The Baby Blue Bomber

by Adam Powell

She was born in 1975, only seven years before me, but she seemed so much wiser, so much more experienced beneath the clumsy and awkward hands of a sixteen-year-old boy convinced he could teach her the ways of contemporary love, though he scarcely knew them himself, and possibly show her things she had never before imagined. I’d met her several years before at my grandfather’s farm, located just beyond Montgomery’s boundaries, where she sat beneath the shade of an old oak tree, day in and day out, longing to be noticed again, held again and, if it not be too much to ask, treated well, like a favored teacher rather than a newfound lover. I’d watched her secretly for years, eyeballing her plump curves and heavy frame from the window in the feed store, where the catfish farmers, cattle- and horse breeders, dog lovers and duck herders picked up their salt blocks and fifty-pound bags of feed, never knowing that it would be me who taught her never to love again.

Growing up in Selbrook, a quaint little neighborhood west of Montgomery, Alabama dotted with aged plantation homes and rows of towering pecan trees, under which we’d spend weeks picking up pecans and selling them to make rent or buy Christmas presents, was like growing up a world away from my classmates in the city— they’d never had to pick up pecans to make ends meet; they’d never been beaten with a bullwhip for scaring the chickens; they’d never had to patch a tear in a foal’s leg after it was mangled by a barbed wire fence; they’d never had to go squirrel hunting for their dinner; they’d never baled hay or fed a hundred head of cattle or played day-long games of baseball on a hidden sandlot surrounded by weeds the size of telephone poles. The little neighborhood of my youth was a place frozen in time, a relic of a time and place where men still grew brown and craggy beneath the Southern sun and brutalized their mud-splattered children and flour-covered wives. We’d be put out of the house around 8:00 every morning and told not to return until 4:30 that afternoon, when the sound of my father’s car pulling into the drive would send panic through the house, as one never really knew from one day to the next what minor infraction or inconvenience might send him into a violent and uncontrollable rage.

But, despite the beatings, the simplicity of a child’s life in that place at that time was a gift, one that I would try to extend to my children more than a decade later, only to find that the neighborhood of my childhood, though relatively unchanged, had lost the magic and mystique I’d known as a boy— the old sandlot can no longer be seen through the overgrowth surrounding it; the sound of playing cards in bike spokes as children maraud from one end of the neighborhood to the other, only about five or eight blocks in any direction has strangely disappeared; men are no longer seen puffing pipes in the feed store while discussing politics or the weather or the upcoming harvest; old women no longer walk in packs along the empty streets before daybreak and houses now stand where once we’d constructed a dirt bike path, as well as atop the isolated wooded areas we’d once explored along the edges of the neighborhood.

And the cars are different, too. In my youth, all the old men drove old, oversized pickups, the kind with rust collecting inside the dents scattered from the hood to the tailgate, likely the result of an overzealous bull looking to get to the feeder before the rest of the herd, and the women drove big Buicks, usually gold or green, which they’d drive at break-neck speeds to church on Wednesday night or Sunday morning or to the produce stand before all the other Buicks could get there and pick dry the selection of green tomatoes and peaches. And the ones who didn’t drive pickup trucks drove twenty and thirty-year-old jalopies they cleaned every Sunday afternoon, inside and out, after cutting the grass, so that they shined like new. Nowadays, the cars are as feeble as the people – the old men still drive oversized pickups, but they’re silver and they get replaced every two or three years, so there are no dents and very few bulls, and the old ladies just stay at home and wait for the morning, afternoon, and evening news.

Still, she was a woman of and outside of her time, not out of place on Selbrook’s tiny streets, yet wholly unlike any other there. She had grown from a sleek, modern beauty to an elegant and exotic lady as the years passed and all along I’d watched her age with grace, there in the shade not far from the street that stretched from Old Selma Road to the sandlot at the back of the neighborhood, then curved to the left toward a pasture, before curving back to the right and running straight into the old trailer park that butts up against the Alabama River.

The first time I took the driving test, I failed. The second time wasn’t much better, but the driving instructor – a fat, red-faced man with rimless bifocals and a sandy mustache – had taken pity on me and given me the green light to cruise alone.

