Packing 101

Eva Marie Everson

My mother “let me” pack my own clothes.

Wait. Before I go further, you need some context. In the summer of my 10^th year, I was preparing to go to Camp Low, the Girl Scout camp located on Rose Dhu Island off the coast of Savannah. Recently, in an act of defiance, I had taken my mother’s sewing scissors and wacked off my hair—an act which resulted in an emergency trip to the “beauty parlor.” I now looked more boy than girl, especially given that I was small and gangly with knobby knees, pale skin, and a face full of freckles. Seriously, some may have thought me to be a live version of Huckleberry Finn were it not for the pink cat-eyeglasses that kept sliding down the bridge of my nose.

(And, by the way, there was absolutely no way to wear cat-eyeglasses and look like anything less than a dork. Today, cat-eye sunglasses are the rage. But not then.)

I digress.

My father brought his USAF-issued trunk from the attic. I would be gone two weeks and the items I needed to bring along—right down to enough 6-12 Insect Repellent to kill a small nation of mosquitos—was extensive. Mother prepared a checklist for me and then left me on my own. I packed carefully, following the list to precision.

“Did you check things off the list as you packed?” Mother asked me when I’d completed the task.

I rolled my eyes. Who did she think she was dealing with here, an eight-year-old? “I didn’t need to,” I said.

“All right, then,” she said. “If you forgot anything, you won’t be able to come home to get it.”

“I didn’t forget anything,” I assured her.

If I remember correctly—and I believe I do— Camp Low began on Sunday afternoon. We went to church, we came home and had lunch, then Mother and Daddy packed up the car with my two-week’s worth of necessities, ushered my brother and me into the car, and then pointed the car, the windows rolled down to let in a modicum of warm air, toward the east. An hour and a half later, we drove into the lush, tropical, marshlands of Rose Dhu. Signs welcomed us, and my father following them to the letter. Once we arrived and parked in the proper lot, we spilled out of the car as other Girl Scouts and their families spilled out of theirs. The cacophony of squeals and chatter and laughter rose in the thick air, shaded by giant live oaks dripping chigger-filled Spanish moss (ask me how I know). The scent of the marsh—something I have always loved, despite the fact it smells like dead fish—lingered between the rustic buildings—the cabins, the dining hall, the Trading Post (where I would purchase a great number of banana popsicles), and the general meeting areas.

When I received my cabin assignment, I was relieved to discover that three of my hometown fellow Girl Scouts—Deanne, Lorinet, and Judy—would be three of my five cabinmates. After all, I tended to be shy and, looking more boy than girl, I needed all the initial friends I could get. Daddy hauled the packed trunk up the narrow painted-brown steps leading to the one-room cabin and placed it on the floor at the foot of my cot. Minutes later, I hugged my family goodbye and watched them walk, along with other parents and siblings, back to their cars. The cars pulled away from the island to leave a passel of Girl Scouts to the authorities of their counselors.

Dinner was followed by a general meeting where we learned the rules and the fun-filled schedule of the next two weeks. We then went to where a giant bonfire blazed and ingredients for s’mores waited. We sang songs. We laughed. We chatted. We established the beginnings of friendships. And then we marched in uneven rows, our fingers sticky from melted marshmallows and warm chocolate and our flashlights lighting the way along dirt paths leading to our cabins. There, we were to gather our pajamas and a clean pair of underwear and head to the latrines to brush our teeth and take our showers before bed.

(If you know me now, you are probably stunned beyond words that I ever spent two weeks—and not just once—at a camp where there was not only no air conditioning in the cabins, there was also no electricity and no bathroom!)

And this was when I discovered that I had not packed my underwear.

I had two weeks looming in front of me with only one pair of underwear and that was the pair I had on.

So, every night, for the next two weeks, I washed out the sole piece of necessary clothing and then set it out to dry as I slept.

Beyond any measure I could describe, I wished I had done what Mother had insisted I do—check off the items on the list as I packed them. But I had not, and I had to live with the consequences. Which I did. And survived it.

A few weeks after returning home, I packed again for—ah, yet—another camp. Once again, my mother “let me” pack. As I prepared, she handed me a check-off list and a pencil.

Trust me, I used the pencil. And I’ve used this system since.