Atypical Scout Part II

Don Erath had two sons about 6 years apart.  He settles in the San Fernando Valley post-WWII as did thousands from all over the country.  Don was an honest man who had a strong sense of community service.  That's why he became an LA cop and volunteered to be the Scoutmaster of his sons Boy Scout troop.  He was supported by a longtime scout assistant Scoutmaster called Buck.  Buck Flatt was his full name.  It sounded more like a campground.  Buck had 3 sons.  An older son in his mid-20s and a pair of twins, Dean and Dale about 12 years old.  Dean was a consummate young Boy Scout.  His twin, Dean, was what we then referred to as "mentally retarded."  His mental disabilities did not hinder Dean in his ability and desire to be a Scout.  He just couldn't attain many of the other skills necessary to rise through the ranks from Tenderfoot to Eagle.  We all loved Dean and most of the other troop members felt empathy for him.  Dean, in turn, provided us with lots of entertainment from his quirky ways.  Case in point: When we recited the Scout oath,  that began, "A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly courteous kind..." When we got to the "obedient, cheerful, thrifty, part, Dean always replaced "thrifty" with "Thriftymart," the name of a local grocery store.  Chuckles always erupted when this happened, as Dean liked his recitations in a loud voice.
When I see Dean, all these years later, I see him in the back of the Troop truck as we make our way to a campground.  He's reclining on a pile of tents, sleeping bags and ground cloths, holding a red Folger's coffee can in his hands.  His mom always baked a Devil's food cake in a coffee can for him.  He would periodically open the can and retrieve a small silver bent spoon and partake of his treat on the way.  Dean's contentment soared while eating his chocolate cake.  Nobody messed with him as he enjoyed this ritual.

Dean had a pal in Charlie, another mentally disabled Scout.  Charley attended most meetings but seldom went on campouts for some reason.  Some of the other memorable members of this mismatched band of brothers were Tommy, the heavyset big guy who make the thickest pancakes you ever saw, and Jeffrey, "the pardon me, kid."  Jeffrey earned this moniker one day as his patrol was careening down a mountain.  As these guys came sliding down a trail, dust flying, bumping into one another and laughing all the way, Jeffrey suddenly crashed into the guy in front of him.  He was the son of a proper British gentleman so, in the midst of this ping-ponging, he said "Pardon me.
Jimmy immediately jumped on that saying, "who says "Pardon Me" when you are mountain climbing?  The name stuck.
I'm sure there is a funny cast of characters and events in every Boy Scout troop.  Those days of catching bluegill and bass on worms and even tinfoil when we ran out of live bait, were truly formative.  Every now and then, decades later, as I cast a dry fly into a calm pool or on a placid lake when a fish expresses interest and there is that little flick of a splash, I become that 10-year-old scout with the patience of Job and a shot of adrenaline.  Troop 201 lives on.
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I earned 24 merit badges as a Boy Scout.  Ironically, I never got the one for Fishing.  As a lifelong fisherman, and now as a fly fishing enthusiast, I have easily completed all the requirements.  Shortly before I retired from full-time teaching I had a student originally from Finland.  Saku told me one day as the school year ended that he was graduating and also he had attained the rank of Eagle Scout.  When I told him that I had been an Eagle Scout he was intrigued even more and asked me many questions about my experience "back then." I mentioned the irony of the fishing merit badge.  A couple of weeks later, at graduation, I congratulated Saku after the ceremony and he put something in my hand with a broad smile. Yup, you guessed it.

Atypical Scout

The newscaster said the Boy Scouts of American were in bankruptcy.  Given recent events, I wondered if he meant financial or moral bankruptcy.  Turns out it's both.  The court cases connected to a swirling amount of abuse cases seem to have done in the venerable organization.  I guess that means Boy's Life magazine is no more too.  It probably went the way of magazines already.
Most guys I know probably have had some memory as a Boy Scout.  Most of us, I think, have more positive recollections rather than trauma.  But as Clay Risen points out, in a recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, the Boy Scouts may be gone, but scouting remains.  All the skills and experiences connected to camping, nature study, and community service still survive.  Now, I suppose, we will have an inclusive organization that gives young people, male and female and non-binary those same opportunities and experiences.  My time as a Boy Scout was lifechanging.  Fortunately, it was not marred by any irregularities, though there were a few close calls and definitely many memorable times.

