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28 Squirts
By 1:15 p.m. we were on our way to that great campground and mosquito breeding facility up in Mercer County --- Custaloga Town Scout Reservation. We pulled into the dusty parking lot an hour later, and then moved the gear to the West campsite, our home for the week. Here, scattered about a picturesque clearing in the woods, were 20 two-man tents, a dining tarp, three campfire circles and a latrine. The boys busily moved their gear into their tents and buzzed about the week ahead as I checked in at the administration building. Then it was off to First Aid to hand in our medical forms, and from there to the pool to take swimming tests. At two a.m. that night I lay in my bunk, scratching at my first batch of insect bites and listening to a raccoon root through the garbage bag that I had forgotten to have carried to the dumpster up at the dining hall. I thought about the events of the day, remembering the mammoth squirt gun battle by the latrine, the flag lowering ceremony we were late for, the first of many noisy meals in the dining hall, and the opening campfire. I also thought about the Boy Scout troops here at camp. A couple were much larger than ours, and very organized and disciplined. Others were small, almost father and son affairs. At 28 Scouts, we are medium-sized, but because we are so new, the age range in our troop is from 10 to just 14 years of age. I encourage all of the Scouting virtues in this bunch, but, perhaps because of my days of rebellion in the sixties, I also try to let the Scouts make a troop of their own devising. This makes us a noisy, loosely led bunch, more like a troop of monkeys than one of soldiers. Finally rousing myself from these philosophical meanderings, I got up to do battle with the noisy coon. Grabbing my flashlight and a stick, I strode confidently toward the pesky mammal, whose eyes I could now see shining in the beam of light. He slowly gave ground as I came nearer, chattering angrily. Then my flashlight went dead, and things got a lot more interesting! As I retreated to my tent and fumbled to replace the batteries in the dark, the coon returned to his investigation of our garbage. Finally, with my now very powerful flashlight beam, I was able to send the varmint scuttling off into the woods. I took the garbage up to the mess hall and returned to my slumbers. Then, at 2 a.m. there was a terrible racket of claws on metal that woke me with a start. Grabbing the flashlight again, I pointed its beam at the bunk opposite mine, where my wife's can of homemade cookies was sitting. There was that coon again, staring insolently at me and making angry noises. I started to get up and he ran away, and so I moved the cookies to a storage chest and tried to get to sleep again, by now muttering to myself at this animal's persistence. The rest of the week was a series of such small adventures. Sweet got 254 mosquito bites. Bobbin lost his wallet 5 times and his Swiss Army Knife ten --- there being no pockets in his sweat pants. I talked frequently with White Fang as he dealt with his homesickness, and then rallied to finish the week strongly. I even, after three years of trying, managed to get Al to take a bite of baked potato. I became a master of the short walk. Going with some to visit the places they were working on the Swimming, Woodcarving or Rifle Shooting merit badges, so that we could talk about the fun they were having during the day, and thus try to forget the loneliness of not having family near by at night. Other times the walk was an attempt at attitude adjustment, a long-winded explanation of why certain behavior was not acceptable or maybe just a friendly talk to explore how the world of boys works. There were even times when the boys took me for a walk and explained how I was wrong in dealing with a particular situation. By Thursday the Scouts were starting to wrap up their projects, and a steady stream of woodcarvings, model rockets, dead fish, Indian crafts and damp writings appeared in camp. As for me, well, I was told that I looked pretty beat up, and that I was tough but fair, and that I was tough and unfair. I think that all of these things were true, but I never stopped trying to improve and learn from my errors. What I found myself wanting, more than anything else, as the week came to a close, was some indication that the troop was a troop and not just a collection of boys living together in the woods. Friday night was the closing campfire, where each troop would contribute a song or a skit to make the evening memorable. Things went smoothly with a collection of old skits ably done, and then it was our turn. I sat in the audience and watched as ten of our Scouts, ages 10 to 14, ran up on stage, stood in a line, looked from one to another and then launched into "If I Were Not a Boy Scout". This song involves each Scout stepping forward in turn and saying something like "If I were not a Boy Scout, a Girl Scout I would be --- Ooh a bug, squish it in the mud. Ooh a bug squish it in the mud." and so on, over and over again until all ten Scouts are saying their parts at the same time with enthusiasm, loud voices, big hand gestures and in rhythm. It is a hard song to do really well.
Driving back to Clarion yesterday, I noticed one of those church signs with the cute little sayings in front of St. Michael's in Fryburg: "We all love to hear the patter of little feet ¾ going home!" Amen to that brother! |
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On
a sunny Sunday afternoon two weeks ago, 28 Scouts met at the parking
lot behind National City Bank in Clarion and moved their gear into
vans and trailers for the journey to summer camp. Dotted among the
piles of backpacks, suitcases, sleeping bags, and garbage bags
filled with clothes, was dangerous equipment that promised a fun
week ahead. Fishing poles poked out of every pile, balls rolled
about on the ground, and squirt guns lay everywhere with an air of
menace that made one look forward to the wet battles to come.
Sweet
started the thing off and was as predictably good as he always is on
stage, but as the skit continued, it became clear that it was not
just Sweet who was good that night