My Brownie troop leader announced we were going to be famous. She may not have said those words, but that’s what I heard. Our picture was going to be in the newspaper to promote Girl Scout Cookie Sales. My mother told my relatives, and my grandfather said most people don't get in the paper until they die. "You are one dang lucky girl."

I didn’t tell anyone that this was just the beginning. Someday I would be in the newspaper every day. That happens when people are famous. 

It was ironic my first newspaper picture would be for girl scout cookies. I hated selling them. The other girls had parents who sold them to friends and neighbors and co-workers. My parents thought that was cheating.  For two weeks I lugged my carton of Girl Scout cookies around the neighborhood. I walked up to houses and hoped no one was home. After one knock, I counted to ten fast and left. Sometimes they opened the door and yelled for me to come back.

The night before the photo shoot my mother ironed my uniform and my father polished my Buster Brown® tie-oxfords. They were ugly, but they matched the uniform. The news office had men with suits, women in heels and lipstick, desks with piles of paper and typewriters, but no one was running and shouting like they did in the movies. We went into a small room and were told to sit on the floor and pretend we were having a meeting. Our leader brought a box of “Thin Mints” she had in her freezer and gave it to pretty, blonde Marcia. The photographer moved us around and put me next to her. It was the first time I ever sat close to Marcia. She smelled as clean as she looked.

After taking a couple group pictures the photographer said, “I want a picture of one girl by herself. Who wants to be a model?” Everyone looked at Marcia but she cringed and hid her face. I jumped up. “I’ll do it!” 

"OK. Take the cookies and stand by the wall." Having practiced poses in the mirror, I knew my best look was left profile, head slightly tilted and knee bent. I held the box of cookies on the crook of my arm and smiled over my shoulder.  He took that picture, but wanted one with me facing the camera, holding the box of cookies just below my chin. He said they would use the best one, but they didn’t. They used his.  His pose made me look like a little kid. My pose made me look alluring.

Neighbors, church people, and teachers gave the clipping to my parents and said I looked cute.  Kids who never talked to me said, “Saw your picture.”  My grandfather told me again how dang lucky I was.

That year I sold the most cookies in my troop. I pasted the clipping to my carton and held it up when someone opened the door after I knocked and rang the doorbell and waited. They looked at the clipping, then at me. “Hey! That’s you!” I turned my head slightly and smiled. Everyone bought at least one box and some asked me to come back with more. That’s what happens when you are famous. 

The next year a younger girl’s picture was in the paper with her chin resting on the cookies. She had dimples and curls. My mother only saved one of my clippings and mounted it in her don’t-dare-touch-if-you-value-your-life scrap book.  I returned to my former sales technique: knock once, count fast and run away. Those that did get to the door, did not remember me. “We bought from you last year? Are you sure?”

A few years ago I found the two glossy pictures in my mother’s photo album. The one printed in the newspaper was as I remembered: a freckled face little girl with big brown eyes. A mere child. The other one showed the same freckled face child, turned sideways flashing a crooked smile. There was nothing sexy about her, but she did look hopeful.

Fifty-two years later I still practice poses in the mirror, though now I laugh instead of dream. My best side isn't there anymore. But last night during dinner, my husband looked at me in a way that still makes me blush.  

My grandfather was right. I am one dang lucky girl.