blog « Robin Writes

I was out and about yesterday and happened to check Facebook mid-afternoon, when I saw a post about the Oregon college shooting. There wasn’t much online at that point, but stories trickled in over the rest of the day.

Horrific, yes. Very sad, yes. But the damn gun didn’t fire itself. The crazy dude did it. How did he get a gun? I don’t know. Could someone else, with a gun, have taken him out before he could kill people? I don’t know that either; sometimes, as we see on the news, that happens. I tend to think many who carry would be just as terrified as someone who didn’t, and that, of course, would limit their actions.

But it’s pretty obvious that having a “gun-free zone” doesn’t work very well. Bad guys work around the rules, that’s why they’re called “bad” guys. You go into a bank, you don’t try to rob the place because you’re not a “bad” guy; he’ll go in the bank and try to rob it anyway.

Not like he went to a gun store and bought a gun, although maybe he did. There are loopholes; mistakes are made. Many crimes here in STL, however, are committed with stolen firearms.

That’s ‘cause we have bad guys, everywhere.

I know all the arguments; we’ve all heard them, over and over. I’m okay with hearing a fresh take on an issue, but I’m not okay with skewing statistics to prove a point as in several articles I’ve read recently.

Fact: Killing innocent people is wrong.

I think we can all agree with that.

But for a country in which many citizens believe it’s okay to murder a baby in the womb, why are we surprised when someone thinks it’s okay to shoot people?

Those who believe in abortion don’t think that that a fetus is actually a human being—or, they think the baby’s rights are less than that of the mother, the mother who chose to have sex (please, spare me the stats on rape victims and pregnancy or even failed birth control; the old saying “there’s an exception for every rule” applies across the board).

Look, most people think that sex is great—people think a lot of things are great, but that doesn’t mean we have a “right” to do those things. Even if we do, for every action, in any situation, there’s a consequence:

Get drunk, risk having an accident;

Steal something, risk arrest;

Have sex, you could get pregnant.

All of these things are your choice. THAT is your choice, and your choice extends to fixing the “problem,” but only if it doesn’t infringe on another’s rights.

If you get drunk and have an accident, you pay fines, repairs, living with guilt, possibly prison time. You might be able to alleviate those consequences, but the point is that YOU are paying for your choice. Steal and face arrest, same things apply.

For those who believe abortion is wrong, that it’s killing another human being, the consequence you may face for having sex is pregnancy and parenthood.

For those who think abortion is a good solution, you have a “procedure” and that’s it, one and done. In effect, you have no consequence. But that’s not how things should work, right?

I mean, if you believe it’s okay to kill an innocent child, why are you so adamant that we do away with guns because sometimes someone opens fire on innocent students or bystanders or anyone else?

I did not work this weekend. It was kind of nice, but of course, I won’t be working this upcoming weekend either—more on that next Wednesday—at least, not the farm kind of work.

Now that I’ve totally overused the word “work,” let’s move on to the fun part:

Camping!

Every year for the past eight years, since I moved back to STL and discovered this event, I’ve been going to Girl Scout camp staff reunion. We picnicked in a local park for a few years, but you really can’t separate Girl Scouts and camping so four years ago, we booked a site at a county park.

There’s a lodge at the top of a hill with an attached pavilion, and even further up that hill—feels like a mile but is really just about 30 feet, straight up—is the firepit. Some of our members sleep in the lodge, but a few of us still go the hammock or tent route.

The first year, my friend and I pitched the tent up near the lodge. On level ground, she said. Ha. Right. We spent the entire night praying that the air mattress wouldn’t slide through the tent flap, and us with is, all the way down the hill.

The second year, we camped across from the showers and parking lot at a picnic site; that’s when I decided that it was just too much gear to haul for one night, so since then we’ve reserved the group site and gone out a day early.

We have a blast every year—it’s such a mix of people. There are staff members from the 70s (60s?) on up to the 90s; the “kids,” you know . . . Any given year, there are folks who were my counselors and those with whom I worked.

But let me tell you about this year . . .

I arrived around 1:00 or so on Friday and unloaded the truck. I noticed that the parking lot up by the showers was full of trucks and campers and generators and wondered what the heck was going on. There were only five of us that night, and we crashed pretty early, around 11:00.

The moon was bright.

The movie lights were brighter.

The screams echoed.

A film company was making a horror movie.

I kid you not. What a great premise for a new book . . .

About 3:30 in the morning, someone—no names, just like in REDUCED—hollered something along the lines of “This is a campground, not F*CKING HOLLYWOOD!”

We didn’t hear any more screams that night.

So we slogged around Saturday morning, with severe aftereffects of sleep deprivation, and then ran into town to meet another of our gang for lunch. Later that afternoon, sitting around the fire, three people trailed through our campsite, from the road, slightly up the hill, and back down, winding around our tents.

What. The. Hell.

That’s a huge no-no for camping—you don’t just wander through a campsite. Idiots. We were all pretty annoyed at this point and started plotting some serious revenge . . .

In fact, a few phone calls were made and we even talked to a ranger.

About 9:00 p.m. or so, the assistant producer arrived at the lodge. He apologized for the late-night filming and said they’d be waaaay over the hill that night and wouldn’t bother us.

Uh huh. Right.

We could see it all, sitting around our after-party fire and looking up behind our campsite.

While we listened to accordion music.

No, really. At least it was OUR accordion music. The movie people were very, very quiet. Until about 2:00 a.m. Someone should really explain to them that just because the action in a movie takes place in the wee hours of the morning, it doesn’t mean it has to be filmed at the time. Dark is dark, you know?

Then the driving started. Back and forth, very fast, lots of headlights and engine noises. Not exactly great for camping, amiright?

Well, I stayed up too late anyway, as usual, and let me tell you—Sunday morning brought a few, um, symptoms that no, I’m not referring to as a hangover . . . draw your own conclusions there.

Oh, I’d do it all over again, and I will, come next September. Hopefully without the movie people, though. That would be best. For them.

But in spite of the film people, this reunion was one for the record books:

I’d seen someone earlier, hanging out and all, talking to a few people, but I didn’t know her. Finally, just as she said her goodbyes, I asked a friend who she was.

Turns out she was my very first camp counselor. 1972.

We’d even become Facebook friends a couple years ago, when I realized who she was online, but I just didn’t recognize her. Holy smoke. She’d saved my life when I was eight years old.

True story:

My first year at camp was in 1972. I went for a week, and the unit I stayed in was built onto the side of a hill. To get to our kitchen shelter and campfire circle in the meadow, we had to walk through a low water crossing at the creek.

We’d just gone through it and were coming up on the other side when I was shoved out of the way by my counselor. After she killed the copperhead and burned it, I knew why . . .

They built a footbridge the following year.

So yes, after 43 years, I met her again.