>>> Item number 7278 from WRITERS LOG9301B --- (460 records) ----- <<< Date: Mon, 11 Jan 1993 11:25:24 JST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: Mike Barker Subject: SUB: A Boy Scout [bob stringfield - thank you for reminding me that I needed to do this reminiscence. As close as I can remember to what happened. Now if I can just figure out what it means... Comments, anyone?] [whoever said they were a scoutmaster - apologies in advance, I know some troops did better. By the way, when do you move from cub scouts to regular scouts? I couldn't place it exactly.] A Boy Scout, Circa 1962 uncopyright m. barker 1993 3180 words The Scoutmaster looked us over, then waved us into a line in front of the VFW post. I was too short to see just what he was doing, but the other new scouts were peering around each other, so I leaned sideways, trying to see. I felt something push me and stumbled sideways, out of line. The Eagle scout in charge of our patrol looked back, shook his head, and called out "Back in line. Wait your turn." The scouts around me laughed. I could feel my cheeks burning as I stepped back in line. By the time we got to the front, we had all seen. It looked simple enough, although I didn't understand it. Each scout stepped up, set his pack on a table, stepped on something for a moment, then picked up his pack again. Then the Scoutmaster started handing him stuff from the table, cans or boxes, until another scout called out something. Each scout would step away and start redoing his pack. After our patrol leader stepped up and got his packages, he set his pack aside and took the place of the other scout. I finally got close enough to see what they were stepping on. It was a scale. I thought about it as the other scouts in front of me got handed various cans or boxes. The patrol leader laughed at one scout, and the Scoutmaster handed him a case of something. When I stepped forward, I had my pack off and laid it down quickly. The Scoutmaster stopped me. "This is your first camping trip, isn't it?" I gulped. "Yes, sir." "Do you know what we're doing here?" "I think you're making sure the packs are the right weight or something." He looked at me for a minute, then at the patrol leader. "Did you tell him about this?" The Eagle scout shook his head. "How'd you know that?" "Well, you're weighing the people, then weighing them with their packs, then handing them things." "Yeah, you're right. 25 pound packs, 10 mile hike. Think you'll make it?" "Don't know, sir. Never did it before." He patted my shoulder. "Well, do your best." They made quick work of the weighing, and handed me several cans. The patrol leader looked at me, shook his head again, then said, "Make sure your blanket's between your back and those cans. Otherwise they'll dig right through. They'll dig anyway, but try to go as far as you can." I thanked him, then walked over towards the other new scouts. They turned towards each other, or picked up their packs and walked over to where the patrols were lining up, so I stopped at a grassy spot and re-arranged my pack, adding the cans. I knew enough from reading the handbook to try to get those cans low in the pack, although redoing it all then was just too hard. I could see one scout carefully loading his pack from the grocery bag he'd brought, and remembered he had an older brother in the troop. The hike was slow, with the Scoutmaster pointedly telling us that since this was the first hike for several of us, he expected us to do it in four hours. He said on later hikes we should expect to do 10 miles in no more than three hours, and we really should do it in two. Then we could go to some of the better camps. He told us we would stop every hour for 10 minutes break. The first break seemed too early. I was surprised when he came over to our patrol and asked if anyone needed to ride. He pointed to a station wagon pulled up near us on the shoulder, and said he'd let anyone ride that wanted to. He grinned then, and told us that if we rode, they'd give us a ride back to town after dropping supplies at the camp. The new scouts looked at each other, then at the ground. Nobody rode. The second hour I could feel one can digging into my back. It had shifted so that the edge was against my spine, even through the blanket, and it cut into me with each step. The pack seemed to be getting heavier, too, and my back was soaked with sweat. But I kept going. I'm still convinced that the Scoutmaster didn't call time at the end of the second hour, but waited until we reached some halfway point. I didn't have a watch, but the time certainly seemed too long. I pulled and prodded the cans and blanket when we sat down. The breeze was cold on my back. Standing up again was hard, and after a few minutes I realized I'd managed to get the cans in better position, but now there was a wrinkle in the blanket. I jerked at the pack, pulled at the straps over my shoulder, and got two wrinkles. But I kept walking. When the Scoutmaster finally called the third stop, I nearly dropped my pack behind me, then slowly turned and squatted to rearrange that blanket. The patrol leader came over and looked at me. "Going to make it?" I looked at him, then at the other scouts. Several of the older ones were grinning. "I'll make it." He leaned down closer, and spoke quietly. "Don't sit down, then. I don't think you'd get back up." He straightened quickly and walked over to a tree, then leaned against it. I watched him for a minute before straightening out the blanket. Then I pulled myself up and found a tree to lean against. That last hour was when I think the blisters broke, one on each heel. I didn't