“So,” my dad said to the instructor once I’d parked the car. “How’d he do?”

“Well, to be honest, he seems like he’s a little distracted when he’s driving,” the red-faced man responded. “He’s just somewhere off in his own little world. I mean, he drove pretty good, but being that distracted is gonna get’m in a helluva mess one of these days.”

A helluva mess, indeed.

We drove straight from the driving test to my grandfather’s farm and parked beneath the old oak tree. And with the twinkling of keys moving from one hand to another, she was mine: that 1975 baby blue Mercedes Benz 300 D, complete with the baby-blue hubcaps donning a chrome Benz logo and an all-leather interior the color of sun-bleached khaki shorts, likely labeled as mauve in some earlier age.

Having only dreamed for so long of how she handled, I learned her quirks pretty quickly, the biggest struggle being getting used to driving a heavy, twenty-year-old machine with a diesel engine, which required my meandering mind to focus long enough to hold the choke, attentively awaiting a clicking sound and the flash of a tiny red light, before pulling it all the way out and turning the engine over. She’d belonged to my uncle, likely fresh off the lot, and at 95-cent per gallon she was my chariot through the outskirts of the ’90s – classic rock on a turn-dial stereo, perforated leather across the dash and the steering wheel and the fattened bench seats. The Baby Blue Bomber bobbing breathlessly, bedlam bound.

One evening around dusk, my brother and I decided to take her out for a jaunt through the neighborhood, the same one we’d navigated atop bicycles until just months before. It was summer, the clouds breaking from orange to auburn as the moon crept slowly up, the pecan trees alive with the sound of a thousand bugs and birds and squirrels, and we set off with the windows down, smoking cigarettes we’d stolen from the gas station down the street as the radio whined low.

The stretch of road between the old sandlot and the enormous cow pasture just down the way was a two-lane surrounded by wide stretches of open land encased with barbed wire, which leaned and cracked amid thousands of tiny, jutting trees. We pulled into the gravel pit at the edge of the sandlot and rocks and dust spit up behind us as I spun the Baby Blue Bomber to face the cow pasture, about half a mile down the road, which curved sharply to the right before hitting the pasture.

“So,” I said to my brother, tossing the butt of an unfiltered Winston out the window. “You wanna see what she can do?”

It was a phrase my father used to say when we’d drive home late at night from the ballpark behind the nearby elementary school and he’d bear down on the gas, sending his little Dodge Ram screaming as it crept up to 120 MPH down long, dark country roads.

“Hell yeah,” he said, and I floored it.

The Baby Blue Bomber wasn’t like modern cars, even modern cars in the ’90s, with their flimsy, lightweight bodies – no, The Bomber was a curvy and hefty beast, heavy metal head to toe – so it took her awhile to get going. We were nearly three-quarters of the way down the road before it reached 60 mph.

“Let’s see if we can take this curve without hitting the breaks,” I screamed at my brother as the country wind blew into the car like a cyclone.

“Do it,” I heard him howl, a wide smile across his face, bright against the now peach and plum-colored sunset.

We were right around 75 MPH when we came roaring into the curve, so I jerked the wheel hard to the right, thinking I could coast this unwieldy monster gracefully through— no such luck. I felt The Bomber edge slightly to one side and her hulking body began to roll into the curve and the wooded area it crossed. I glanced over at my brother and could feel my face mirror the grotesque look of panic now dripping from the corner of his eyes, mouth, and forehead. I pulled the wheel back to the left and felt the tires once again make contact with the rocky pavement, immediately sending The Bomber zigzagging a few yards across the road before crashing along the front wheel-well into a rotted telephone pole. By then, my brother was out cold in the passenger’s seat and a small trickle of blood could be seen where his forehead spiderwebbed the windshield. I jumped out and rushed to his side of the car, but found him sitting up and reaching for the cigarettes by the time I’d made it through the knee-high grass and soggy ground into which we’d landed.

“Fuck,” he said, dabbing his forehead with his fingers. “I guess that was pretty good, yeah? I mean, we made it, yeah.”

