Let me tell you about Boy Scout Hand Books:
These
manuals had held my fascination ever since I can remember. They contain all the
ways to survive in the wilderness with only a pocket knife and gumption. They
also contain various lore and oaths bordering on ritual and infused with
nationalism.
I
think, perhaps, that as an organization it practically borders on being a
religion.
Along
with these were classic works by Rudyard Kipling, Jack London and Farley Mowat
to name a few authors that would spark adventure in a young boy’s heart.
Anyway,
when I was seven, I made a fuss because a couple of my friends, including my
best friend Hank, were joining a local pack and I wanted to see first hand what
it was like. Dad wasn’t happy and considering my Father’s fate in Afghanistan,
Mom didn’t like the idea of me joining what they called a “Paramilitary Organization” either.
They
did give in to me though, and found me an ill fitting second hand uniform for
me to wear along with paying for a season of membership.
The
group met at the school gymnasium on Tuesday Evenings for two hours. The
sessions began with singing the national anthem and a prayer. There are rituals
based on Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle book where the kids are all wolf cubs and the
leaders are all named after other characters in the novel. Silly that we
weren’t all little Mowglies, but it gave us an excuse to howl, I guess… It
turns out that it is a lot like the army, including salutes and assigned ranks.
I wasn't used to wearing a uniform for school and being lined up and inspected
was too much. Then after all the rituals were dragged out, the only thing we
got taught from the hand book was how to tie some knots in a piece of rope.
The
rest of the time was spent playing Murderball which wasn’t much fun for me. I
really clobbered a couple of guys right away and got scolded to not take the
name of the game quite so literally. I really felt terrible about hitting those
other boys with the ball so hard that I knocked one down and knocked the wind
out of another. I really eased up and started to let myself get hit by the
ball just so I could sit out the rest of the games. The other game was Red
Rover which was equally awful.
The
evening sessions ended the same way that they started, with ritual, song and
prayer.
The
worst was Apple Day. Our pack was loaded up with baskets of apples, a
collection tin and little paper tags. Then we were deposited at different
locations around the neighbourhood. From there, we were expected to harass
people in strip malls or otherwise go door to door selling these apples to
raise money for the organization. This was in Autumn just a few weeks after
joining the pack. The weather that day was miserable and I didn’t have a clue
as to how to drum up any business. I wandered up and down the sidewalks, too
uncomfortable with the idea of disturbing people in their homes to beg for
money. So I just wandered home,
This
caused a great panic for the pack leaders when they couldn’t find me at the end
of the day. It also really amused my Dad who patiently waited by the phone for
one of the leaders to work up the nerve to call and report that I was missing.
Dad
gave me a light scolding for abandoning my ‘duties’ and gave me a few dollars
for the apples he had eaten from my basket, while tossing the rest of them in
the fridge. Then he sent me back to my rendezvous spot with an empty basket and
a full collection tin. It was two and a half hours passed the time I was due to
report and the leaders still hadn’t reported me missing. Dad told me that I
should just tell them that my watch wasn’t waterproof and had stopped working
in the rain so I’d lost track of time. As angry as Dad was with me, he was even
angrier that the pack leaders were so irresponsible as to not watch over and
keep track of their wards.
The
pack leaders had fits between rage and relief for finding me. To cover their
backsides, the leaders told me to lie to my parents about the lateness of the
hour. To tell my parents that the pack had gone for hot chocolate and play some
games. It was a part truth, as the other kids were held at the school while
they had searched for me.
I
was relieved when Dad let me quit the pack after only one season. My best
friend Hank felt the same way and he quit too.
Since
the Boy Scout Hand Books still held Hank’s and my interest we told our Dads
that we to actually try all of the things we’d been reading about. So the next
summer we got down to business. Dad took my best friend Hank and I up to the
family farm and we learned to rough it in the wood lot.
As
a pair of eight year olds, Hank and I were already used to camping in each
other’s back yards in big old canvas tents with cots and sleeping bags;
lanterns and snacks. That was five-star luxury compared to what Hank’s and my
Dad devised for us.
Our
dads had us really rough it with dry rations and some canned food. Anything
perishable, we were advised to eat first before spoiling. A spool of twine,
some tarps and blankets, plus a change of clothes to keep us warm and dry.
Our
dads marched us up and down the side roads around the farm and in circles
through woodlots before helping us choose a campsite. Then they sat back on
some logs drinking beer while they instructed us on how to set camp for the
night. As far as we knew, we were lost deep in the bush.
We
built a lean-to and a fire pit near a little creek and spent some time chasing
frogs while a pot of water boiled to make it potable. We had already drank our
supply of freshwater that we carried in our canteens. Hot Dogs and beans for
dinner. Then at dusk, our dads headed back to civilization for the night and we
were on our own.
We
jumped at things that went bump in the night and laughed nervously at each
other for being chicken but it was so liberating to be on our own. Little did
we know at the time that we were only a few hundred meters from the farm house
and some of those strange noises we heard were our parents checking up on us…
To
keep us from going bush-wacky or getting bored our dads came out to our campsite
for a few hours each day. They taught us all sorts of bush craft. We were
continuously improving the lean-to by raising it up a bit and building a floor
padded with moss and leaves to make it comfortable. We learned how to handle
the hatchet and our shiny new pocket knives. We even foraged for some food.
Stuff that we would have spit out at home became delicacy when we found and
cooked it for ourselves: Fiddlehead ferns, edible mushrooms and other things
the forest provides. We were taught to watch what other animals eat. Birds can eat
things that are poisonous to people, so we had to pay attention to what the
squirrels ate and other mammals ate. We even tried different things by holding
them in our lips. If it tasted bitter and made our lips tingle or burn, to spit
it out because it was probably poisonous. For berries, we learned a little
rhyme: “Red and blue are good for you but if you eat yellow or white, it’s good
night!”
We
didn’t hunt, but we got taken fishing a few times at nearby Lake Scugog and got
to clean and eat what we caught. There are lots of Pickerel in Lake Scugog and
dad always shakes his head when United States tourists call them ‘Walleye’.
There’s Muskellunge in the swampier areas and Largemouth Bass in the deeps
too.
The
Boy Scout Hand Books we carried with us that summer got tattered and destroyed.
Some choice pages even got used for latrine duty, but between them and our
fathers’ knowledge we became real outdoorsmen.
Most of the books were lost when the farm
flooded in the Apocalypse Storm, but the information in them, plus Dad’s
knowledge helped save our lives.
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