Gypsy Powder

It's no secret that throughout my life I have always had a girly nature and love for all things pink, frilly, and sweet, but I'm certainly not all sunshine and roses. Under the girly, fuchsia icing is an assertive woman that has no problem voicing her needs and wants, and, ultimately mixed with this sweetness and assertiveness is a mysterious darkness and appreciation for such things as—nearly every vampire story ever told! —palm readings, cemeteries, and Gypsy Powder. Gypsy Powder you ask?

Gypsy Powder, I suppose, is only really special to me, as it's from my childhood. It’s a memory really, one that has stuck with me forever. You know, one of those fleeting memories that pop-in your head for no real reason, it makes you happy for a second, and then poof it's gone before you really have a chance to remember it and figure out why you just thought of it again. Well, Gypsy Powder is one of those memories. It has, in essence, shaped my thoughts, dreams, and desires. It has a darkness supported by light behind it, something deep and motivating, but intense; something I didn't believe my peers could achieve or realize. I am speaking of the feeling the memory gave me (and still does,) rather than the actual memory. However while that feeling is all good and wonderful, the memory is also pretty nifty, at least to me.

Around the age of ten, during one hot Minnesota summer, I attended Campfire Girls day camp for two weeks. Every morning my mother would wake me at the crack of dawn—loud applause here for my mother's heroic accomplishments—and I would board a bus for an hour long journey to the middle of a Minnesota forest where I would do Campfire Girl things like sing songs, make jam, and learn to socialize outside of my suburban Campfire Girl circle. While I didn't absolutely hate it, it was not my idea of how to spend a summer vacation. For one thing, the hard wooden picnic benches, coupled with the large amounts of bugs, made it quite difficult for one to just sit back, read a good rag mag and enjoy a soy latte on a lazy summer day. Come to think of it, lazy summer days didn't exist at day camp, neither did soy lattes, but that’s not the point. The point is, instead of real fun, we were forced into educational tasks from 7:00am to 7:00pm, all quite exhausting.

Campfire Girls camp also lacked two major components of what I believe make good camp: sleeping over in a tent and proximity to a lake. Basically I was put in this awful setting that had me completely roughing it, but yet, I wasn't given the real chance to fully test my capacity for dealing with bugs and dirt because every night I returned to the luxury of my full size bed and comforting puffalumps. To me, this was cheating. On top of that, I didn't get to fish for my dinner or don that year's trendiest swimsuit, likely a pink shimmer one piece with ribbing and cheap white detailing. I was certainly disappointed in this idea of 'camp.'

Okay, so making friends was a good idea, but when would I really ever see these girls again? I lived in suburban Minnesota, you couldn’t really be friends with anyone beyond five miles of your home. And the thought of eating jam, much less making it with molten wax was horrifically upsetting to me. Day camp needed to be stopped.

So, of course, by the last day of camp I wasn't sad to have it end. I was excited and not for the obvious reasons, but rather the ending activities were starting to really get me jazzed! For one thing we were told to arrive in gypsy costume. For a girl that has donned get-ups every night of her life until the age of, well you don't need to know my current age, a gypsy costume was indeed something I could do and do happily! On top of this, we were told we would all meet with a gypsy fortune teller, and participate in a tribal gypsy dance. Oh yes, this was definitely well worth 13 days of Kumbaya.

The gypsy powder came in when I met with the fortune teller, who happened to also be my camp counselor. Upon realizing this, I immediately convinced myself that my counselor was actually a gypsy that had gone undercover as a camp counselor. Her assignment was to read our young minds and steal our youthful energy, except mine of course. The gypsy and I were equals.

Once I sat down, under the makeshift tent of pink bed sheets and blankets, I peered into the gypsy’s eyes and waited for her words of wisdom. What she actually said to me I cannot remember, it was after her words that I recall vividly. She doused me with gypsy powder. A white, very perfumey powder that was addressed to my forehead and wrists, designed to give me strength, beauty, and inner power to achieve whatever I wanted. It’s the actual smell and feel of the powder that is the heart of my Gypsy Powder memory. The smell was sweet, not overpowering or girly, almost as if it had a hint of Nag Champa incense. I wish I knew what Snyder drugstore she had picked it up from, because I would definitely purchase it for use today. The feeling of the powder was like softly spun silk coupled with the softest feather pillows ever invented. The mix of these two senses, just from a chintzy body powder, completely enlightened my entire being and when I left that gypsy tent I was completely ready for the tribal dance!

I was a 10-year-old little gypsy wearing an old beat up three-tired favorite multicolored skirt, a silly scarf wrapped around my head, and loads of my mom’s old gold costume jewelry. Inside I was the Queen of Sheba ready to conquer the world. I smelled of sweetness and felt as soft as that powder as I danced to the tribal drums. I was a very happy gypsy.