“Shit,” I mumbled in response. “What are we gonna do?”

He shrugged.

We sat on the hood of The Bomber, smoking cigarettes and wondering how we were going to get her home and, once we did, how we were going to hide the nasty, black gash engraved between the headlight and the wheel, thinking nothing of the small but steady stream of blood slowing leaking from my brother’s forehead, before trying our luck. To our surprise, she cranked right up and rolled out of the ditch with ease, but when I threw her in drive, a penetrating sound of clanging and gnashing could be heard emanating from the wound. I had to drive back through the quiet, country neighborhood slanting left to keep the wheel and the body from meeting, only to occasionally have to pull it sharply right, to bring it back to the other side of the road, and send the streets reeling beneath the echo of crashing and shrieking metal.

My father would show strange restraint that night, a precursor to the more delicate man he’d become years down the road, deciding to simply pry the baby blue metal away from the wheel with a rusty pole he pulled from his work shed. As far as the wrinkle in the metallic frame, outlined in black where the baby blue paint had been peeled away; as for the windshield shattered on one side, looking as if pieces of glass might at any moment begin pouring out of it; as for the tiny crack in my brother’s forehead, where now a scab was beginning to form; as for the smell of unfiltered Winstons hanging heavy on our clothes and breath and the inside of the car I’d so generously been given, he said there were more important things: we were safe, we were home.

My brother and I would chart many a course thereafter in The Bomber, forever scarred by a telephone pole in Selbrook, which even now bears the trembled lean inflicted upon it by The Blue Bomber’s night ride so long ago. Those rides would continue until the day the power steering went out and we were told by a mechanic that it would cost more to fix The Bomber than it would to buy a new car, like the vet passing along the news that the family’s eighteen-year-old retriever has to be put down. So we parted ways, at some nondescript shop off the Southern Bypass, not far from the tiny Baptist church where I was baptized the first time, which is right in front of the railroad tracks that run nearly the length of Old Selma Road, just a mile or so down the road from the produce stand run by a sunburnt and wrinkled old man and woman in their front yard, which is right around the corner from B&J’s Grocery, where we used to buy cheese crackers and Coca-Cola or chewing gum to mask the smell of cigarettes, which is right across the street from the house I grew up in, about an eight-minute walk to Powell Feed Store, which is where I first saw her beneath an old oak tree when I was a kid.

——

Adam Powell is Editor of The Selma Times-Journal and President of the Alabama chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists (SPJ).

Dinner on the Grounds

by Luisa Kay Reyes

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound . . .” were the strains of music the few of us still present at the yearly homecoming at Old Union Baptist Church tried to sing, with only about two or three of us able to sing any of the verses past the first one.  However,  as we looked around at the silent church building and the largely empty tables lining the church cemetery, it was clear this tradition was fading into the realm of memory.  And our attempt at singing the classic hymn was the best way for us to submit a tribute to the old country church. 

 Traditions come and go. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, depending on who is speaking. And in this particular case, I was glad that we had experienced the rural Southern tradition of all-day singings and dinner on the grounds. 

For while we were in college at Judson and the University of Alabama in the latter part of the 1990s, after having lived in many different states and even in a few different countries such as Mexico and Brazil, we were considered the international ones in our college church group. After all, we sang opera arias at our parties for our fellow collegians and between the two of us, my brother and I, we spoke five languages including Spanish, Portuguese, German, and Latin, with ease. We didn’t hunt and fish, and I struggled with comprehending what a first down was in college football, so to our Southern friends, we were the least Alabamian a person could get. 

