Christmas Brownies

This past week I was invited to participate in an evening of holiday craft making with my daughter’s Brownies/Sparks troop. She helps coordinate 17 little girls who are on a serious quest for badges and recognition. She is a good sport about her role as Snowy Owl, and seems to have a level of patience that she didn’t inherit from me. The Brownies and Sparks are energetic and enthusiastic in the fashion of children set loose at a birthday party – every Thursday night.

My children missed out on the girl guiding/boy scouting thing; their mother wasn’t nearly a good sport enough to subject them, or herself, to a once a week party experience of this nature.

I soured on Brownies in about 1959 – I was six years old. My mother had acquired a hand-me-down Brownie uniform in just my size and, with all the good intentions in the world, mended and pressed that faded brown dress to almost brand new. I had the tam and the belt and a shy streak that followed me down the street to the church basement where other similarly clad girls gathered around a papier-mâché toadstool to take an oath of friendship. It was terrifying.

The church was almost within eyeshot of our front door, and times were different – it was the olden days. Back then children were allowed to walk down the street in the dark by themselves. Mom would get me organized, straighten my tam and button my coat. Then she’d kiss me goodbye. She spent her next hour getting the other three kids ready for bed. I would put on my bravest face and prepare to face the Brown Owl. It was almost the longest hour of my life. The actual longest hour of my life occurred about two months into my Brownie adventure.

I can remember it was winter because I was wearing snow boots. Mom buttoned my coat, kissed me goodbye and headed back to the kitchen. I yelled goodbye but instead of walking out the front door and down the street to Brownies, I slipped into the front hall closet and hid behind the folds of my father’s winter coat.

It was dark in the closet. I was dressed for a Calgary winter evening and grew very warm, very quickly. The wool folds of my father’s coat grew damp with the moisture of my breath and started to smell like wet mittens. My tam began slipping down my sweaty forehead.

Time flies if you’re having fun, but if you’re an overheating Brownie hiding in a closet it really creeps. I could hear the other kids heading to bath time and mom tidying the kitchen. I lost count of the times I’d counted to sixty and started to guess at the number of minutes that were slowly ticking by.

I have no idea what I found so terrifying at Brownies. Brown Owl was just somebody’s mother in a starched uniform. But something was frightening enough to make an eternity, or ten minutes, sweating in a closet preferable to spending an hour dancing around a toadstool.

Mom didn’t seem surprised when I stepped out of the closet and yelled “I’m home!” She helped me off with my coat, tossed the tam on the closet shelf and asked if I’d had fun. I nodded my lie. We didn’t talk about Brownies again. I have no idea who she handed down my handed down uniform to but I’m hopeful some other little girl liked wearing it better than I did.

Brownies didn’t leave a good taste in my mouth. As a young mother I couldn’t, in good conscience, subject my children to a similar experience. But times have changed. My granddaughters are loving their Brownie and Sparks experience. They are learning really great skills and making new friends. My daughter seems to be a natural Snowy Owl and keen to volunteer her time. So when she asked me to help with their Christmas craft night I felt it was perhaps time to let bygones be bygones and give Brownies another shot.

The craft I was volunteering to help with involved pre-made salt dough cookie shapes (lovingly rolled, cut and baked in Gramma’s kitchen), glue (to be applied by adults with paint brushes), and glitter — lots of glitter. The evening went exactly in the direction you might imagine 17 little girls, with access to a gallon of glue and several pounds of glitter, would take it. The multi purpose room looked as if a colony of fairies had exploded in it by the time we were done and Gramma Owl was exhausted.

It has taken me almost fifty years to face my fear of Brownies. What I learned last Thursday night has changed me forever. It was never the Brown Owl who was the problem; she was a very kind, generous woman volunteering not just one night a week, but several. She was a committed mom making a difference – teaching a group of little girls about friendship. Times have not changed in that regard – the four Owls trying to corral the 17 little girls in my granddaughter’s troop are just as dedicated and generous.

What I discovered on Thursday night is that I am terrified of the Brownies themselves. Especially when they are armed with glue and glitter. They are the stuff of bad dreams. Were I not this much older and wiser the Brownies might be able to chase me back behind my own winter coat in the hall closet. But being this much older, and oh so much wiser, I have learned facing fear is a better plan than hiding from it.

At the end of the evening the Brownies and Sparks all went home with a glittered cookie garland, wrapped in self decorated paper, having earned another badge with their efforts. They wished their friends and their Owls a very merry Christmas headed for home happy, glittered and friended. And I went home and put my fear, and myself, directly to bed.