My Boy Scout troop was atypical.  We were a rag-tag group that met at our elementary school auditorium.  Dues was 50 cents, and meetings always began and ended with the Scout oath.  Our Scoutmaster was an LA cop who ran a tight ship and took his role seriously with intelligence and empathy.  Our camping trips were atypical as well.  The Scoutmaster and his assistants had procured an old telephone company stake truck that laden with pounds of camping gear and about  15  9-12 year-olds would chug along, spewing diesel fumes.  We went to some beautiful places in the Angeles National Forest and even to Kings Canyon National Park.
I learned to fish while a Boy Scout.  I froze in a pup-tent hoarding Oreo cookies and playing Crazy 8s.  I laughed, worried, itched from insect bites and poison oak and stinging nettles, and learned to make perfect pancakes.
When a neighborhood friend in my troop decided to go for Eagle Scout, I went with him.  By age 12, we both attained this high honor.  I'm still proud of this accomplishment all these years later because I learned to become a stronger swimmer and overcome other fears along the way.
I can probably still tie a few of the knots I learned.  Don't think I've forgotten them all.  What else is unforgettable are the people I met along the way.
Those stories in the next post.

Good Therapy

I saw an ad for census takers today.  A nice-looking young fella pictured with the official US Government Census taker's briefcase/portfolio on his shoulder was smiling like he'd just landed his dream job.  It is an important job, to be sure, but hardly a dream.
I was reminded of my direct experience assisting an official census taker yers ago.  The job is as problematic as it is crucial.  Like our elections, the census is subject to questionable procedures.
The year was 1970.  My girlfriend at the time, Kim, had come down to Houston, Texas from her social work job in Chicago to spend the remaining weeks of my tenure as a VISTA Volunteer before we took our VW Bus to New York and then across the country from coast to coast as I awaited my fate with the draft.
Kim saw an ad for census takers in the city of Houston and figured it'd be a good temporary job as well as a way to make a few bucks of travel money.  She tested well and was soon outfitted with all the paperwork and gear necessary to go door to door in the barrio of North Houston.  As I recall, Kim was assigned a specific number of households to check and then she was free to move about the country.  With most of my VISTA business tied up, I decided to accompany her for the last two weeks of May, so that she would have some assistance with speaking Spanish and some motivation to get 'er done in a timely fashion.

We knew that this was largely a Chicano barrio.  What we didn't expect was that many folks simply wouldn't answer the door.  Looking back today, it seems obvious that anyone who was undocumented would fear any branch of the US Government.  It was simpler to just ignore the doorbell than to risk any representative of the government knowing who and how many people lived within.
At this rate, we were going to need an extra month to get the data sent in.
Then we got creative.
If people wouldn't answer the door, they would let their kids outside to play.  In Spanish and English, we asked any kids we encountered if they knew how many people lived in various houses, duplexes, and apartments.  They were of some help.  Most often, however, we couldn't get any names.
Not to be denied, we simply opened up the local phone book (remember those) and determined what Latino surnames seemed most common.  Clearly, Martinez was the winner.  So we filled out the forms so the Census could be completed on time.  Occasionally, we'd drop in a Ramirez and a Gonzalez from time to time.  Now and then a Jones, Brown, or a Wilson, as the neighborhood did contain some elderly white folks who had been there for decades.  In fact, one such person remains, to this day, one of the most unforgettable people I encountered.  After ringing a doorbell many times and then knocking loudly on a ragged door with chipped paint, we heard, "Come around the back."
I started to say "Es El Censo," before catching myself and realizing the voice was speaking English to me.  Walking down a vine-covered path and then turning the corner to find a back door opening, a rather large, rather elderly woman lifted up her head and asked, "Can I help you?"  We soon were invited in and her answer to the first census question set the tone for the remaining 25 minutes we spent there.
"How many people live here?"
Stifling a cough, our interviewee said, "It's just me and I'm waitin' to die."
A most honest, if not disturbing answer.
But things weren't half as bad as we first thought.  Our new friend proceeded to answer all the official questions and then some.  We listened to her life story and tried to leave with some encouragement to keep on keepin' out.  I think it's safe to say it was good therapy for all.
A week later we were on the road and crossing the Texas/Arkansas border after being asked if we were carrying "any hogs?"

Lesson Learned

Valentine's day is rapidly becoming a dreaded holiday.  Is it the obligation or the routine that makes people dread February 14.  Perhaps it's the timing.  Remember those little cartoon-like Valentine cards we used to trade in elementary school?  So much easier then.
As I look back on my romance history the regrets and mistakes, the successes and surprises, it occurs to me that the ones who I walked with for only a short time (or never) deserve a poem too.  Most of us have had people try to fix us up with someone who they thought would be a good match, only to wonder if our well-meaning friends really knew us at all.
I hear that this day can be difficult for many people because it underscores their loneliness.
It need not be that way.

