationships. When we graduated, she had just started dating a sweet, underachieving pothead from a nearby high school. They dated for a couple of years. Now, who was that pothead?

Davin.

I’m not lying.

I can’t believe I never made that awesome connection. Maybe they used to have little meetings, commiserating over past injuries inflicted upon them by the Kellybeast.

And that’s it.

Yours,

Algonquin Princess Kelly

AKA Fleetfoot Strongarm

AKA Runs with Flag to Bleeding Bench

AKA Kisses Evil Trees

AKA Breaks Dishonest Anchors

AKA Sister Avenger

AKA Falls with a Plunk

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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