Super-sized Series

 Scouts

 

Elaine Sorrentino, lower right corner, and her mother an assistant scout leader, upper right corner. Elaine is receiving a First Class in Cadet's, the step after Girl Scouts for middle and high school girls. 


Life Lessons from Scouts by Elaine Sorrentino

Preteen campers in a platform tent
lie captivated in lightweight sleeping
bags as rain thumps percussive
melodies overhead,

muted light casts a reflective glow
through the yellow nylon
allowing us to watch trickling drops
paint temporary frescoes on our shelter.

Despite finger-wagging leaders cautioning
against touching the outer wall, lest warm
digits corrode the waterproof surface,
having more than ten trips ‘round

the sun under our badged sashes
emboldens us to challenge authority,
Truth or Dare with dry accommodations;
we trace the droplet trails

with no immediate consequences.
As the drumming lulls us into slumber,
we forget our momentary malfeasance
dreaming we are campfire dancing,

laughing, singing, toasting marshmallows
until a spray extinguishes the flames,
we wake, faces wet, beneath the now permeable
tent surface, a puddle of humiliation.



 
Joanne Durham on her bike

The Senior Citizen and the Boy Scout by Joanne Durham

The boy scout jumped up and ran
to help me lock my bike
by Troop 42’s stand at the fairground.  
Truth is, I didn’t want help. You see,
I’m 63 and quite able to pedal around town.
It wasn’t his fault, the leader – behind the table –
egged him on. Help her, Dan.

I said, I’m fine
but the man insisted, and poor Dan
has learned to obey those commands.
I’m not the nimblest with my hands
through coils and key, but the way I see it,
if I do it more, I’ll be better by 64.
I could have been gracious and agreed,
and everyone would be set at ease –
except me. 

Instead I said in a tone that surely showed 
I was a crusty old crone, I don’t need your help. 
He backed off and I fiddled with the lock
until it caught and I walked away.
All day I replayed what I wish
I’d been mature enough to say:
Thanks, I’ll try myself
if I can.  You’re a kid,
I bet you understand.

Still, couldn’t the troop leader
have told that part to Dan?

From On Shifting Shoals

 

Scouts by Mary Ellen Talley

In this photo, our Cub Scout 
grandson on his father’s lap
is six or seven or eight.

Now he’s an Eagle Scout.
How many fires has he started?
How many hikes up a hill?
How many bike trips?
How many hot dogs has he cooked?
How many s’mores?
How much chili?
How many day camps?
How many campouts?
How many knots mastered?
How many badges earned?
How much popcorn sold?
How many times did his parents
come with or drop him off
for another adventure?
How many service projects?
How many flag ceremonies?

Now he’s twenty.
His sister will go on the same
extreme backpack with their dad
that her brother did three years ago.
The stage is set for ten-year-old sister 
to go in six years,
for Cub Scout brother 
to go in eight years.
All my grandkids hold up three fingers
to repeat, On my honor.


Cub Scouts, 1957 by Joe Cottonwood

We were the baby boom, 
first wave, unaware, 
suburbia growing
like pubic hair.

Greg the athlete 
winning any sport. 
Shy, with stutter.
Dad with temper short.

Tommy slow in school, 
fast in friendship. Fat. 
Said he was adopted
from a laundromat.

Jay wondered about girls,
sang songs of Elvis.
Ate soap—once.
Drew a face on his penis. 

Shaun was strong.
Shaun was jolly.
Told ghost stories,
scared us—golly!

Yoshi Japanese, 
seemed to disappear,
twelve years since the Bomb,
eyes there, not here.

Harvey was swishy,
creative at leather.
Harvey was something
we didn’t know whether.

Steve with loud laugh
stepped on a duck, 
pressed squeezing guts 
into the muck. 

We scouted the future,
rambunctious, naive.
Grew up normal 
except for Steve.

 
Wolf at the Door by Sharon Waller Knutson

Mama presses the steam iron
to the Brownie Uniform
I once wore that now
belongs to my sister and then
to the green Girl Scout uniform
I proudly wear. While she puts away
the ironing board, I fry the ground
beef in the skillet and pour tomatoes
and pinto beans in a pot. I’m making
Wolf at the Door for supper to practice
for the scout weekend campout,
I tell Daddy as he carries in
the big box of Girl Scout cookies
Judy and I will be selling door to door.
Daddy peels and dices an onion
and tosses it in the sizzling skillet
sprinkled with salt and pepper.
Judy takes out the graham crackers
and covers them with marshmallows
and chocolate and melts them
on the broiler. Daddy and Mama
always managed to keep our bellies
full and the hungry howling wolf
at the door out of our house.

From The Leading Ladies of My Life


 

Brownies by Lynn White


My mother took me there, the first time I went to Brownies.
The church hall was too far for me to go alone
and I couldn’t be trusted to cross the main road.
It was like Fireflies, she said.
I liked Fireflies, and I could go there on my own.
They put on records for us to dance to
and the games we played were fun.
There was no music at Brownies.
Many of the children wore a brown uniform.
I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have to wear it
said the old woman in charge.
She was called Brown Owl.
She had a brown uniform as well.
With her fat upholstered body and tiny eyes,
she didn’t look like an owl to me.
I liked owls.
Arthur and I often planned to sneak into the woods
at night to see if we could find them.
We would be like the children in the Enid Blyton books then.
Brown Owl was bossy and made the children 
play silly games, not like Fireflies at all.
I sat at the side and watched at first,
but she said I had to join in later.
So when she wasn’t looking
I sneaked out and left.
I ran all the way home
where big trouble waited
even though I explained that
she had tried to boss me about
and make me play silly games.

So my first time at Brownies was also my last.
I never went back.
I never went to the woods with Arthur, either.


Olahoma by Shelly Blankman

My parents put me in brownies. I don’t know why.
Maybe because they thought I’d make new friends.
Maybe because they thought I’d enjoy the challenges.
Hiking and crafting. Sewing, cooking, and stories. Trying
to sell more cookies than anyone else. I never did. I ate
more than I sold. 

I hated the dirt-brown uniform and matching cap that kept 
falling off because of my big head. Looking back, my den mother
was the spitting image of the sharp-tongued Miss Hannigan from
the musical “Annie.” 

One evening, our troop performed Broadway tunes before
a crowd of proud parents. Much to my chagrin, I was placed
in the front row of the chorus. I was mortified that my cap would
fall off my big head, entertaining the audience more than my
singing ever could. If I’d known what was going to follow, I
might not have worried so much.

When we got to the part where each singer shouted the letter
assigned to spell out “Oklahoma,” I forgot that I was supposed
to shout out K. After a brief silence, “Oklahoma” became
“Olahoma.”

Parents smiled (not mine) or sighed, some laughed heartily, the
brownies giggled, and Miss Hannigan gave me the evil eye. All
I wanted was to disappear or fall through a trapdoor. 

After the performance was over, Miss Hannigan stomped over 
to me and yelled at me in front of the audience for ruining the 
performance for everyone. 

I wondered for a long time why anyone couldn’t figure out 
that Oklahoma without the “K” wasn’t Omaha or any other
state. I laugh it off now.

But to a little girl with a cap that wouldn’t fit, embarrassing
herself in a room full of parents kids and being demeaned by 
the den mother, was not the badge I never wanted to earn.