A valentine for those that never were

For the slight attractions,
And the duly warned,
For the blind dates never seen,
Our mutual friends meant well.
Time heals with humor too.


For the one who couldn't recognize
The stellar voice of Nat "King" Cole,
And she who couldn't be touched,

For the one with knuckle tattoos,
And the adventurer whose hair was just too red,
For those who cut and ran,
Who knows what goes through the mind.
Each episode a sit-com or a hard lesson learned.

Shadows dark as chocolate,
Blood pure as a red blend.
I raise my glass to you cardless but
Never forgotten.

Something Long Forgotten

Last week I lost my friend and colleague.  I heard that she was ready to move on and that she notified those close to her she made the decision.  Bonnie loved and appreciated food.  Sometimes too much, but her decision to not eat anymore signaled her final decision.
Last week I found two photos and posted them on social media.  One was from a river raft trip a bunch of us made back in 1979 on the American River in Northern California.  It was immediately after we completed the second leg of the trip.  There we are standing next to our guide against the big raft that took us through those rapids.  We are exhausted, but feeling pure joy.  Bonnie has the biggest grin of anyone.

The second picture is from the early 1980s.  The school where we taught was having a "good friends" photo contest.  Students were invited to submit photos with their best friends.  As I recall, one of the yearbook photographers suggested that teachers enter too.  He took our picture for the occasion.  The photo shows me with Bonnie, (lower left) John, and Marsha.  We have one arm around our colleague and the other holding another's hand.

In the days following Bonnie's passing, that post "blew up." I received more than 100 responses, mostly from former students of mine or the other teachers pictured.  Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing so gratifying to a teacher than to hear from students after they become adults.  To see what they have done with their lives and where they are is beyond fascinating.  It's the way we learn that many of the seeds planted years ago have taken root.
Last week I heard from former students who are now educators too.  That's a special example.  Sometimes they are the last people you would think who would be teachers, sometimes it's the ones you hoped would be.  On rare occasions, these people take time in their comments to reference their former teenage selves.  They sometimes apologize for something long forgotten.  Sometimes, they repeat something from a conversion decades old.  I'm humbled.  I'm honored.  But most of all, I'm content.

Divided Colors

We know we're in the middle of dynamic social change.  We know the impact of technology in the last few decades.  Our daily lives have changed in so many ways and we credit ourselves with being able to keep up with how things are done.  Small but crucial victories.
At some point it all adds up and we find ourselves wondering what happened to things like newspapers, shopping centers, our favorite brands, and even how we get from point A to point B.
We know that the internet we embraced, the one that was supposed to bring us closer together, has unfortunately done the opposite.  We are reeling.  Trying to find some balance before our lives are ripped open to a vulnerability we can barely comprehend.
It's always an unexpected revelation to return to a place where you previously lived in another state.  I often compare it to a lifelike dream.  There you are going down familiar streets but the configuration of things has changed.  Some streets are now wider, some buildings and businesses gone.  There is a vibe to the energy and the sound of the place you once knew.  Sometimes a familiar feeling locks in again, sometimes it doesn't.
Walking down the street in Pacific Grove, California last weekend, the cool ocean breeze was filtered through warm sunlight at times.  The sunset over the San Francisco Bay flashed nuanced pinks and oranges as if the view were HD TV.

I rode the BART rapid transit system for the first time in years.  The once new sparkling version of a light-rail has bumps and bruises now, but it still remarkably transports people up, under or over the Bay with ease.  Like most transportation systems, it's riders sit with wired earbuds, hoods over heads, avoiding any conversation or even a direct look, eye-to-eye.  The diversity in the Bay Area is and always will be breathtaking.  So many languages, cultures, age differences, varieties of humanity in a small space.  The appearance of dystopia was further developed this time as many moved through the urban arteries wearing face masks sparked by fear of the new Coronavirus
We return home to the simmering Civil War in our nation's capitol.  The President says the state of the union is strong.  Half the room sits still, motionless.  He extols his virtues but fails to mention the climate that is changing as fast as his opinions. The Speaker rips the President's speech in two to the disgust of many and the delight of many more. We don't wear uniforms...yet.  But most of us are walking around with divided colors in our consciousness.  He speaks of many things, but uniting the people is not one of them.