Looie Follows Me

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I remember that it promised to be a terrible summer. I had squeaked through the fifth grade and I was going to be eleven in July and I had hoped that on my eleventh birthday my parents would come to visit me at Camp Wahmbahmoo, bearing gifts.

It was our third year in the big house twelve miles from town. Dad called it “a nice commuting distance” in summer and “too rugged for a dog team” in winter.

One of the main reasons for my wanting to go to Wahmbahmoo was on account of the Branton twins, Kim and Cam, who lived a couple of hundred yards down the road. I knew that if they went for two months and I didn’t go at all, they’d make my life miserable all winter yapping about the good old days at the camp. They were twelve years old, and Dad said he could never look at them without wondering when they’d be the right size for a harness and bit. The second reason was that if I stayed home all summer, Looie, the five-year-old kid sister, would tag around after me all day with her hand in her mouth. Her real name is Louella — but Looie suited her better when she was five.

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