Vacation, plus church youth group, equals unChristian thoughts

What IS it about the Cornelius family that our vacations always seem to bisect some strange part of the universe where we are swallowed up by a riptide of youthgroup punks dedicated to running wild? And it seems the more strict the denomination from whence they hail, the wilder they run?

Example 1: We have a spot where we love to go camping for a week at a time. The first two days we were there, we had Wild-Turkey-swillin', Hank Jr-blastin', deer-guttin'-in-the-campsite capital-R Rednecks as our neighbors, and I can't describe the relief we felt as they announced that they had to git back to town to check in with their probation officers. As they were leaving, along comes two of those giant vans with crosses painted on the side disgorging an unending stream of gangly teens like a mama wolf feeding her pups. They are obviously pretty fundamentalist, since the girls are wearing completely modest attire and have not cut their hair. They cheerfully begin setting up two camps-- the boys across the creek and on our left, and the girls to the campsite on our right. They are so gosh-darn clean and shiny and cheerful, singing old-timey hymns as they worked, the boys playing in the creek and gathering firewood while the girls prepare lunch, I felt like I needed to check my blood sugar.

Until the sun set.

We turned in at about 11:30, after being asked if we were saved, telling them we are Episcopalians, and having that information inspire them in their zeal to save us, and finally being accepted that we are never going to abandon our heathen ways after we began a little scriptural discussion that did not go to well for the kids but was way amusing for us. Anyway, once their chaperones began to nod off, the kids waited a decent interval, and then began tramping THROUGH our campsite to "sneak" off to the campsite of the opposite sex. Non-stop. Boys to the girls' camp. Girls to the boys' camp. Lots of giggling. Lots of tripping over long skirts. Until about 2 am, when I finally stick my head toward the tent flap and ask my husband where I put my gun. I heard kids scramble off into the brush frantically-- right where the poison ivy was, because, yes, there IS a God--and finally be still.

They then actually had the nerve the knock on our tent flap at SIX ACK EMMA to join in their sunrise worship service on the sand bar in the creek directly behind our tent. When my husband profanely told them what to do with that suggestion, they went to the sandbar, pulled out the guitars, and proceeded to pray for our souls for the next hour. They then hurriedly left when I got out my guitar and began playing "Smoke on the Water" and "Stairway to Heaven"-- all eleven pages worth.

So now fast forward to our current trip. We are moving our way up the Atlantic coast from Georgia to Virginia, and just settled into a nice hotel, when we walk down into the lobby to go out to dinner and see about three hundred teenagers milling around with wet sleeping bags and smelling of wet dog. It was a youth group campout that had gotten rained out, and so the sponsors decided to put them into a hotel or something. So guess where most of the boys were placed? On our floor, right next door and moving down the hallway. They were kicking a soccer ball outside our door against the wall until 11:30, when a wrathful and terribly sunburned Ms. Cornelius opened the door in her jammies, saw the idiotic chaperone standing there with them while they shouted and shoved and fell into walls, cryptically said "Ten seconds," and then firmly shut the door. Very quickly, I heard the doors slam and silence descend like a peaceful little cloud over the hallway, and got to enjoy everything 100 bucks a night ought to provide.

Meaning: I'll control my kids, and you control yours.