Camp

I was taking the trash out to the curb last night when Aldus, my neighbor, met me in the driveway having done the same thing. It was strange meeting my neighbor in the evening and having the benefit of light past 6:30. He had just gotten home, he said.

Aldus, in addition to being an upstanding citizen here in Confluence, volunteers his time with the scouts, all of whom are young enough to be his grandsons. They meet on Monday evenings at a lodge behind the Methodist church, and once the weather gets a little warmer and there's light later in the day, they meet outside, clusters of boys in their drab olive pants and khaki shirts and sneakers of all colors.

There are many offices in life whose occupants earn an overstated gratitude from me. They are people like Aldus, who hold positions in life (some voluntary, some elected, some by the grace of the Lord) that I will never have the time, energy, or respect to accomplish. I took time last night at the curb to begin another round of over-sentimental thanks for Aldus and his scouts.

"Aldus," I began, "this is so wonderful for these boys. For our future. You're shaping our country. Not just with the school board, but with these boys who are soon to be men, who are soon to take our places." I admit I'd been drinking a little bit of wine.

He nodded, humble old Aldus, unsure of how to respond to such gushing.

"You teach them strength, and you teach them responsibility, and the Motto, and the Oath, and these are things we need, God knows we need these boys to grow up into good people, and you're helping them with that. You know," I said with an air of suspense, "I was a Scout once."

I begged my father to take me for sign-ups the day after Roman Tholdore came to our fifth grade class with a steel and flint set that would throw sparks when you rubbed the two pieces together. We were all pyromaniacs at heart, so naturally every boy wanted to join. After dinner that night, Dad drove me down to...well, I guess it was the Methodist church where I grew up...in his Pontiac Ventura. Then it was official: I was a Scout. My mother sewed the badges onto my shirt. I had rank. I belonged to a troop. I was eleven.

I won't bore you with what happened on the meetings, which were occasionally interesting, but the real fun came every summer when we left for camp. Our troop traveled across state lines to Camp John Whaley, which coincidentally is about fifty miles up the Tinton River from here in Confluence. It is in the middle of nowhere, but every summer it became a city of boys.

We went for three weeks. Each scout troop picked a campsite on one of three hills surrounding a low clearing that bordered the lake. Our troop favored a spot that was in line sight of the water, and there we dug in for our stay. We slept on cots in old military tents, the canvas kind that were large enough to stand in. The cots stood on old wooden pallets.

Every day at Camp John Whaley began in high liturgy. At 7am, someone on staff would play an old vinyl record over the camp's loudspeakers. For some reason, the only song we woke up to that I can remember was La Bamba. We would trudge out of our tents, dress, and walk down as a troop for morning ceremony at the Mess Hall, a wooden lodge about a hundred yards above the lake.

There, in the yard, every troop would assemble and line up in patrol divisions. We recited the Scout Oath, and then the Pledge of Allegiance. A bugler would play Reveille, two boys would raise the American flag, and then--while the flag was run up the tall pole--we would fire a Civil War cannon. If La Bamba didn't wake you up, the canon did.

Our ears still ringing and our nostrils tingling from the smell of gun powder, we then heard the morning announcements and the breakfast menu from the Cook, a man of very short stature who did not appear to have a neck whatsoever. No matter what time of day, all meals were served with Bug Juice. We took our meals inside the Mess Hall, which was adorned with dozens and dozens of deer and elk trophies and a stuffed black bear that stood on a ledge over the entrance.

Only after this daily ritual did we attend to life at camp, which was filled with prescribed activities. We swam in the lake, where the water ran so cold it seemed to kill you from the groin inward. We shot rifles. We tied knots, braiding half hitches and surgeons knots out of twine. We crafted pocket knife holders out of leather. We learned survival techniques. At the end of the day, we would reverse the morning ceremony prior to dinner at the Mess Hall--the Oath, the Pledge, the bugle, flag, and cannon. And then it was back to the campsite to retire for the evening.

Packing for a three week stay at camp is a careful art. Naturally, we all packed enough underwear for five or six days. That part was fairly common. The rest of the inventory, though, was carefully put together following decades of scouting experience: flashlights; batteries; pocket knife; swimming trunks; soap; the Boy Scout Handbook; pornographic magazines (usually supplied by Ronald, who was the troop's pervert); playing cards; and, finally, two or three cans of spray deodorant and matches.

Now, you might think our overstock of deodorant was simply a product of a young boy's obsession with hygiene. Having walked by teen clothing stores in the mall and nearly fainting from the overwhelming odor of cologne, I would understand that assumption. However, I must stress that we used spray deodorant, and its purpose had nothing to do with smelling nice.

The game was this: the pallets on which our canvas tents were pitched were excellent hiding places for creepy crawlies of all kinds. We forced the younger scouts to fish out a bug, with points awarded to whomever produced the largest. Spiders were the best, and trust me, the tents were full of them. And then, in bursts of glee that are quite shocking to me now, we would set loose the bug on the dirt, all of us scouts surrounding it, our deodorant cans aimed behind cigarette lighters, and unleash a torrent of fiery Old Spice upon the bug until it expired. We called it the Circle of Hell. I fully expect these escapades to reappear when I face our Maker on judgment day.

One day, our troop was selected to raise the flag, a duty that fell to the senior patrol leaders of the group, Doug and Jeb. While they were carrying out the ceremony, they noticed that, hidden between two of the stones at the foot of the flagpole, was the largest moth they'd ever seen. Quickly, over breakfast, we began to hatch a plan to capture said moth, which I couldn't see from my vantage point in the yard, and subject it to the Circle of Hell. Later, in first aid class, we decided to use this as an initiation of sorts for the newest scouts.

That night, after lights-out, we snuck down to the yard outside the mess hall, our cans of deodorant in one hand and flashlights in the other. Sure enough, the giant moth was still there. I was amazed at its wingspan, seven or maybe even eight inches across. Carefully, one of our Tenderfoots coaxed it onto the end of a long branch. We had never torched anything like this before.

Older scouts always had first dibs on getting the initial shot in, so Jeb leaned in and fired first, but his aim was a little off, a singe at best, but certainly not enough to set it ablaze. We all rushed in towards it, our plumes of fire lighting up our faces. Death--and innocence--filled our eyes. What happened next defied all rules of nature and cemented this story into the annals of our troop--as recorded, I swear to you, by our Troop Historian.

The moth took flight. It was on fire, and it was flying. Suddenly, the game had changed: instead of chasing some spider around on the dirt, we were spraying our flame throwers into the air, following this floating lantern as little pieces of its wings fell off in cinders.

Of course this escape of gravity did not last long, although in the minds of every scout present (pledge to truth and honesty aside), it lasted forever. Then, ever so gently, the innocent moth turned into a smoldering spectre, and it glided slowly, reverently back down to the earth. Every boy there stopped at the beauty of it, watching its final descent.

Until it landed on top of the cannon and lit the fuse. We were helpless, watching the wire burn quickly towards an irreversible end. The moth had fired back.

We scattered in every direction, diving into the grass at the report. The blast shook our bodies and woke up the whole camp. Who could have known that the Cook, his chin abutting his breastbone, packed the cannon every night before he went to bed? And how else could we have explained, after we were caught, how the cannon fired by itself in the middle of the night? Together, we boys had borne a legend.

This is why I envy Aldus, who has his own troop now, and I told him so last night after we took the trash to the curb.

"Here," he said, reaching into the pocket of his shirt. He pulled out a steel and flint set. "This is for you."