Memories of Cub Scouts

There were about a half a dozen of us in the old photograph I stumbled across the other day.

Most of us are still living; at least one is dead.

Some still live nearby; others have long since moved away.

We were, I suspect, one of the most forlorn group of Boy Scouts since Lord Baden-Powell launched the organization back in England.

Some of us had been Cub Scouts together, and at that we did pretty well.

Or at least my memory of the experience is kinder.

Our Cub den met at my house, and my mother was the den mother.

So maybe that's why it has a more positive glow in the rearview mirror.

And while it was a little awkward to have a bunch of elementary school buddies come over one afternoon a week, it was fun.

We worked our way through the scout handbook and did plaster of Paris castings of the wolf and bear heads to mark our progress through the ranks.

We also tried our hands at making crystal radios, though I'm not sure anyone was ever able to get a decent signal.

But we learned the usual rituals; the scout salute and the pledge to the flag were a part of each meeting.

Boy Scouts, however, were something else entirely.

For one thing, not all of the guys who had been Cubs together decided to go on to Boy Scouts. And even if they did, there was a matter of religion to deal with.

In those days, there were at least two and perhaps three Boy Scout troops in Portland.

Each was affiliated with a specific church, and it was expected that a scout should join the troop his church sponsored.

Trouble was, some of my best friends went to the Methodist Church while my family was Presbyterian.

When we made the transition from Cub to Boy Scout, the old den was broken up completely.

While the original den had been based upon friendship, Boy Scouts seemed a bit more arbitrary.

Some of the guys in that old photo were among my best friends.

But at least one was a truly odd fit.

The old photo sent me scrambling for memories of my scouting experience.

Three came to mind immediately.

There was a memorable campout at the scout cabin at the Jay County Fairgrounds.

Why was it memorable? Two reasons: That's where I smoked the first cigarette of my childhood, and one of my buddies demonstrated true Boy Scout preparedness by bringing a TV dinner to the campout.

He tossed it in the fire, package and all, then raked it out later and pealed back the aluminum.

While we ate baloney sandwiches, he ate Salisbury steak.

And there was an equally memorable camporee at Frank Merry Park near Dunkirk.

Our troop for some reason had no pup tents, but the scoutmaster was a funeral director.

So we all slept together in a large tent that would have been better suited for Green Park than Frank Merry Park.

And then there was my failure to learn Morse code.

It was essential for becoming a First Class scout.

And if you dreamed of ever being an Eagle, you had to become First Class first.

I dreamed of being an Eagle, but Morse code eluded me.

I'd learn it for awhile, but it never really seemed to stick long enough to pass the test.

That failure has left me with deep admiration for guys like our former intern James Brosher, my brother-in-law Stephen, my nephew Ron, and my friend Aaron Hudson who attained the status of Eagle Scout.

But I have to admit that I've never felt the need to understand a dot or a dash of Morse code beyond SOS.

And I suspect that most scouts would say the same thing.

All in all, I preferred being a Cub.[[In-content Ad]]