Ziploc Bags

What is it about the Ziploc bag that makes mankind feel so secure? Something about the act of squeezing the air out and zipping the top together gives the bagger a sense of control. Yes, you're sending your barely adolecent child off to Korea for two weeks, but control your nervousness. Just pack everything--EVERYTHING--in ziploc bags and squeeze the air out. Use a vacuum! Think of the space efficiency, the organized sterility, the perfect neatness of your son's duffel full of ziploc-ed clothes!

And the rain gear. The outdoorsy-looking rain pants and rain jacket make me laugh. How well I remember the Elder who tried to wear that in Taiwan. Imagine dousing yourself with pop, wrapping yourself in black garbage bags, and going to sit in a closed car on a hot summer day. He nearly suffocated. True, you can't wear nothing. The rain comes down in cliches--it pours, it dumps, in buckets, torrents, deluges. But VENTILATION! VENTILATION is the key!! He needs a poncho, very heavy duty, with a billed hood that channels water away from the face so he can see to dodge cars and motorcycles.

Will he wear the poncho? Can I find one on ebay? (Don't they have an ad about that?) Should I just get the standard rain gear so he can fit in and be uncomfortable like everyone else? Should I vacuum pack his clothing in ziploc bags even though he doesn't know how to use ziplocs and will, once he's ripped out the clothing items inside, no doubt leave them blowing about South Korea? Or should I let him pack his own bags, choose his own rain gear, and suffer the consequences?

One thing I learned at Grandpa's funeral. He really got the whole adolescent boy thing. He understood that "be prepared" applied even more to the scoutmaster. We grownups seem to swerve unpredictably between the extremes--taking over and giving up. One moment, we're jumping in ziploc-ing everything in the poor kid's suitcase. Control! Control! The next minute, we're tossing the whole job onto the kid, watching in some amusement as he tries to survive a weekend on one pair of socks and three cans of tuna. But Grandpa was different. He cared about that little scout, huddled in his sleeping bag with cold feet. Then he planned ahead. Every scout that brought a towel got a hot rock. A little responsibility, a lot of backup. The most excruciating way possible to raise a child. And, I think, perhaps the most successful.