My father is a bear of a man. I’ve called him that before. Not the snarling, hairy, camper-eating variety. More of a Disney bear. A big, burly, optimistic, happy-go-lucky type of bear who can’t quite carry a tune.
I, on the other hand, am not a bear of a man, Disney or otherwise. Nor have I ever been. I was never large, athletic, strong or happy-go-lucky. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m more like a crippled weasel. Or a damaged monkey of some kind.
I’m wondering if that’s part of the reason my parents were so adamant about my joining the Cub Scouts. I wanted nothing to do with it. I’d seen those kids around the school on the days they had their meetings–wearing those stupid blue shirts and those stupider yellow neckerchiefs. What sort of individual would wear a neckerchief of any kind in this (or that) day and age? Not one I’d want to know, that’s for damn sure. I never even realized that "neckerchief" was a real word until I encountered Cub Scouts.
Then, one by one, my friends started joining up. It was like some sort of insidious cult, or Invasion of the Body Snatchers–watching people I knew and respected give in and don the dreaded neckwear.
One friend’s mom, Mrs. Larsen, was even vying to become a "den mother" for her own "pack" or "troop" or whatever the hell it was called. I think that’s what put the idea in my folks’ head. The Larsens lived right across the street. Another friend’s mom, Mrs. Nauman–the Naumans lived three houses up–was trying to get in on the act as well. All the boys from the neighborhood (not that many, to be honest) would be joining, I was told. And it seemed they were.
But not me, if I had my way. No sir. I didn’t care if all my friends were a part of it. Even at the age of nine or 10, I was dead set against joining clubs or organizations of any kind (still am).
Finally, one night, after a particularly loud and ugly scene in the living room, which later rolled on into the kitchen, and then later my bedroom–they got me to agree.
"She needs one more person," they told me. "If she doesn’t get one more person, she can’t be a den mother."
"Let her find someone else, then," I suggested.
"There’s nobody else to get," they insisted. "She’s signed up all the boys from the neighborhood, and she needs one more."
"I don’t care," I insisted. "I’m not joining."
"If you don’t, that’s the end of it. You’ll be disappointing all those other kids." Then, in proper form when arguing with a guilt-ridden, smarty-pants nine-year-old, they added, "Please?"
Two weeks later I was wearing a stupid, yellow neckerchief, which gave the other (non-Scout) kids even more reason to taunt me with their jibes.
We didn’t do much as Scouts, really. My troop didn’t, at least. We were lazy. Mostly we ate snacks. Once or twice we went on field trips to fast food places or the local museum. We never went camping or hiking. We sat in Mrs. Larsen’s basement and goofed around. This I found somewhat a relief.
As a result, of course, neither I nor any of the other kids in my group were piling up the merit badges. We’d go to citywide meetings attended by all the troops, and we’d see kids whose entire shirts were covered with little pins and badges and crap. Myself, I wasn’t interested in pins and badges. Despite the fact that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, I still wanted out. And I wanted out as soon as possible, having put in as little effort as possible.
One thing we did do a lot of in Mrs. Larsen’s basement was make little artsy-craftsy things. Mostly they were designed to be presents for our parents. Mother’s Day comes, you make a present. Father’s Day comes, you make a present. Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving–whatever stupid holiday happened along next, we were down in that basement, gluing some shit together to give to our parents. Looking back on it now, I wonder if that increased present quotient wasn’t in fact the real reason so many parents were so adamant about forcing their kids to join the Scouts.
I don’t remember most of what we made. I carved a ship out of a bar of soap once. Not sure what happened to that one. The one Scout-spawned parental gift I know is still in my parents’ basement was at once the most horrifying and the most telling. It was a project we undertook in Mrs. Larsen’s basement in early June.
We’d been told the week before to bring along that year’s school picture. All the other materials would be provided.
Now, in my case at least, there’d been a lot of things that came together in the days before that fourth-grade student picture was taken. I’d gone to get a haircut and Lenny, the barber–as usual–ended up cutting the bangs at a sharp 34-degree angle. I was also forced into a stronger glasses prescription that I wasn’t quite used to yet. I’d lost both front teeth in some sort of buffoonish accident. And the clothes–well… It was 1974.
So come time for the picture, there I was, all crooked hair, cross-eyed and gap-toothed, grinning like some drooling idiot, wearing a shirt that had a zipper instead of buttons, zipped all the way up to my neck.
(Yeah, I think "damaged monkey," as mentioned above, pretty much handles it.)
Here was our task as Scouts. We were given a piece of paper about three inches by one–maybe a little smaller. Then we were each given a lighter (back then they used to let us play with lighters. It was an enlightened time.) We were to use the lighter to burn around the edges of the piece of paper. Not the whole thing–just around the edge. That’s because Mrs. Larsen had written something on each slip.
We were then given a small block of wood, maybe, like the slip of paper, three inches long and an inch square.
Then we took the paper and glued it to one side of the piece of wood. We glued our school picture, for better or for worse, to the other side. Then we varnished the whole thing. And voila–instant Father’s Day joy.
My dad certainly seemed happy with it. Even kept it on his desk. Still, though, I have to wonder how he really felt, this powerful old bear, upon receiving that picture of his drooling, gap-toothed, cross-eyed son stuck on a piece of wood. I have to wonder further how he must have felt to turn the wood over in those enormous hands of his, only to see written on the other side, "A Chip Off the Old Block."
