Embracing the Next Generation of Girl Scouts in My Family

Some childhood places and impressions don’t let go

Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

This morning I texted my daughter to see if she was going to a 9:00 a.m. class at the gym.

“No,” she replied. “I’m on the bus, heading to Camp Sacajawea.”

I had forgotten my granddaughter’s Girl Scout troop had an event today, and that she was chaperoning.

There is something sacred about the places that shape us, and the moment I heard the words Camp Sacajawea, my inner child burst forth, and decades-old memories came rushing back.

What should have been a quick reply, “Have fun!” turned into a dissertation that fell out of my thumbs.

While she was there, I wanted my daughter to connect with the little girl I once was, standing on the same ground, next to the grandmother she never had the chance to meet.

The bus ride to Camp Sacajawea, if I Google it today, was under 40 minutes, but when I was ten years old, it seemed to take days. Certainly long enough to belt out a round or two of “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” counted down by a busload of young voices.

The leaders seemed unfazed that we were singing about alcohol consumption.

When we finally arrived, chores were delved out, based on tent assignments, and latrine duty was always the booby prize.

Someone had to do it, and eventually, everyone got their turn.

We would gather in anticipation for a hike to the haunted birthplace of the founder of the Girl Scouts. It was a broken-down concrete foundation of an old house, and a boarded-up well that may or may not have dead bodies in it. When you’re ten and believe in ghosts, it’s easy to buy into the hype.

I found out much later that Juliette Gordon Low’s birthplace was actually in Savannah, Georgia, and when I toured the facility as an adult, something was missing. It wasn’t nearly as fun or scary as the fake location.

As night fell, we belted out songs around the campfire. To this day, if someone says, “flea,” I say, “flea fly.”

If you know, you know.

The choreographed motions of our hands, dancing to the words of “Kumbaya,” brought solemn faces to a group of preteens who had no idea what the word or the song meant. It was just what we did.

Like roasting S’mores.

When quiet time rolled around, we would report to our tents, let the seances begin, and stay up telling ghost stories that scared the bejesus out of everyone.

But no one would admit it.

I credit Girl Scouts with keeping my inner diva in check. I’m okay with getting dirty, I love the great outdoors, and I can sleep in a tent. (At the age of 67 now, only if I absolutely had to).

I don’t worry much about cooties, probably because our used dishes were “washed” by putting them in a dunk bag and getting in line to dip them in a pot of boiling water heated on an open fire. I guess your order in line was key to how clean your dishes would be at the next meal.

Girl Scouts sets a foundation and sends a message to girls.

Yes, you can.

You can camp and survive, bond with other girls, and work as a small community to make memories to hold on to for a lifetime.

But I was fortunate to have learned something else — because I was the daughter of a leader.

Unconditional love.

My mother invested in my life and showed that she understood what has lasting importance. I’m sure there were other places my mother wanted to be, but she volunteered to go to Camp Sacajawea.

She chose me.

Now, I see clearly how this ordinary act of showing up echoed across the generations.

The somewhat strange, long-winded reply I sent my daughter wasn’t really about Camp Sacajawea.

I wanted to tell her how proud I am that she is an integral part of her daughter’s life, and how important the act of sacrificial giving is in hindsight.

I also wanted to tell her about her grandmother, not simply as a troop leader, but as a woman deeply invested in my life.

I wanted her to imagine her grandfather, periodically showing up at camp to help with the heavy lifting. He was a family man whose humble kindness had shaped us long before his death, when I was fifteen.

My daughter may not have made it to the gym that morning, but she chose something far more important. While she was supervising a busload of noisy kids, she was building the memories that become a family’s inheritance.

Camp Sacajawea is more than just a place. It is the sacred ground where today, one generation unknowingly passes the torch to the next.