Stories Of My Youth

I had a flashback just now, back to my days in Boy Scouts- actually, Cub Scouts, to be specific. Maybe it has something to do with the weather being so nice outside and I have my window open. From across the street, I can hear screams and laughter from the school yard as the kids play outside. Or maybe it’s because it’s close to Easter. Whatever the reason, I had a flashback.

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 were against my nature.

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 either. 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 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 work, this implies some amount of effort was involved. I knew it wasn’t going to work because it would severely conflict with my screwing off time, and 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.

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 and never got mad about it, which is another reason I love Dad. And I suspect as I write this, that Mom might have been right in her remark to Dad. But if he tried to sabotage things, I don’t think it had anything to do with me. Knowing Dad, he would have been the only person there 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 wanting it done over- along with yelling and allegations of cheating- not by any of the kids, but by the fathers. So, that was pretty cool.

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

One of the most humiliating things was fundraiser time. This is where you had to lug a carton of candy around and knock on doors and try to sell a box of chocolates for a dollar. I made it 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.

My failure at this exercise was reinforced at some similar get together like the Pinewood team building exercise, except it was during the day, and outside. The people who were best at mooching off of their neighbors and those with the most free spending relatives were richly rewarded with merit badges and 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 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 her 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 that 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 while we tried to fight off the constant feeling 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 foo fighters finished up before us. I remember resigning myself to the fact that there was no escape at this point, and finally donning my purple fedora decorated with bright yellow feathers. I remember the applause from the audience as the kung foo fighters finished and filed off the stage and our troop was announced. I remember us having to go out on stage- one at a time (Yes, just to make sure this was as absolutely painful as possible, we were not allowed the comfort of hiding behind each other. We had to face the firing squad as individuals). I remember the announcer (i.e. Mrs. MacDonald) calling our names one by one and as we stepped into the spotlight, and she commented on our hats, using adjectives such as “smart” and “stylish”.

And I remember when it was my turn on stage and all I could see was the bright spotlight and being made to turn around and my head was swimming and I was 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 successfully managed to block it from my mind. But as I sit here, I wonder why I’m thinking about this now. I think it has something to do with both Easter coming up and the way the weather feels. And, unfortunately, I have the uncomfortable feeling that it also has a lot to do with the screaming and laughter that I’m hearing from the kids outside my window.