So I split work a tad early Friday, pack up a few things, jump into my 1991 POS and head north for my seven-hour trek to see my son this weekend.
Unbeknownst to me, Friday night was Skirmie’s first Cub Scout pack meeting to the school year. For those not in the know, the pack is a meeting of all the area scouting dens.
Never a Scout myself, I delved eagerly into this mystical world with my son two years ago – he, and I along with him, proceeded from Bobcat to Bear to (this year) Wolf. Each year I willingly anted up his registration fee, bought a new cap, neckerchief and tie ring.
I’d not been able to volunteer my time due to my living in Virginia and my son living in New Jersey. But when an Scouting event occurred during my visits, I eagerly attended with my son. I learned the oath, the salute, how not to get lost in the woods, how (if your lost in the woods) to be found, and sundry of other “gotta know if you’re a Scout dad” stuff.
So we attend the pack meeting Friday evening. I, in a rush to get up to Jersey, had neglected to change out of my uniform (I’m an active duty Chief Pety Officer in the Navy.). My son’s used to the uniform. I’m comfortable in it. In Norfolk it wouldn’t get a second glance.
As we entered the Central School cafeteria, the play and grab-ass of 25 kids came to a screeching halt. Silence fell. Some 15 parents stopped what they were doing and gawked. My son grabbed my hand and led his bewildered dad to his den’s table.
As I introduced myself to Skirmie’s Den Mom, the Monmouth District Pack 333 leader came rushing over.
“Would you talk to the boys?” he asked.
“About what?”
“About the terrorist attack.”
“Um, are you sure about this?”
“Sure. Who’d be more qualified?”
“Uh… maybe their parents?”
“Yeah, yeah. But you’ve got a uniform!”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t know how deep I should go with this. Maybe I could teach them to tie knots or something.”
“I can sign you up to teach a knot tying class later this year, but I’d like for you to do something tonight.”
After a bit more discussion, I begged off “counseling” the boys and agreed (much to the chagrin of my son) to lead the pack in the Plede of Allegience.
My willingness to help out has snagged me into teaching the boys knot tying in December and news writing in March.
I wonder how differently things would have gone if I’d worn one of my Grateful Dead tie-dyes?