At the same time, to our Northern friends in Ohio, we were practically Gone With the Wind’s Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara. It was mind-boggling to all who made our acquaintance and yet, completely confusing, albeit natural to the two of us. After all, we were born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and had grown up accompanying our mother during every Thanksgiving and Christmas vacation to interview a lovely and spirited former Miss Georgia, who lived past where the paved road ended.  And the charming Miss Lena was a childhood favorite of all of our elderly shirt-tail kinfolk, to sit for hours while our Mother gathered the oral histories of our Confederate ancestors who were with the 44th Alabama Infantry and buried at Camp Chase. With that kind of pedigree, one would think the matter of our Southern citizenship would be settled; however, since we had also lived in México City during our early childhood in the 1980s, we were thrilled when we toured the Westervelt Warner Museum of Early American Art in Tuscaloosa and spotted some microscopic, yet, traditionally dressed Mexicans in one of the paintings—  much to the bewilderment of the docent who didn’t understand the source of our glee.  While perhaps equally bewildered, our curious college friends soon learned to take this duality of ours in stride, especially on Sunday mornings. Then we introduced them to dinner on the grounds.

As the name implies, food and plenty of it is involved in dinner on the grounds.  So it took very little prodding from my brother to convince our always-ready-for-a-good-and-inexpensive-meal university pals, to join us for a Sunday morning drive down to the Talladega National Forest. With the addresses of our final destination unknown and the directions to get there too vague to give someone who had never ventured down past the outer edges of the city, our patient and hungry friends would agree to meet us at our house. A group of six of us could climb into the same car and drive down together. This would inevitably lead to them undergoing a series of questions from our Mother about where they grew up and where their parents grew up, as she would try to ascertain why, as her linguistically trained ears detected, they didn’t have a Southern accent.  

Time and time again, our mother would be surprised to find out that our friends had the history, heritage, and bloodlines of true Southerners.  But, since people nowadays grow up with commercial media and other influences on their speech patterns, she begrudgingly learned to accept that some of our friends weren’t fibbing— they really were Southern . . . just with a markedly fainter drawl than our dear Miss Georgia. 

Once we turned right into the national forest, the roads would leave their paved cousins behind and yield to their natural state of pure red dirt. Although, sometimes the pure red dirt was mixed with pure red mud. And since we would be driving through the forest, it is tempting to say that we enjoyed the lush greenery of the pastoral countryside; however, the reality is that most of the time we didn’t really know what color the leaves on the trees were.  As the dust from the red dirt roads covered most of the visible foliage, it rendered their color bland and imperceptible. Nonetheless, we would just keep driving down a piece, then turn left where it felt right. There were no street signs or markers for the turn, and nobody over the years had ever sat down to figure out the mileage from the turn off the highway, to the turn past the bushes that the old folks called Keaton’s Corner, to the left turn up the hill.  But it felt right to turn left there, and it usually was. 

Once we made our way up the hill, we would come to a white clapboard country church that by this time felt like a welcome beacon of civilization. Usually, by the time we arrived at this Old Union Baptist Church, it was already surrounded by about two-hundred people and the strains of the shape-note singing could be heard through the car windows. The strains of music that sounded . . . better from far away.  Far, far, away as the men leaning on their pickup trucks parked along the farthest edges of the clearing that was now a makeshift parking lot, would attest to. 

Undaunted, we would park our cars, while our college friends would look around in amazement. While this was a staple of our childhood, this was their first time experiencing such a Southern tradition. Soon, their gazes would be reeled in as we’d be pressed to participate in the singing, since most of the singers were thrilled to see some “young folk” possibly joining their ranks.  However, our contribution was, at best, minimal. Learning to play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” on the piano in high school didn’t prepare us for the triangles and squares that make up shape-note singing. (Don’t ask me how it works, I still don’t know.) Nonetheless, we’d sing just long enough to allow us to be welcome, to what us eager college students considered to be the main draw of the day, the dinner part of the dinner on the grounds. 

Out of habit, the morning singing, which usually began at nine or ten, came to a close to allow for the midday meal, my brother and I would rush out to help the older ladies set up their tablecloths and dishes along the long rows of cement tables just outside of the sanctuary, usually with an ant hill or two.  And carefully, we would look to see which sweet potato casseroles looked like they’d be the best ones to eat first and then which green beans with bacon we could eat afterwards, to counteract the sweetness of our dessert first indulgence. For our college friends – and yes, us, as well – were happy that we didn’t have to worry about getting seconds or even thirds.  As it would be traumatic to leave a dish uncleaned and have the elderly ladies thinking they were losing their cooking skills. 

