Good Cop/Bad Cop. . .I mean Scout!

A couple of weeks ago, we we were heading to Webster for my dad's 91st birthday, and we stopped at a Byrne Dairy in Baldwinsville for gas.  In front of the store was a Cub Scout selling popcorn.  He asked me if I would like to buy some, and I explained that I bought from the scouts in Chittenango.  This is true.  And that popcorn ain't cheap!  Back in the car, I remembered my own time in scouting as I drove toward the town of my youth.

The term "Good Scout" is part of our language.  I was not a good scout.  I was a rather bad scout.  Like in the song "Leader of the Pack," I think I was "good bad, but not evil."  To begin with, I never wanted to be a Cub Scout, but I did want one of the cool blue Cub Scout shirts with the patches and a cool yellow scarf because they looked like cavalry uniforms that the soldiers wore in "Rin Tin Tin," one of my favorite TV shows.  I was somewhat disappointed when I found out that my mom didn't think wearing the shirt to play in was a good idea, and that when I did wear it, I had to attend meetings .

My first Den Mother was Mrs. Tracy.  The Tracy's lived on Adams Road.  They had 2 kids, Albert, who was my age, and his younger sister, whose name I have surely forgotten.  (I remember her name as being Tracy, and I'm sure she wasn't named "Tracy Tracy.")  I do remember that she was a great tomboy and could swing on the vines down in the Big Woods better than any boy.  Mr. Tracy helped us with our Cub Scout project.  That year we built shoe shine boxes, which we could carry by a handle, and which contained polish and rags and brushes and such.  I'm sure mine was awful.  I could never do those wood shop projects with any degree of success, because I really didn't care what they came out looking like.  I wonder if the shine box project idea had been in the scout manual since the Great Depression when it had been a kind of occupational training.  The great thing about that year was that the Tracy's dog had puppies, and I got to take the last one home with me. We named her Mittens, and she was the greatest dog a kid could have.

In that first year of Cub Scouting, I was a Wolf.  A Wolf was a first year, a Bear was a second year, and a Lion was a third year, I think.  I understood the Wolf and the Bear, in that they were the kind of creatures we might meet on a scout camping trip, but I doubted our Cub Pack would go on safari.  I remember little of the Bear or Lion years, which shows just how not immersed I was in scouting.  There is the inkling of a memory about building an awful birdhouse, but I couldn't tell you a den mother, or list my fellow Bear/Lions, or anything else about those cub scout years when I was 9 and 10.  I do remember being a "Webelos," though, which was what you got to be at the end of cub scouting.  It came with a neat bent arrow patch that looked great on my cub scout/cavalry shirt.  I also remember Akila coming to a Webelos meeting.  Akila was the Indian spirit of good scouting (the term Native American had not been uttered then) dressed in full headdress and regalia.  We thought he was really cool, although, he was actually just Ron Mix's dad.

For a reason I can't begin to fathom, I decided to tthen become a Boy Scout.  I don't know why.  I had been a poor Cub and was thrilled that was over.  I figure it was probably that old demon "peer pressure," that made me join up.   I remember friends hanging the carrot of "going camping" in front of my nose.  Truth be told, I didn't want to go camping.  I liked sleeping in my own bed, in my own house, with my own family, not in a tent full of kids who probably couldn't protect me if a Wolf, Bear, or, god forbid, a Lion attacked.  Our first mini-camping adventure came shortly after I took my vow of Scouthood.  We marched into Webster Park, the end goal being to stop somewhere, build a fire, cook our food on it, and go home.  I brought a sandwich.  By far, my favorite activity that day was going home.  I should have quit right then, but I didn't.  I went to some meetings and reached the point where I was ready to be tested to become either a "Tenderfoot" or a "First Class," whichever the first thing you test for is.  Our meetings were in our church, and a scout of rank took us into the kitchen and quizzed us at length on the scout lore we had learned.  One thing I remember was that we had to draw the scout pin from memory.  When we were finished, we were deemed First Class--until, the head Scout, an older kid, came in.  Our tester told him we had succeeded.  He sneered and said no we had not.  We could not advance until he tested us!  His tone suggested just how worthless he felt we were, and the scout who tested didn't say a word in his or our defense.  Baloney, I grumbled to myself.  I'm not doing this again.  That was it!  I never went back.  Never even bought one of those khaki shirts with the red scarves!  They didn't wear khaki in the cavalry, anyway.

I am completely aware that scouting has been wonderful for many people.  Just look at the Eagle Scouts who became POTUSes.  (There are several, I believe.)  It just wasn't for me.  I tried scouting, and it found me lacking. . .and I found it the same way.  As to the two scouts who tested that night long ago, do I hold any bad feeling?  Do I even remember their names?  Oh, yes, I do. . .I absolutely do!