really notice them until later, with the wrinkles in the blanket and the edges of the cans grinding my back while the narrow leather straps cut into my shoulders. When we reached camp, I was surprised to see the tents already standing. Nearby were several cars, with the drivers and passengers waiting. The Scoutmaster had us gather round, and looked us over again. "Well, you did pretty well on the hike. A little slow, but we'll do better next time. Now, these are two-man tents, and I've got partners for each of you. Step up when I call your name and meet your partner." He started with the older scouts. Most of the pairs seemed to know each other. "Now for the new scouts. You're going to see a lot of each other, so I hope you like your partner. You'll be cooking together, sleeping together, and so on." I watched as he called one of the Duvall kids and paired him with Tommy Bellison's son. "Tommy's" was the big restaurant in the middle of Damascus, Maryland, where everyone went for Sunday lunch after church, and we all knew the Bellison's. The Duvall's just seemed to be everywhere in town, and the family rented the VFW post when they had reunions. Almost everyone was paired up when he finally called my name. I lifted the pack again and stepped forward. The patrol leader stood by him, his face set. "All right, Mike, we've got a special partner for you. I couldn't find any of the new scouts that was right, but I think you'll find this boy is a good partner for you. Get the Chaney boy up here." I didn't recognize the name. I turned and looked around. No-one moved for moment. The patrol leader shouted, "Ron! Ron Chaney, front and center." Someone moved off to my left, and the scouts standing there pulled back. Ron stepped out, looking at me. His pack dangled in one hand, and his brown skin fit well the somewhat faded scout uniform he had on. He looked at me for a long minute, then turned toward the Scoutmaster. "Here, sir. Which tent is mine?" The Scoutmaster lifted his hand, then pointed at me. "Boy, say hello to your partner. Mike, this is the Chaney boy." Ron turned towards me, briefly. I started to lift my hand, then dropped it as he looked back at the Scoutmaster. "I don't need a partner. Never had one before, why now?" The Scoutmaster grinned. "Well, Mike needs a partner, and we don't have enough tents to give you one of your own this time. So you're going to work together. Tent 18. And I'll be checking Mike out on fire building and some other things. Go on, take your partner and find your tent, boy." Ron turned slowly and started away. The other scouts turned. I could hear whispers and chuckles as I followed him among the scattered tents. The Scoutmaster called one last thing after us. "Say, we're having beans and franks tonight, not ribs. Sorry, but maybe Mike can show you how to cook them." Ron's shoulders seemed to jerk, slightly. But maybe he was just adjusting the pack straps in his hands. The evening was tedious. Ron spoke as little as possible, seeming to begrudge any hints as to what we should be doing. I watched him and the other scouts in the tents clustered near us, so we had firewood gathered when the patrol leader and Scoutmaster turned up. The Scoutmaster looked at the wood as the patrol leader set food down near the firepit. "Ok, Mike, set up the fire and light it. Here's three matches." Ron leaned against a tree, not speaking. I got the fire going without too much trouble. The Scoutmaster laughed and told me Chaney had taken two hikes before he got it right. Then he told me that we should cook the food, and there were marshmallows if I wanted to eat them later. He walked away again, with the patrol leader following. They hadn't said one word to Ron. I stood up and walked over to the food. I looked at it for a minute, then glanced at Ron leaning against the tree. "Well, let's get started. Do you know how to cook the beans? I've never done that before." He shrugged, then leaned forward and ambled closer. "Just heat 'em up in the can, I think. You mean you never ate beans before?" I shook my head. "No, I've eaten 'em before. Never cooked 'em is all." We cooked and ate. I kept looking around, trying to figure out what the other kids were doing, laughing and shouting around the campfires set in the middle of four tents. Ron and I were the only ones at our fire, with our tent sitting alone under the trees. Every now and then I'd realize that Ron was watching me, but if I looked his way he'd look down at his food again. "You.. ah, you want any marshmallows? You go over there where the Scoutmaster's tent is, and they give 'em to you." I started to stand up, then stopped. He wasn't moving. "What about you?" He sucked his lip, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Don't really like 'em." I settled back down again. "Well, I'm pretty full, too. We can do that some other time, maybe." After we fed the paper plates to the fire, we washed our silverware. I looked at the spoon and fork he was carrying, and asked if I could see them. He shrugged and handed them to me. I angled them to the fire for a minute, then handed them back. "What'd you want to look at, anyway?" "Oh, they're just like the ones my grandmother has." "Yeah? Where's your grandmother live, anyway?" "In Ohio." He looked at the silverware in his hand, then at me. "Long ways from Maryland, isn't it?" "I guess. We get over there every now and then, though. She makes the best pies." "My mother makes pies, too. Good ones." He settled back and put his silverware away while I put my stainless steel away. I'd been proud of the official scout camp kit when my mother bought it. But it seemed cheap, somehow, after