Once the blessing thanking The Good Lord for everyone’s presence and the delicious dinner was said, we would get in line and heap spoonful upon spoonful of fried okra and tomatoes, green beans with bacon, turnip greens with bacon, and lima beans – sometimes with bacon, too – upon our plates and proceed to happily find the best spot for us to indulge in our plates full of southern vittles. With tradition having long before established which families ate at which tables, it was easy for us to find our place along the gray cement tables that were always reserved for us and start eating and eating away.  

We were usually too occupied with our appetites to join in the conversation very much, but we’d overhear the inevitable discussion about family genealogy and how far back people were able to trace the Ward family now. Could anybody link them to the Ward who was a member of the House of Burgesses and helped save the Jamestown colony from starving?  Was there a link between our Wards and the prominent ones in England who married into royalty? Looking around at our rural surroundings, it didn’t seem very likely. But everybody brightened up at the prospect of such a connection, even so.  

Before too long, we would be treated to the cemetery tour. Yes, every dinner on the grounds involves a cemetery.  Which although littered with dormant headstones, often loosens the tongues of some of the elderly folk who take it upon themselves to surprise us with the tales of the times gone by. Tales including peddlers who were seen no more after entering the area and headstrong women who eloped against their parents’ wishes.  For somehow, it isn’t the same to eat outside without the weathered and sometimes illegible headstones of those who’ve gone before, reminding us that as tasty as it is, the food we were now eating, wouldn’t sustain us forever.

Finally, after the hour-long break from the singing that is traditionally allotted for the dinner came to a close, we helped clear out the empty dishes from the table and sometimes, even make a feeble attempt at helping out with the afternoon singing. Truth to be told, our paltry aid hardly compensated for the hearty meal we’d just eaten. Nonetheless, the elderly folk appreciated our gesture, driving the distance from the college And we would make plans to come to the next dinner on the grounds.  For yes, without fail, our esurient college friends would want to join us again.

Camp Earl Wallace

by Elena Vale Wahl

His name was Mr. Prichard, and I looked forward to his visits so much that my classmates joked I had a crush on him. I was indignant, of course— I didn’t have a crush on some mustachioed guy in a Ranger Rick outfit! It was the 1986–’87 school year, and we were in fifth grade. Mr. Prichard, from the Kentucky State Department of Fish and Wildlife, visited our class every week for conservation lessons. I already loved the Great Outdoors, so he was just closing the deal on something I was already sold on. 

A couple of years earlier, I’d been a Pixie at Boy Scouts’ Camp Covered Bridge, and absolutely hated being stuck in that cheesy-ass program for younger siblings of Webelos. I’d tried Girl Scouts and did a couple weeks at Camp Pennyroyal, but quit in fourth grade. If it wasn’t bad enough that my troop turned into a Mean Girl convention, I was sorely disappointed that none of the moms in charge wanted to do the outdoor venturing promoted in my paperback Girl Scout handbook. No, I wanted to be a Boy Scout, dammit! I loved the rustic two-man tents, the promises of long and grueling hikes, the fire ring where cute older boys did slightly off-color skits, like “The Overweight Outlaw,” that would never fly in my son’s troop today. 

So, when Mr. Prichard offered us a week at Camp Earl Wallace, I jumped at the chance. It was all the high-adventure stuff of Scouts without the uniforms, and even came with a Holy Grail: The Outdoorsman Badge. And, man alive, did he pump up that Outdoorsman Badge. In order to get it, you had to earn nine smaller badges in skills as diverse as skeet shooting, first aid, and motorboating. 

That Outdoorsman Badge was the first thing on my mind when I shoved the camp registration in my mom’s face that night. She smiled bemusedly, saying, “I need to talk to your father.” I knew the budget was the big issue, since I was always begging for new enrichment activities. But since this was the only sleep-away camp I’d asked for that summer, she gave me a “yes” by the next day. Somehow, between my dad’s construction-worker paycheck and her assortment of odd jobs, they managed to pay for most of what I wanted. 

