Camp Dances

The iPod was on "shuffle" yesterday - I had forgotten what a strange mix of music is present in that tiny, fabulous gadget. One song that appeared was Three Times a Lady by the Commodores. Odd. Why is that in there? I inquired.

Years ago (thirty and more years ago - how is that possible?) Herself attended a small girls' camp in Maine every summer.  Three or four times during the camp season, the girls of certain cabin groups -- ages 12 and up -- were allowed to attend a dance at one of the local boys' camps.  Oh, the excitement!

The few days before a dance, in the free time after dinner and before lights-out, the girls would contemplate their few clothing options. What top would show off to best advantage their still-nascent cleavage?  The girls traded polo shirts back and forth.  Even more problematic:  how to arrange one's hair when one lived in a cabin with no electricity?  They managed somehow; there was always one girl who magically produced hairspray from within her foot locker.  Who had the best lip gloss? And was she willing to share?

The evening of the dance, the girls would ascend the hill to the main cabin and wait for to be assigned to one of the various vehicles for transportation to the boys' camp.  Most dreaded of all was the Moo-Cow Truck; a fairly large group of girls would be wedged into the bed of the truck.  It had a lattice covering, but one was nevertheless likely to arrive at the dance slightly wind-blown and with small bits of hay clinging to one's favorite jeans.  Herself was secretly fond of the Moo-Cow Truck, for it was a humbling and humorous vehicle.

Once the girls arrived at the boys' camp, the activity would progress similarly to any other middle-school dance:  girls would stand on one side, boys would stand on the other, and the DJ would attempt to entice some brave couple out to the dance floor by playing one of the most popular songs of the moment.  Eventually there would be some commingling and some awkward dancing. 

Occasionally, a girl who was fortunate enough to be asked to dance early on was granted the privilege of the same boy's attention for an extended portion of the evening. Oooo!  To be special!  Perhaps he would even ask her to take a short walk with him -- carefully dodging the chaperones -- to sneak a few minutes alone together.

Ah, the fraught moments of youth.  While an occasional boy was kind and would ask a girl to be his pen pal at camp for the summer, the majority of these pubescent boys appeared to be interested in taking a walk solely so that they would be able to report back to their peers regarding the degrees of their conquest.  The boys' tactics included aggressive French kissing, a clumsy grab at a breast, and for the more foolhardy ones, an attempt to touch the crotch of a girl's jeans. Third base in under a minute.  The girl in question, stunned by the boy's audacity, would hurriedly claim that she was worried about being found by the chaperones and retreat, rather angry and also ashamed at having been accosted.  The girls would whisper about it later in the security of their bunks back at their own camp.  No doubt the boys did too. 

Towards the end of the evening, the DJ would play a few slow songs as a reminder that the dance was coming to a close.  It was the last opportunity -- and a legitimate reason -- to touch a member of the opposite gender for a few minutes.  The girls knew that on the dance floor, they were protected from the boys' wandering hands by the chaperones' watchful eyes, so couples sprouted like mushrooms during those last few minutes.  One of the favored songs was Three Times A Lady. 

When Herself hears this song, she remembers the tiny flutter of pleasure at being asked to dance, so long ago.  To be held momentarily -- and to be simultaneously free from the danger of other, unwanted contact -- was lovely.  Music, motion, closeness, safety:  together, they are always lovely. 

She still is quite fond of slow dancing even today.