I�m sitting here, a little sleep-deprived, smelling like last night�s campfire. One whiff of my Girl Scout sweatshirt wafts me back to the fire, the smores, the girls singing absolutely silly songs, and the stories. (No really scary stories though. I know who will be up with the girls who have nightmares or become afraid of the dark. It will be me�and I�m getting too old and crabby to miss any more of my sleep than I have to.) I love the comradery of a good, old-fashioned campfire.

The moms, not the girls, instigated this campfire. The mom I call my camping buddy was not prepared to miss her opportunity to poke around in a campfire. She does a lot of family camping but she says her husband hogs all the fire poking opportunities. She had her poking stick and she was not putting it down. She built the fire so allowing her to be the official fire-poker was only fair.

We had the campfire even though the girls did their best to turn this year�s overnight from something resembling a camping trip to a big slumber party. The nods to outdoor fun included a sand castle contest in which everyone�s creation was best something (and half the fun was figuring out just how funny we could make the �something� and still have it apropos,) and archery. But they wanted to make an elaborate indoor dinner of rosemary chicken and potatoes, not cook outside. (The availability of this option indicated that we had a real cook among the mothers. I can make passable meals but I�m not known for gourmet cooking.)

The girls came out to the fire to humor us. They had been inside the cabin, doing elaborate hairstyles on each other, listening to CDs, and chatting. They also tried archery although standing in line for a turn quickly degenerated into �I�d rather play tetherball� so few of them got to see that I only missed the target once. While I believe in girl planning, I also believe that there are moments not to be missed. A clear, sweatshirt-only night in Wisconsin in mid-October near a good place to build a fire is one of them. A few girls moaned but they came.

Once we had them out there, we had them�at least for a while. We sang twelve songs, one chosen by each girl. We sang silly songs, a popular song, and a few patriotic ones. I felt extremely sorry for any wildlife with good hearing that had to endure our rendition of �The Star-Spangled Banner.� We had to endure it too but it wasn�t forced on us. We roasted marshmallows, setting approximately a fourth of them on fire (which partially explains why I am such a bear about long-haired girls pulling back their hair before I�ll let them near the fire.) Ms. Fire-poker told her traditional campfire story that the girls have insisted she tell every year.

And then the spell was broken. It was (supposedly) too cold. It was too smoky. It was too corny�and they were gone.

But they missed the best part because the call of puberty and change was stronger than the call of memory. As we spread around the coals in preparation for dousing the fire, the moms and I looked at those coals shimmering in the circle. Some of them seemed to be winking at us. Feeling abandoned was impossible as we became absorbed in the moment. �They�ll be back,� the coals seemed to promise. �We were strong enough to lure them for a while and we�ll be strong enough to hold them again. Just wait, be patient, and they�ll be back.�

Slowly, a few of them, one by one, snuck back for a minute or two �just to check for something they thought they left outside.� Give them a few years and more of them will return. Those who did this year caught us moms gazing at the coals and waited for the hiss of the water as we sprinkled it over the twinkling coals. I thought I saw a face or two of the others looking out the window.

Some people wonder why I am a Girl Scout leader. They wonder why I put in so many hours. If they had been there with me last night at the campfire as the girls crept back despite themselves, they�d know. I do it for the light of a fire burning bright and the way it holds us all together.

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