Tag Archives: Cabin

Bambi, You Blew It

Image from Jean-Louis Servais from Pixabay.

As a child, did you watch the Walt Disney film, “Bambi”?

I didn’t, but my second grade class read the adorable fawn’s story. I hoped a friendly deer like Bambi would let me ride on his back. However, sightings during the 1960s in Indiana, even at my family’s woodland cabin, were rare.

Years later, when deer overpopulation resulted in state park hunts, I was appalled. How could they shoot Bambi?

Image by OTH Amberg-Weiden from Pixabay.

A herd in Oregon’s Willowa-Whitman National Forest helped me realize why. Our children opened car windows to pet them. Those hijackers tried to poke their heads inside. If Hubby hadn’t closed the windows, we’d have lost both kids and upholstery.

Also, my dad’s truck and a deer collided. With big-time damage to the animals, as well as vehicles, you’d think they’d look both ways.

Riding our tandem bike, Hubby and I have managed to spot deer before they get too close and personal — except for one incident, when a fawn ran alongside our bike for 100 yards.

Lovely creature, with trusting eyes.

He almost reconverted me — until we and our garden moved near town’s edge. Groups hang around our nearby church. Holy instincts? No. Those thieves never learned the Ten Commandments.

Images for WikiImages from Pixabay.

I imagine their eating-out conversations:

Stag: I’m sick of corn.

Doe: Eat soybeans.

Stag: Same-o, same-o. Let’s go to Phillipses’ Golden Corral. Now, there are beans.

Doe: They’re wonderful, but the servers aren’t very nice.

Stag: That weird one swung a hoe at me.

Doe: Maybe if you tipped her—

Stag: Why? She’s an animal!

My weirdness as well as deer repellent haven’t saved our green beans. One deer apparently stuck its head in a tomato cage. Hubby and I, puzzled at the cage’s disappearance, searched without success. A neighbor brought it to us, mangled almost beyond recognition.

Image by Mohamed Hassan from Pixabay.

Have the deer learned their lesson?

In a word, no.

The Internet bristles with suggestions of how to get rid of them: grow marigolds, garlic, lavender and mint, or hang soap, old CDs and pie pans nearby. Avoiding chemicals, gardeners spray concoctions of egg, liquid dish soap, garlic and/or hot sauce. Engineering types suggest motion-activated flashing lights or ultrasonic deer repellers. Others build ten-foot fences.

I could add a watchtower. And order a bazooka from Amazon Prime.

Bambi, you blew it.

This “server” is about to get serious.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Is Bambi still your BFF? Why or why not?

Bunking It in Brown County

Years ago, our small church held an autumn retreat in the now-famous Brown County hills in southern Indiana. Once, my girlfriends and I persuaded the camp director — my mother — to let us stay overnight in a cabin without a chaperone. No volunteers, so she had little choice.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay.

That evening, we ate fiery cinnamon balls and SweeTartsTM until our teeth sizzled. We caked on blue eye shadow and painted our nails sinful colors. Transistor radios filled the cabin with crackly Top 40 songs. We posted a lookout for a boy raid.

Nobody. Stupid boys.

We debated who was cuter: Paul McCartney or John Lennon? We sorted boys we knew into categories: Hip and Drip. The church guys? Drips, of course.

The Beatles.

Conversation lagged. The wind moaned outdoors.

We rechecked windows. Those Drips would never pull it off. Losers.

“What if kidnappers come?” Janie quavered.

“Scaredy cat!” Laughing, I turned away so she couldn’t see me shiver.

Image by Alexa from Pixabay.

When someone attempted a shower, a hairy-legged centipede crawled out of the drain. Screeching, we scrambled to top bunks.

Then a mouse scampered across the beam over our beds. Screaming, we hit the bottom bunks with a championship diving team’s precision.

A faint light glimmered in our dusty window. Moonlight? The Drips?

No! Jack the Ripper finally had made his move!

We plunged outside into the dark woods, probably leaping over copperheads to escape Jack.

Image by Jacqueline Macou from Pixabay.

Mom, the little boys’ counselor, didn’t welcome us to their cabin. “Sleep, or return to your cabin alone.”

We slept. Sort of.

When my brother played morning reveille on his trombone (no trumpet player attended our church), we wished we’d never heard of Brown County. Given this cabin’s nonfunctional shower, we faced the day with greasy hair and back-to-nature fragrance.

Soon, though, we lost ourselves in stitching genuine Indian coin purses, eating hot dogs, singing and learning Bible lessons. Playing dodgeball, we smacked the Drips to demonstrate our everlasting hate and love.

All too soon, we said goodbye until Sunday school, when we would dress up and play nice.

Who knew that soon, Brown County church camp, with its fun-infested cabins, imaginary kidnappers and trombone reveille, would say goodbye, too?

For good.

Image by SeppH from Pixabay.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What camp memories do you cherish?