In the not too distant past, I was asked by my latest Eagle Scout if I could answer some questions for him for a project he was doing for a college course. Naturally, I said yes, despite having only a slight idea of what those questions might be, as well as being a relatively private person. The project revolved around groups and how they interact and behave within those social groups - specifically, non-traditional social groupings, meaning not your interactions in a school or work environment.
Regardless, the reason for the questions is not what this is about.
The first question was "How did you join Scouting, and at what age?" My initial reaction was what the majority of participants in this organization would probably answer "Six or seven, and I went to an open house/meeting." Period. End of story.
However in this case, I had to stop and consider how I really came to this point in my life. How I had spent the better part of my adolescence wearing a uniform with a little 101 embroidered on the shoulder. How I went to meeting after meeting, faithfully first as a Cub Scout when Pack 101 had something like 40 Scouts, to every Webelos meeting when there were literally 3 of us, to every Friday night meeting from 11 years old to 37 (and counting). How I went to dozens of Klondike Derbys, Pinewood Derbys, 26 summer camps, 1 National Jamboree, 1 High Adventure Base, and have spent hundreds of nights sleeping in the woods, fighting off either swarms of no-see-ums or the cold winter's chill.
How I went from a shy quiet seven year old to an Eagle Scout and eventually, Scoutmaster.
How?
I can't say I went looking for it - no seven year-old goes looking for something like this. Even more so when you don't know what a Boy Scout or Cub Scout even is. There wasn't a history of Scouting in my family (which by the way, was question #2) - my father, despite being an accomplished outdoorsman was only a Sea Scout (how this feat was tackled in Lodi, NJ I will never know) and my grandfather was in briefly, never earning Eagle (though in his case, if I had to guess, it was interrupted by his going to apprentice as a tool and die maker at 16). Before that, my family was either too old, or too not-in-the-country. In fact, out of my entire family (and we are a large bunch) I am one of two Eagle Scouts in the whole lot. I certainly wasn't looking for something to do because video games were non-existent, and I had no desire to learn how to make a fire and cook over it.
So what was it that got me down to my school's gym on that fateful day with 40 or so other screaming 7 year-olds to see what Scouting was all about?
...in a word: Dad.
Now, I don't know what made Dad take me down there. Perhaps it was my lack of skills on the sports field (and believe me, was there a lack); perhaps he wanted me to fulfill something that neither he nor my grandfather had; maybe he felt I wasn't active enough - or it could have been a good old case of Mom saying "He needs to be more social." I don't know what the real reason was, and perhaps I'll never know (my guess is that neither mom nor dad really recall either at this point).
While I don't know the reason, I can recall some details about the day; I was hanging onto my father like a remora on a shark the entire time (I was a really shy kid). I remember seeing all these kids and their parents running around the room, checking out different pictures or Pinewood Derby cars or other Scouting paraphernalia that was set up on tables around the gym. There was a food table at the back with the standard cookies and juice set up for everyone's consumption (to this day, I cannot eat cookies and juice blech.) I remember women in uniform, wandering around making sure that no one ate the glue, or cut their fingers with safety scissors, yellow polyester shirts covered in various patches that at the time meant nothing to me.
Despite this (and my father generally hates large crowds, even more with screaming children that are not his) Dad seemed...happy. He moseyed around the room with me in tow looking over the various displays, seeing something he liked, or pointing to something and saying "Your grandfather had that when he was a Scout" - acting as though he was at something akin to a flea market as oppose to a Cub Scout open house. It was as we were ending our initial lap around the room that we almost crashed into him.
He was about as tall as Dad, dressed in a crisp, clean uniform; patches all stitched on and straight; creases all sharp as a knife's edge; the edge of his shirt aligned with the bright brass buckle on his belt, which was aligned with the front of his pants. His hat was low over his eyes, and pushed forward a bit, containing the "high and tight" of his hair cut (or, more specifically, what was left of his hair) buttons adorning the front - one being, curiously enough, a small, green pickle with the word "Heinz" molded into the plastic. Around his neck was a bolo, hand carved and painted to look like a military man screaming at someone with a camouflage hat on. He was a little plump around the middle, but you could tell that there was muscle under there...
...and his Scout pants were "bloused" into his combat boots.
This was the Scoutmaster?
My father and he apologized for almost crashing into one another, and he introduced himself and shook Dad's hand.
Yep. This was the Scoutmaster.
...and of course, Dad being a police officer and a friend to all those who serve (not to mention being an amateur student of history) notices the bolo. "Well that's a funny story..." is how it started, and continued with the words "Marine", "sergeant" and "active reserve", ending with "Scoutmaster of Troop 101, where your son will go when he crosses over from Cub Scouts in to Boy Scouts". Actually, it ended with my father smiling down at me and saying I was going to have fun in Scouts after the gentleman walked away.
Shortly after that, my father and I grabbed an application and headed for the door. I'm not even sure I had a say in my future endeavor, nor do I recall if there was any convincing to be done on Dad's part for Mom. Maybe she agreed; maybe she figured Dad knew what he was doing; maybe she kept her reservations to herself (though, if you knew my mother, this is highly unlikely). I honestly don't recall most of my time in Cub Scouts - I recall snippets, like sitting on the end of a porch at day camp and listening one counselor ask another how he got the fire to light with all the rain we'd be having (answer: he soaked it in lighter fluid for 3 days to make sure it would light). I have tons of pictures, several Pinewood Derby cars, and endless miles of woven lanyards to prove I was there.
That was the first step. Dad taking me to an open house, and almost, literally, running into the Scoutmaster himself. A step that started me on a path that lead from a lowly little Bear in Cub Scouts to an Eagle in Boy Scouts - and oddly enough, the Scoutmaster who took over from the very same guy he almost crashed into 20 some-odd years earlier.
Hopefully, when I'm old and grey and have trod a thousand miles over muddy trails, pushing Scouts to the top of the hill, and have spent ten-thousand nights among the trees and stars, some young Scout will return to continue the traditions of Troop 101 - but I've just started, and have a long, long way to go.
I still don't know why you did what you did, but thanks Dad.
............
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference.
- Robert Frost
