I think I know why you like that picture.
Dear Jaffner,
I think I know why you like this picture. It reminds you of the time you set the gutter on fire, doesn’t it? Big flames, satisfied smirk. Was the other weird sister was there, too? It was practically in her yard, at any rate.
Recently, you must have told my own kids about this one. They refuse to believe I didn’t participate in those pyrotechnics. They tell me, as if citing from a rule book, “Well, did you do anything to try to stop it?”
I admit it. I loved that felt beanie.
Or maybe the picture reminds you of our own experience in Girl Scouts. Until recently, I thought we were atypical. How many times did we even make it in the door after our moms dropped us off? On at least one occasion, I remember smoking cigarettes behind the building. I have a vague memory of blaming it on the ugly uniforms, which I suddenly hated after doting on those cute Brownie clothes. Our moms tried to keep us from quitting. Good luck with that.
Now I know that it was Girl Scouting itself that set us on this dark path of independent thinking. I’m sure it’s why our collective closets are packed full of gay and lesbian friends. We’re only fruit flies, after all.
Liberty and justice for all in the land of the free.
Which brings me back to my own boys, who on occasion over the years begged me to let them be Boy Scouts. Each time, I patiently explained to them why they couldn’t. In fact, I think this was probably the opener for their ongoing indoctrination into civil rights for homosexual people. Which, sadly, has now deteriorated into “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” on cue.
We should’ve stuck with that Cub Scout pack we enjoyed so much. In hindsight, my mom probably knew the Boy Scouts wouldn’t let us play once we aged out of her backyard den, Or maybe she sensed that budding feminists, latent Communists like us would never fit in with the more military (would that be Fascist, then?) agenda of boys who had outgrown pine-cone crafts and pond fishing.
Probably a good thing. Those Boy Scout shorts would have made our butts look big.
3 weird sisters 
I was NOT part of the pyrotechnics, thank you. That was Jaffner, the bad seed. And my brief experience with Girl Scouts only taught me that I didn’t fit in with the damned Girl Scouts. And there wasn’t anything back then that could have made MY butt look big. Including Boy Scout shorts. Your mother’s Cub Scout troop always seemed so much more fun than the Girl Scout stuff.
I have to admit, the gutter fires – there were more than one – were quite impressive. Except they weren’t gutter fires – they were storm sewer fires. The best one was when we shoved a huge pile of pine straw down into the storm sewer drain, then “borrowed” some gasoline from a can in the carport of the house there on the corner where the bus stop was. I would estimate a flame height of at least 6 – 7 feet above ground level. The best thing about that particular fire, aside from its impressive size, was that we lit it when the bus was in sight, and by the time the bus pulled up to our stop, it was reaching its most impressive heights. If you remember that bitchy woman who drove the bus – well, it almost gave her a heart attack. She ran off the bus and was trying to figure out a way to put out the fire. Many lulz were had by all.
In my defense, gasoline was a lot cheaper back then.
And also…I’m detecting a trend here with you other two weird sisters…an insinuation that I was the delinquent mastermind behind all of our pubescent misdeeds. Lyta has gone so far as to recently refer to me as a “gateway drug,” as if without my evil influence most of those misdeeds would have never occured.
HAH! I say. I am certain that I remember the genesis for many of our escapades arising from other quarters. Besides, I rather doubt that either of you would have grown up to join the Junior League had you been spared my bad influence – though if I’m wrong about that, then you owe me your undying gratitude.
I didn’t mean to insinuate that — you sure as hell didn’t drag me out of Girl Scouts, and it may have been the other way around.
But when it comes to pottymouth … in that department, you started at about age 4 and are still to this day my inspiration for ugly talk. I just come here to do it now. Tee hee.