There Goes 'My Boy'
By Paul Lillywhite
Every Scoutmaster has a special feeling for a Scout who successfully completes the journey from Tenderfoot to Eagle Scout.
He stands before me, and I have to stifle a laugh. Arrayed in a Scout uniform, eyes full of hope, pride, anticipation, and trepidation; the khaki uniform is about to swallow him. Bought to last for the long haul, it bags about his neck and billows around his belt. This belt is so long it wraps almost twice around him.
Eleven years old, this is his first Scoutmaster's conference, and he is both frightened and excited. I ask him to repeat the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. He starts with a rush, looks at me, and falters. This is the same pledge he repeats every day at school; however, with me and on the spot he can't keep it straight.
With a look of panic his eyes meet mine. They ask, can I still belong, can I still go camping, play the games, learn the tasks, can I be one of the boys? Reassurance is quick in coming; he is welcomed into the troop.
Knots tied again and again, twisting bits of rope around sticks and poles, tying equipment onto packs and into trucks, sticks lashed together to make a rickety tripod where a water jug is precariously suspended. It's a somewhat "useful gadget" to make the water more accessible. As he walks away, he looks back over his shoulder not seeing a teetering tripod but a monumental Eiffel Tower.
"I don't know about these pancakes," he says. "We put in too much water and didn't have any more mix, so we put hot chocolate mix in them to thicken them up."
He looks on, wanting approval for the concoction. It's a good thing we are staying only till noon; it's not hard to fast that long.
With a splash he's in the pool, skinny legs and arms flailing the water. Is he swimming or trying to empty the pool? Ah, there it is—the crawl, oh no, wait, it's the sidestroke; no, it's the crawl.
Arms and legs going like the slowly dying pistons of a worn-out engine, slower and slower he starts to sink. He doesn't have enough fat to keep him afloat.
Will he make the 100 yards to get classified a Scout swimmer? Oh, the coveted swimmer classification, the open doorway to water adventure, canoeing, rowing, sailing, motorboating, snorkeling, and untold experiences of fun.
The strokes are very slow, but he hasn't given up.
"Keep going. Just keep trying; that's it. Keep it up." He's done it! I'm as excited as he is tired.
The cool alpine air invades the side of my sleeping bag. No matter how I turn, a little rock or stick is reminding me of where I am, and each turn lets in some of that cool breeze.
There's a scratching on the outside of the tent door. It's so soft I can hardly hear it. There, there it is again. I open my eyes, look toward the door, and silhouetted in the moonlight he stands. I wonder if he is shivering from cold or from having to wake the Scoutmaster.
I rouse the assistant Scoutmaster as I ask the young man what the problem is. "I don't feel well," he complains. Hot chocolate, praise, reassurance, and reorganization of his bed, and he's tucked away for the night. I return to my cozy nest. It's much more comfortable now, and we all sleep the night away.
"Can we stop and rest?" he asks as he wipes the sweat from his eyes.
"We just stopped a hundred yards back. I thought you could hike forever with that new pack."
"Well, how much farther is five miles anyway?"
On the tops of mountains is the dwelling place of stars. As we lay on our backs studying the eternal expanse, referring to the charts, we learn how the Big Dipper, Orion, the Little Dipper, the Northern Crown, and Cassiopeia can all help you find north at night.
"It's all so big and makes me seem so small," he says. "Hey," he exclaims, "we should have brought my Dad's telescope. It's real cool, and it brings the stars in real close."
"How big is it?" I ask.
"Oh, it's a big one. I think it is about a six-incher. You can see forever with it."
"Would you have been willing to bring it all five miles up here in that new pack of yours?" I ask.
"Well," he says after a pause, "this looks good enough for me."
Camping, cooking, cycling, swimming, skiing, sock ball, night games, backpacking, Scout nights, day hikes, camp-outs, summer camps, and courts of honor—the weeks turn into months, the months into years.
Then, here he stands before me for a very important Scoutmaster's conference, and I have to stifle a laugh. His uniform is about to choke him. Its khaki material is taut over his broadening shoulders, the buttons strain the buttonholes. His trousers are held shut by his now too short belt.
Across his chest is his sash with a small army of merit badges marching from his shoulder to his waist. His eyes meet mine, and I see the familiarity that many shared experiences bring. His face shines with pride, confidence, leadership, and accomplishment.
"Think I'm ready for my Eagle board of review?" he asks, giving me a firm left handshake.
"Well, I don't think you're ready," I reply, "I know you're ready."
As I watch him go I think, "There goes my boy."
Not my son; his parents will not give him to me, but he's still my boy.
Paul Lillywhite has served as a Scoutmaster in California, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, and Utah. He is now a committee member for Troop 413, St. George, Utah. His essay was originally written for an Eagle court of honor for several Scouts in his troop.
November - December 2004 Table of Contents
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