uniform with its odd military beret and tie, learning the same ritual rhymes, handshakes and salutes, and chanting in unison with the others,
A Brownie gives in to the
older
folk;
A Brownie does NOT give in to her
self
.
There was even some dancing involved. At the beginning of every session, when the slightly dilapidated papier-mâché toadstool which was the group fetish had been set in place on its grassy-green felt mat, and the gray-haired woman in the blue Guide uniform had said with a twinkle in her eye, “Hoot! Hoot!” the Brownies would hurtle from the four corners of the room, six at a time, and perform a whirling, frenzied dance, screeching out the words to their group songs as loud as they could. Mine was:
Here you see the laughing Gnomes,
Helping mothers in our homes.
This was not strictly true: I didn’t help my mother. I wasn’t allowed to. On the few occasions I’d attempted it, the results had not pleased her. The only way I could have helped her to her satisfaction would have been to change into someone else, but I didn’t know this yet. My mother didn’t approve of my free-form style of making beds, nor of the crashes and fragments when I dried the dishes. She didn’t like scraping charcoal off the bottoms of pots when I tried to cook (“a cooked dessert” was one Brownie test requirement), or having to reset the table after I’d done it backwards. At first I tried to surprise her with sudden Good Turns, as suggested in theBrownie handbook. One Sunday I brought her breakfast in bed on a tray, tripped, and covered her with wet cornflakes. I polished her good navy-blue suede shoes with black boot polish. And once I carried out the garbage can, which was too heavy for me, and tipped it down the back steps. She wasn’t a very patient woman; she told me quite soon that she would rather do things right herself the first time than have to do them over again for me. She used the word “clumsy,” which made me cry; but I was excused from household chores, which I saw as an advantage only much later. I sang out the words unflinchingly though, as I stomped around the toadstool in clouds of church-basement dust, with a damp Gnome hand clutched in each of mine.
The lady who ran the pack was known as Brown Owl; owls, we were told, meant wisdom. I always remembered what she looked like: the dried-apple face, the silvery gray hair, the snapping blue eyes, quick to spot a patch of tarnish on the brass fairy pin or a dirty fingernail or a poorly tied shoelace. Unlike my mother, she was impartial and kind, and she gave points for good intentions. I was entranced by her. It was hard to believe that an adult, older than my mother even, would actually squat on the floor and say things like “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo” and “When Brownies make their fairy ring, They can magic everything!” Brown Owl acted as though she believed all this, and thought that we did too. This was the novelty: someone even more gullible than I was. Occasionally I felt sorry for her, because I knew how much pinching, shoving and nudging went on during Thinking Time and who made faces behind Brown Owl’s back when we were saying, “I promise to do my duty to God and the King and to help others every day, especially those at home.” Brown Owl had a younger sidekick known as Tawny Owl. Like vice-principals everywhere, she was less deceivable and less beloved.
The three girls with whom I crossed the ravine each Brownie day were called Elizabeth, Marlene and Lynne. They were ten, andalmost ready to join the Girl Guides; “flying up,” it was called if you had obtained your Golden Wings. Otherwise you had to walk up. Elizabeth was going to fly, no doubt about it: she was plastered with badges like a diplomat’s suitcase. Marlene probably would, and Lynne probably wouldn’t. Elizabeth was a Sixer and had two stripes on her arm to prove it. Marlene was a Pixie and I can’t remember what Lynne was. I admired Elizabeth and feared the other
A Brownie gives in to the
older
folk;
A Brownie does NOT give in to her
self
.
There was even some dancing involved. At the beginning of every session, when the slightly dilapidated papier-mâché toadstool which was the group fetish had been set in place on its grassy-green felt mat, and the gray-haired woman in the blue Guide uniform had said with a twinkle in her eye, “Hoot! Hoot!” the Brownies would hurtle from the four corners of the room, six at a time, and perform a whirling, frenzied dance, screeching out the words to their group songs as loud as they could. Mine was:
Here you see the laughing Gnomes,
Helping mothers in our homes.
This was not strictly true: I didn’t help my mother. I wasn’t allowed to. On the few occasions I’d attempted it, the results had not pleased her. The only way I could have helped her to her satisfaction would have been to change into someone else, but I didn’t know this yet. My mother didn’t approve of my free-form style of making beds, nor of the crashes and fragments when I dried the dishes. She didn’t like scraping charcoal off the bottoms of pots when I tried to cook (“a cooked dessert” was one Brownie test requirement), or having to reset the table after I’d done it backwards. At first I tried to surprise her with sudden Good Turns, as suggested in theBrownie handbook. One Sunday I brought her breakfast in bed on a tray, tripped, and covered her with wet cornflakes. I polished her good navy-blue suede shoes with black boot polish. And once I carried out the garbage can, which was too heavy for me, and tipped it down the back steps. She wasn’t a very patient woman; she told me quite soon that she would rather do things right herself the first time than have to do them over again for me. She used the word “clumsy,” which made me cry; but I was excused from household chores, which I saw as an advantage only much later. I sang out the words unflinchingly though, as I stomped around the toadstool in clouds of church-basement dust, with a damp Gnome hand clutched in each of mine.
The lady who ran the pack was known as Brown Owl; owls, we were told, meant wisdom. I always remembered what she looked like: the dried-apple face, the silvery gray hair, the snapping blue eyes, quick to spot a patch of tarnish on the brass fairy pin or a dirty fingernail or a poorly tied shoelace. Unlike my mother, she was impartial and kind, and she gave points for good intentions. I was entranced by her. It was hard to believe that an adult, older than my mother even, would actually squat on the floor and say things like “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo” and “When Brownies make their fairy ring, They can magic everything!” Brown Owl acted as though she believed all this, and thought that we did too. This was the novelty: someone even more gullible than I was. Occasionally I felt sorry for her, because I knew how much pinching, shoving and nudging went on during Thinking Time and who made faces behind Brown Owl’s back when we were saying, “I promise to do my duty to God and the King and to help others every day, especially those at home.” Brown Owl had a younger sidekick known as Tawny Owl. Like vice-principals everywhere, she was less deceivable and less beloved.
The three girls with whom I crossed the ravine each Brownie day were called Elizabeth, Marlene and Lynne. They were ten, andalmost ready to join the Girl Guides; “flying up,” it was called if you had obtained your Golden Wings. Otherwise you had to walk up. Elizabeth was going to fly, no doubt about it: she was plastered with badges like a diplomat’s suitcase. Marlene probably would, and Lynne probably wouldn’t. Elizabeth was a Sixer and had two stripes on her arm to prove it. Marlene was a Pixie and I can’t remember what Lynne was. I admired Elizabeth and feared the other
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