Stories of My Youth

Before I begin, let me first say that I have great respect for people who are in Scouts- kids and adults alike. But I was not what you might call “Cub Scout Material.” 

Being in Cub Scouts involved working with other people, having an amount of creativity and all too often, it involved some kind of physical activity. All of these things are against my nature.

So, with that said, I’m not sure how I ended up in Cub Scouts. I know it wasn’t my idea. 

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Dad’s idea. Many years after 'The Great Scouting Experiment' crashed and burned, I remember Mom making some remark, probably to Dad, about how she thought Dad didn’t help it any by making his snide remarks. 

These weren’t her exact words, but it’s close enough. 

If Dad had been making snide remarks, I don’t remember them. And anyway, they would have been completely unnecessary as it was already clear to me that I was getting volunteered for something that I wanted no part of.

Maybe this scheme was to get me to make friends. Maybe this was to teach me something. Most likely it was to get me out of the house... and anything beyond that was a bonus. 

Whatever the reason, I knew it wouldn’t work- not because I was going to prove it wouldn’t. That would take too much effort. No, I knew it wasn’t going to work simply because it was going to severely conflict with my screwing off time. That alone doomed it to failure.

Despite all my complaining, or maybe because of it, I got forced into it anyway - along with all of the humiliation that was included. More on that in a minute.

Not all of it was bad. There was the night that all of the troops (or "packs" or...something) were, for some reason watching some movie in the auditorium of Harris School. I don’t remember anything about the movie, naturally, other than there were some guys on a boat and at some point, they were eating chicken. For some reason, Bruce Kempton and I found this hysterical and despite trying to stifle our laughter, the Scoutmaster finally had to stop the movie.

Dad was with me that night and he never got mad about it, which is just one more reason I love Dad. In fact, he might have been happy about it. I suspect, as I write this, that Mom might have been right in her remark about Dad and his less-than-positive Scouting attitude..

But if Dad tried to sabotage things, I don’t think it necessarily had anything to do with me. Knowing Dad, he would have been the only person in that auditorium that was even less interested than me in being at Harris School- let alone on a weeknight.

Anyway, another thing I liked about Scouts was something called the Pinewood Derby. 

For the Pinewood Derby, every kid was given this little block of wood about 10 inches long, along with some wheels. It was our job as Scouts to carve this block into something hopefully resembling a car, and then paint it. Then we would all race against each other to decide who the losers were. 

On the night of the big race, I remember the elaborate wooden track getting set up, once again at the Harris School auditorium, and racing the cars, maybe 6 or 8 at a time. This went on through multiple rounds of elimination. I never went past the first round, but that was ok. 

What I liked about the racing was that each round devolved into people getting pissed off and yelling at each other, along with allegations of cheating and wanting the race done over. This wasn't any of the kids, this was the fathers. 

So, that was pretty cool.

Other than that, pretty much everything else in scouting was a lesson in humiliation: rope climbing, playing sports- you name it. My brother would have been great at all of these things, which is to say, I was not.

One of the most humiliating things was fundraiser time. This is where you had to lug a large carton filled with boxes of candy around your neighborhood and bang on doors and harass people to buy a box. I made it about half way around my neighborhood and gave up. 

I sold one box (not carton, but box) - and I think it was to Dad. 

I’m pretty sure that after he paid for it, I ate all of the chocolates.

The people who were best at mooching off of their neighbors and those with the most free spending relatives were richly rewarded at a ceremony where they received  merit badges and public recognition. I was rewarded with recognition, too (“Wait, he only sold one box? You mean carton?” “No, I mean box!”), but no merit badge.

This humiliation was second only to a performance we had to give in front of the other troops- once again on the stage at the Harris School auditorium. 

The idea for this was that each troop would come up with some sort of skit or demonstration to perform on stage in front of everyone else. My Den Mother was Jacky MacDonald’s mom. 

I remember liking Mrs. MacDonald well enough and she seemed to really care about us, so I’m not really sure what went wrong. (With the distance of time, I’m wondering if she and Mr. MacDonald had just gone through the nastiest divorce in the world and she now thought all males were scum. I’m not saying she was wrong, but I’m curious as to why she hadn’t come to this conclusion earlier.)

Anyway, Jacky MacDonald’s Mom’s idea for this event was that we were all going to make Easter Bonnets and have a fashion show... No, I’m not kidding. 

I’m not convinced that this would have been a good idea for a pack of Girl Scouts, but I knew even then, especially then, that this was definitely a bad idea for me. 

To make it worse (if that’s possible), I’m not even sure it was anywhere near Easter.

So, while the other troops spent the weeks leading up to the Big Night practicing their science experiments or refining their judo skills, my group spent our time in Mrs. MacDonald’s basement decorating our felt fedoras with fake jewels and day-glo colored feathers- all while we tried to fight off the constant feelings of nausea mixed with borderline hysteria.

Finally, the Big Night came and all of my weaseling-out skills had failed me. 

I remember having to line up with my troop back stage, waiting as the kung fu fighters finished up before us. 

I remember resigning myself to the fact that there was no escape at this point. 

I remember finally donning my purple fedora decorated with bright yellow feathers. 

I remember the applause from the audience as the kung fu fighters finished and filed off the stage.

I remember that long-dreaded moment when it was our turn and our troop was announced. 

One-by-one, the announcer (i.e.: Mrs. MacDonald) called our names (so much for remaining anonymous). As each of us stepped onto the stage, we would have to stop and turn as she described our attire with adjectives such as “smart” and “stylish.”

As one would leave, another would take his place and the same humiliating drama would repeat itself.

Finally, it was my turn on stage. I remember being in the blinding spotlight and being made to turn around. And I remember my head was swimming. And most of all, I remember thinking, “This must be what it feels like when you drown.”

What I don’t remember is what the audience’s reaction was. Were they remotely impressed? Was there stunned silence? I have no idea. After many long years I have, thankfully, managed to block it from my mind. 

They say that's what happens when someone's been traumatized.