looking at silverware like grandmother's. We watched the fire for a while, then Ron stretched. He looked at the other campfires, then at me. "You tired? I'm going to bed, but maybe you want to talk to somebody else or something." I stretched, too. "No, I'm tired. Let's turn in." We went into the tent. I wasn't sure how we should handle undressing, but Ron glanced once at me, then turned towards the wall of the tent and started taking his shirt off. So I sat down on my sleeping bag and turned towards the tent on my side. Then I turned around and slid my legs into the sleeping bag. Ron turned also. His white underwear seemed out of place somehow against his dark skin. Ron reached towards the lantern, then waited while I looked around. He snickered, then said, "Roll up your clothes and use them as a pillow. No dressers here, are there?" I followed his directions and laid down. He turned off the light. I lay in the dark, staring up and seeing nothing. I could hear my breathing, and his. I closed my eyes and said my prayers silently, adding Ron to the list of people for God to take care of. I almost forgot my little sister, but remembered before opening my eyes again. The darkness seemed to move while I stared into it. I could hear the other scouts talking in their tents, but it was muffled and far away. I jumped when the hand came down on my chest. Then I realized it was just Ron, and reached down. He didn't seem to wake up when I lifted his arm and moved it back towards his sleeping bag. I quietly said, "Goodnight, Ron." I was staring at the darkness a moment later when his hand came back. It thumped down on my chest again. I picked it up and moved it back again. The next time, his hand came down on my face. I started to lift it, and realized he was pushing down. I rolled out from under his hand and sat up, then grabbed his arm. "Wake up, Ron. Now come on, this isn't funny, Ron." He didn't move, but I realized I could just see him in the dark. His eyes were open. "Ron, you're awake. I can see you. What are you doing?" He sat up, pulling his arm back. Then he grinned. I could see his teeth in the darkness. "Aren't you afraid of cooties?" I didn't know what he meant, and told him I didn't know what they were. He insisted, "You know, cooties. People like me are supposed to have cooties, and you're supposed to be scared of 'em." Then he asked me, "What have they got against you, anyway, boy?" I pulled the sleeping bag across my legs, then stared at the flickering lights outside the end of the tent. "I don't know, really. Just.. well, we only moved here about two years ago, and everyone else seems to have lived here all their lives. My name isn't Duvall, or Bellison, or something like that, too." He waited a minute, then said, "Yeah, I see what you mean, I think. Are you scared?" I thought about it, then admitted it. I was scared, scared of the bigger boys and the way everyone in town seemed to know who I was and went out of their way to let me know they didn't like newcomers moving into their town. He listened for a while, then interrupted, "Why are you in the Scouts, then?" Now it was my turn to pause before asking, "What are you doing in the Scouts?" He didn't pause. "I've got a right to be in the Scouts, don't I?" I would have agreed, cautiously, but he didn't wait for an answer. "Besides, my older brother was in the Scouts for a while, and I'm going to do better than he did. They don't like it, but I can do anything they can, and I'm going to prove it." This time I interrupted. "You have an older brother?" "Seven kids, and I'm the fifth. Two older brothers. What about you?" "I'm the oldest, and the only boy." He seemed to think that over. "Being first is hard, isn't it?" "Yeah, sometimes. Is that your brother's uniform?" "Yeah. You know, I'm scared, sometimes, too." "What do you mean?" "Well, this is my fourth camping trip, and it's the first time I've had a partner. That first trip, I was so scared. And I think the Scoutmaster hates me. He hated my brother, and ran him out of the Scouts. But I can take it." I suddenly realized what they must have been thinking. "You know, I just thought of it. They figured they could put you and me together, and we'd probably fight or something, and they'd get rid of us." He was quiet for a long time. Then I could see his head lean forward, and his hand came out of the dark. "Shake my hand, Mike. You're right, that's just what they must have been hoping. Shake hands, partner. We'll beat them, yet." We spent most of the night talking quietly, learning things about each other. The darkness had scared me when it was a lonely place, but it welcomed the shared confidences of two lonely boys taking the first steps of friendship. The sunrise was cloudy, but we made quick work of getting a fire going and cleaning up the tent. We joined the troop formation early, and stood waiting together. The Scoutmaster stopped in front of us, and looked up and down at Ron. He smiled, then said, "So did you sleep well, boy?" Ron didn't say anything. The Scoutmaster stiffened, and said, "I'm talking to you, boy. Answer me." I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Ron, then said, "His name is Ron, sir. And we slept quite well, thank you." The Scoutmaster's head turned, then he walked slowly away. The patrol leader looked at me, then at Ron, then saluted us before walking away. It's been 30 years, and I still sometimes dream of Ron's hand coming out of the dark, and the friendship of two lonely youngsters forged that black night. I like to think Ron would be happy to know his partner was still letting people know that his name is Ron, not boy.