On a sultry morning in July, we met the school buses in the parking lot at the Louisville Zoo. A couple of classmates joined me for the week. April, who was smart as a whip and good at everything she tried, had been my friend since first grade. Her dark-blond hair hung in one of those blunt cuts that never go out of style. In contrast, her mother Frieda’s heavy brown mane seemed like a ’70s holdover. Frieda worked as a dietitian in Louisville, but had roots in Eastern Kentucky. I did too, but the only hillbilly family reunion I ever attended was for Frieda’s family, not mine. Tamara, a tall, confident black girl, was new to our downtown magnet school. Louisville was very segregated, and I couldn’t tell you where Tamara lived. But she seemed like someone who was going places in life. I envied her self-assurance, and the way she seemed more comfortable in her pubescent body than I did in mine. 

While April and I were not rich, our families worked hard to instill good manners and an appreciation for education and culture. We didn’t yet know that some of our campmates were from a rougher, tougher side of the city. But we were about to get an education. 

Our cabin was enormous. I honestly think it held at least thirty bunk beds. Our counselor, Jennifer, had an un-bunked bed in the middle, right across from the door. She lounged on it, her permed brown hair hanging to the side, as we dragged in duffel bags and bed rolls. And on the knotty pine wall, I spotted the following lovely poem, penned in Sharpie: 

“One night of pleasure, nine months of pain,
three days in the hospital, a baby to name
A girl pulls down her reputation, a boy sticks in his education,
and that’s what making love is all about.” 

Well. I already knew where babies came from, but geez. We weren’t even sixth graders yet, so the graffiti made me wonder which cabin-mates were hanging with a fast crowd. 

But there wasn’t much time to reflect on knotty-pine sex ed. We had badges to earn. The camp divided us into smaller groups at badge stations, where we got a warning-laden overview of each outdoor skill, and were then turned loose. Casting a reel was easy, despite being terrified by tales of kids landing fish hooks in eyes and hands. I’d gone fishing with my dad, digging worms out of the garden and putting them in a coffee can, so that was old hat. Next, I fell in love with skeet shooting. The shooting instructor, an old country boy with three days’ stubble, showed me how to line up the fat sights on a shotgun and shatter a clay pigeon. It handled a lot easier than Dad’s pistol, and the pieces splintered with a satisfying crackle. It was like breaking dishes, but with no yelling from Mom. 

Badge sessions were broken up with meals and canteen, when the snack bar was open. Because the State of Kentucky operated the camp, everything came to us at-cost. I could get a Mountain Dew and a Snickers for only a quarter each, when the going rate at Wish’s Drug Store was fifty cents apiece. 

Swimming was another diversion. A chain-link fence surrounded the pool, but the bath house lacked enough stalls for the large groups of girls. I remember changing in an open field, a few girls holding up towels to shield us from the male counselor in the lifeguard chair, who wasn’t looking at us anyway. “We’re all girls” was a rallying cry, and changing clothes in front of same-sex peers was a badge of honor. Plus, showers were the old- school kind: three spigots with no dividers. The water had two temperatures: ice-cold or hot as hell. I remember April, Tamara, and I sticking in one arm or leg at a time, squealing in pain, and frantically turning the knobs. 

As the week wore on, however, a bit of darkness crept in. I could tell some of the girls were talking about me, snickering behind raised hands. I was skinny, awkward, and too eager to be cool. In fourth grade, I’d been separated from April and the other two girls in my friend group, and placed in a fourth-fifth split class with a bunch of kids who were new to our school. Those that weren’t tough and fast fell into step behind the ringleaders. The first semester, a girl named Dara was the bullying target. After Christmas, it was me. It rattled me to such a degree that even the next year, when I rejoined my friends in a fifth-grade-only room, I felt I constantly had to jockey for position, worried that other friendships held with a faster glue. 

In idle moments, I perused the knotty-pine walls of the cabin, reading more naughty graffiti, curious about the bad kids who had penned it. One stuck out at me. “Stacey hates Titty Babies.” I turned to Brandi, a petite girl with the permed bob and teased bangs so many girls wore in ‘87. “Hey, what’s a titty baby?” 

