Loser

Magnify

Camp Robin Hood congratulated itself on setting a superior example for young women by upholding a great many values my parents didn’t trust: rigid discipline, team spirit, Presbyterian church services on Sundays, grace before meals, and letter grades on everything from athletic prowess to bed-making. I have no idea why my mother chose it for me. Maybe the brochure featuring grainy-looking black-and-white photos of smiling campers on horseback or on stage reminded her of her own childhood camp in Vermont.

The elderly headmistress, Miss Ruland, waved us in from the front porch of the lodge. Regal in white shirt and slacks, wiry white hair pulled back in a tidy bun, she welcomed my parents on the steps with a hearty handshake and dazzling smile, scolding them lightly for getting me to camp a day late. She glanced at me once to ask my name, then busied herself charming my parents. It was as if I were entering a convent. A counselor was summoned to whisk me out of sight, and I was deposited, without a chance to say goodbye, inside the cavernous mess hall, where dozens of girls in white shirts and shorts were singing the Doxology.

My fellow campers had a whole 24 hours on me, during which they’d settled into their respective cabins and made best friends. I suffered through an awkward lunch and then a brief orientation from the head counselor, which proved more daunting than exciting. The camp regime meant classes from sunup to sundown, punctuated by a formal midday rest hour during which total silence must be observed. Gum, bare feet, pajamas, curlers and magazines were forbidden outside the cabins, as was talking with stable boys or talking after lights out. Likewise, fibbing, cussing, name-calling and being late for anything. One soda and two pieces of candy from home might be ingested on Wednesdays and Saturdays, after cabin inspections.