We had to be on the soccer field at 8:15 in order to warm up for the 8:45 game. That meant leaving before eight, which we didn’t accomplish, which is why we were late.
We finished the game (we won 3-1 — glad the opposing team got a goal as it’s always disheartening to be blanked) and headed to his scout den’s morning fishing trip.
After lunch, it was time for chores — trimming the crape myrtles in the front.
Nothing left to do but light the cigar and play some chess.
We polished the nails/axels, cut and weighted the car so that the center of gravity is in the optimal location, rough-sanded, and talked about goals for the derby next week.
“I’d like to get at least third place,” the Boy said.
It’s a good goal: realistic, modest. We’ll see.
One of the skills the Boy is supposed to be learning as he works toward his Bear badge in cub scouts is whittling. We were supposed to be working in soap this week.
It’s really a perfect hobby for the Boy: it requires patience, patience, patience, and we’re finding as he gets older, the less patient he’s becoming.
Yesterday was the cut day; today we assembled everything. I struggled to figure out how much to do and how much to let him do, to decide how many mistakes to correct and how many to let slide.
“Oh, Daddy, that nail is actually coming out of the bottom.” That’s one to correct.
“Daddy, I didn’t evenly space these nails.” Just pat him on the head and say, “It’s not a big deal, buddy.”
In the end, it wasn’t perfect, but he’d done almost all of it — a good reason to do your best Dr. Seuss character imitation. (“Daddy, why do so many of the characters go around with their eyes closed?” he once asked. I’d never really noticed that.)
The idea behind a campout is that we take a temporary home with us, setting it up in a forest and staying there for a night or two. Without that little element, it’s a day trip.
But what if you forget something? No, not the tent. The tent arrived with us safe and sound in the trunk. Along with the sleeping bags, air mattresses, camera, water-and-snack bag, shoes, Class A uniform, and cell phone. What didn’t make it? Our backpack filled with clothes. And toiletries. And flashlights.
K called just as we were crossing into North Carolina.
“Where are you?”
“We’re still on our way, just crossing into North Carolina.”
A long pause.
“Because you forgot the backpack with everything in it.”
I’d so meticulously packed everything, taking care to plan for all eventualities — long sleeves for sleeping, a jacket for the morning, extra contact lenses for me, extra everything — and double-checking that I had everything. And then I didn’t double-check that I had everything in the car.
We made plans: perhaps friends were coming and they could bring the bag. Nope, not this year. Perhaps the den leader knew of someone who was coming later and they could bring the bag that K would take over to them. Nope. In the end, we decided to wait a few hours and see. If the Boy wanted to stay, K and I could meet halfway, making it only an hour-and-a-half round trip for both of us. If not, we’d just go home after the evening’s bonfire.
As often happens, the Boy was reticent to engage with the other boys at first. He clung to my side for the first half hour or so. Eventually, he joined in.
It’s a common theme for the Boy. He likes to watch from the periphery for a while, check out what’s going on, see who’s who. I think he gets it from me. K just dives in — she’s one of the most socially fearless people I’ve ever met. I’m a bit more cautious, and whether by example or genetics, the Boy has gotten that from me.
Once he felt comfortable, once he joined in with a couple of boys from his den, I didn’t see him all that much during the free play times. He was a totally transformed boy, and his chattiness and silliness took hold, for once he’s figured out the what’s going on, he chats with everyone. He used to chat with players on the opposing soccer team during games, for heaven’s sake, so perhaps he’s a mix of K and me.
After games, we went for a den hike. Four boys from the den were there, four fathers as well, along with a big sister.
Mr. B, the den master, taught the kids about a few plants and trees, helped them find insects, discussed the possibility of fish living in the pond we were walking beside, and explained to the boys what was on tap for the evening.
“In the evening, we’ll be having a flag retirement ceremony and a little variety show,” Mr. B explained. “We’ll have to prepare a skit for tonight’s show.”
I’d already talked to the Boy about the flag ceremony. Last year he’d been disturbed by the fact that the scouts were burning flags.
This year, we talked about it several times before the event, so he was not nearly as worried. This year was different as well because there were so many flags for retirement that every scout received a flag to put on the fire.
After the ceremony and the skit, the Boy and I headed home.
“I definitely need a shower when we get home,” E proclaimed, but I knew with an hour and a half trip ahead of us, there was little chance of him being awake when we got there. And indeed, by the time we were ten minutes out, he was fast asleep.
Camping is almost synonymous with Boy Scouts. To think of one without the other seems almost impossible. Whenever we’ve gone camping, it seems we almost always see some scouting group or another pitching their tents. We encouraged the Boy to join Cub Scouts by, in part, telling him about camping trips.
This weekend we had our first trip, and as I might have expected, he was terribly excited about it until Friday. “I don’t want to go camping,” became the day’s refrain. In the evening, though, I sold it to him by suggesting we might just need to have a men’s weekend. That did it, and so we did.
We packed our gear, kissed the girls goodbye, and headed to our first scout camping trip.
At first, the Boy was hesitant, careful. Shy. He ventured onto a playground after lunch (we arrived just after lunch because of the soccer game — one goal this weekend) and played around a bit, but he seemed to be playing apart from the other boys despite being in their very midst. He kept coming back to check on where I was, to make sure I was still around, and then to ask me if we could go.
“No, we’ve committed ourselves. We’ll be staying till tomorrow.”
“Okay.” No fussing, just resignation.
By dinner time, he’d made friends and disappeared in the storm of boys that raged around the camp. When the evening came and the pack leader began the scout meeting, he was only vaguely aware or worried about where I was.
By the time the sun had set and the pack leader had transitioned into the flag retirement ceremony, he wasn’t even paying attention to where I was.
But he was paying attention to what was going on. Sort of.
The leader discussed the proper way to handle a flag, the proper way to show respect, and then explained how to retire a flag. It involves fire, which is ironic considering all the controversy over the years regarding burning flags. Yet the pack leader explained that the flag is first cut into four pieces, three pieces with stripes and the star field left whole to signify the unity of the country, and at that point, it is no longer a flag.
“We burn the cloth,” he concluded, “then respectfully gather and bury the ashes.”
During evening prayers, he suggested we pray for the flag.
“What do you mean?”
“So that they never burn it like that again.”
Apparently, he’d misunderstood what was going on, and I suppose he’d simply sat and watched, somewhat horrified, as his pack leader instructed scouts to burn flags. I explained what had happened, and he seemed okay with it, but still a little disturbed.
In the morning, he was ready for more running, yelling, and falling with the boys. It was as if he’d forgotten all about it. I suppose he has, but we’ll see next year when we go again.