She smirked. “Oh, just somebody who cries all the time.” 

I bit my lip. Clearly, she thought I was one, as did her friends, who giggled in the background. 

At home, I was the only girl, and I could cry myself to sleep in my room, without anyone knowing. But at school, I often got upset when I was overlooked or criticized, and once the tear spigot opened up, it was impossible to turn off. My crying jags were first identified as a problem in second grade. I remember a meeting after school, where my teacher confidently announced to my mother and me, “We’re gonna have this under control by Christmas break.” 

But three years on, it wasn’t under control. It was getting worse. And I’d developed perfectionistic tendencies that exacerbated my emotions. Outdoors camp sounds like a great place for a kid to de-stress. But my self-imposed pressure to excel at everything was fanning my anxiety into flames. 

As I recall, Camp Earl Wallace gave us just two sessions to master each outdoors skill before taking our badge evaluation. Often, the counselor in charge would give us a pointed warning of what not to do right before the eval. I still remember the boating instructor saying, “Whatever you do, do not put the boat in reverse when you start the engine, ’cause you’ll run the boat into the dock.” 

And what did Elena do? Ran the boat right into that dock, with a solid THWACK against the rubber bumper. Laughter from my peers. Immediate disqualification. And there went my Outdoorsman Badge! But then again, I lacked the arm muscles to pull the bow back for Archery, and couldn’t do the crawl stroke well enough for Swimming. 

April, of course, got the Outdoorsman. And if I remember correctly, Tamara got hers, too. And this budding perfectionist was so, so salty about being bested by them. 

But there was another prize waiting for me at Camp Earl Wallace. At dinner, the camp director announced a Talent Show. Anyone could enter, and it would be the last night of camp. The girls started to buzz around the bunk beds, asking each other, “What are you gonna do?” 

I knew I wouldn’t get tapped for a group routine—after all, they didn’t like me enough. But maybe, just maybe, I could perform alone. I’d never sung a full solo before, just a one-liner in a church musical. And even that, I’d gotten by violating a social norm (which was kind of becoming my thing). “Elena,” the youth choir director said when he cornered me. “You are singing way too loud. I mean, your voice sticks out above everyone else’s. If you want a solo, we can do that for you, but you gotta back off a little.” 

He said I was loud. He didn’t say anything about being good. And at my school, April and her best friend Julie were the ones who wrote songs and performed them in front of the class. Everyone saw them as singers, not me. 

But could I change that? And what song was good enough? I looked no further than Heart’s Anne and Nancy Wilson, the big-haired queens of girl-power rock. Their over- emotive ballads were just as angsty as I was. And which song? “Alone.” You see, I was already boy-crazy, and the thought of cornering one of my many crushes, confiding my true feelings, and maybe, just maybe having them return my affections was a page out of my fantasy book. 

So for two whole days, I snuck off to the woods around Camp Earl Wallace, wailing, “Till now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met you . . . ” The Show became my new Holy Grail. If I couldn’t be an Outdoorsman, maybe I could be a performer. 

On the last afternoon of practice, I ran into a snag. My mom and dad had sent a few dollars with me for the canteen snacks, dollars I watched like a hawk. Nicole, a heavy girl with long, brown hair, had bummed a quarter off me at canteen a couple days before. She was sitting on the front porch of the cabin when I spotted her. 

“Hi, Nicole, can you pay me back the quarter I loaned you?” 

“I ain’t payin’ you back. You’re the one who gave me the quarter.” 

“But you’re supposed to pay me back!” 

“So what? It’s just a stupid-ass quarter! What’re you gonna do, sue me?!” 

Foolishly, I tried to get some other girls to take my side on the matter. They either ignored me or laughed. “But it’s not fair!” I wailed. In my heart of hearts, I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t get over my indignation at how rude she was. It wasn’t just that I was almost out of canteen money. I was tired of people being snotty and getting away with it. Counselor Jennifer was nowhere to be found, so I stalked my tear- streaked face up to the nurse’s station. 

