On The Road Again

I say out loud, but only really to myself or maybe me and Betty, " What kind of Girl Scout throws out the directions? Isn't the motto 'Be prepared?'"

But my daughter has heard me . She gives me a skeptical one-eyebrow look and lisps, "Theriothly."

She is a little skeptical too, about Betty. Doesn't really trust that she is not leading us on a wild goose chase from her satellite miles above the Earth's crust. She has the written directions and is turned around in her seat. She is trying to see if the billboards facing the opposing traffic are the ones we passed on the way to camp. Now THAT is a Girl Scout.

Before we know it, Bettty has guided us home. We drop the other tired and filthy girls and their gear at their respective homes and my girl and I head to ours. Lars is expecting her at his house, and Scott is on his way to plant some shrubs he's gotten me to replace the dead ones he was kind enough to put out of our collective misery and has given a proper burial. But I won't feel right unless I make my girl a grilled cheese sandwich and a cold glass of lemonade.

I fire up the burner and plop an unreasonable glop of butter in the pan to melt.

I make a trip to the car to retrieve suitcases filled with grimy laundry.

I place the bread in the sizzling butter and lay the cheese on each half to melt.

I head to the car to get our pillows so I can determine whether to fumigate or incinerate.

I pour lemonade over cracked ice in a tall glass and place a bendy straw in it.

To the car once more for the sleeping bags and the leaves collected on them.

I check the bread for doneness and plop the halves together. Call my daughter.

No answer.

I shout that her sandwich is getting cold.

Still no answer.

I decide to delay the next shout until I've retrieved the MadLibs and trash from the car.

My daughter is still in the car.

Looking miserable.

She motions to me to come closer and yells through the unopened window.

I can't hear anything.

She begins wildly gesticulating.

I am like Annie Sullivan with Helen Keller.

She points toward the bushes and makes an indignant impatient face.

Oh. I get it.

My daughter - the very one who has just spent the weekend camping in the woods among the bears, and birds, and bugs - not to mention their droppings - the one who has tread in a scum-laden pond and touched frogs, and salamanders and dead things of various kinds - the one who has used a latrine, shared a bedroom with a wasp nest, and has marvelled at the wolves howling so near by- will not exit the vehicle because there is a bumble bee on the hedge.

You can take the girl out of the suburbs....