Miss Connie, a country sort of woman, listened to my whiny diatribe about the quarter while she bandaged up somebody’s skinned knee. After a couple minutes, she’d had enough. 

“Ilonna,” she said, mispronouncing my Spanish name like so many Kentuckians did, “it’s just a quarter. For crying out loud!” 

“But she was mean and it’s not fair!” 

“Well, whoever said life was always gonna be fair?! I got kids in here who need medical attention and you’re cryin’ about a quarter. Here, I’ll give you one.” With a sigh, she fished her purse out of the desk drawer. 

As I recall, I accepted the coin she pushed into my hand with a ‘thank you,’ but it really wasn’t what I wanted. I’d lost the battle, and could only hope everybody forgot about me crying. 

Some kids would’ve backed out of the Talent Show at this point. I mean, hadn’t I embarrassed myself enough? But my emotional eruption only made me more determined to go through with my solo. I had something to prove. I didn’t want that brat to feel like she’d gotten me down. And I wanted to be remembered as the girl who could sing, not as the Titty Baby. 

That night, I was a nervous noodle, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts, pacing around. The Talent Show was quite informal. There was no real stage, just a sea of hyper girls gathered around the flagpole. Performers gave their name and song title to the MC, and waited to go to the middle of the crowd. 

I remember a girl named Jamie who went before me. The crowd roared their approval as her name was announced. Petite, her hair perfectly poufed, she slouched in her acid- washed jeans as if to say she was too cool for her mama’s warnings about posture. The floodlights reflected off of her Ray-Bans as she brandished a small boombox. She pressed play and lip-synced Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye.” 

Her performance, and the crowd’s reaction, just increased my nerves. I wished I had brought a tape. I wondered if the crowd would be as excited to hear from me, or if they’d boo because I was a titty baby. But then again, I rationalized, Jamie didn’t even sing. Maybe people would be impressed with me. 

And then, they called my name. And it was just like standing in line for The Beast at the Kings Island amusement park. There was no backing out. I was gettin’ on this coaster. 

I cleared my throat and swallowed, blocking out the giggles and whispers. 

“I hear the ticking of the clock, I’m lying here, the room’s pitch dark . . . I wonder where you are tonight, No answer on the telephone . . . And the night goes by so very slow . . . Oh I hope that it won’t end though . . . Alone . . .” 

Gulping another breath, I wailed the next section: “’Til now I always got by on my own I never really cared until I met you And now it chills me to the bone How do I get you alone? How do I get you alone?” 

My voice cracked on the high pitch of the melisma before the final chorus, but I kept on belting until the final “Alone!” rang out across the crowd. 

And as the MC congratulated me, I took my place back in the crowd, wiping away tears. Not because they bullied me or because anything wasn’t “fair.” I was crying happy tears because I was proud of myself. I sang the whole song. Was it perfect? No. But did I do something not everyone had the cajones to do? Hell yeah. 

Just a couple days after Camp Earl Wallace, my mom put my brothers and I on our first airplane flight for a trip to Disney World. My dad didn’t attend. That fall, my parents split up. At thirteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, which explained my fits of anger and crying jags. However, I didn’t learn to manage my symptoms well until I was in my 30s. I kept singing through the tears. Eleven years after that camp talent show, I performed in a vocal recital for my music degree. There were arias in French, German, and Portuguese, but no hits from Heart. Today, I teach music for a living, and I have a YouTube channel with a few solo tracks. Earlier this week, I bumped into Mr. Prichard on the Facebook page for Camp Earl Wallace. I still love the Great Outdoors, so much that I became one of only two female leaders in my son’s Boy Scout troop. In effect, I got my childhood wish for scouting adventures. But not my wish to chaperone camp this summer. COVID-19 shut it all down. But I still live by my own version of the Girl Scout Law:

“On my honor, I will try, to not let my voice crack on the high notes, and not let the Mean Girls get me down . . . and not run my motorboat into that gol’dang dock!!!”

——

Kentucky native Elena Vale Wahl is a music teacher and YA author. Her work can be found in Red Tricycle, Scary Mommy, and on her website. Follow her on Instagram or Twitter.