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| Okay, yes. This is different generation. But the dirt is the same . . . |
For many, many years, Husby served as a scout leader.
Babysitting. With sticks.
And fire.
Their experiences were many and varied.
Their close calls?
Equally many and varied . . .
For one of their camps, Husby had chosen a spot in the mountains.
A stream fed by a slowly-melting glacier
flowed musically past their camp.
A tiny trickle that begged the
building of a dam.
Which, with great industriousness
seldom seen by any of the boys’ families, was finally completed.
Water began to pool.
Now they had a pond.
Did I mention that said water
issued directly from a glacier?
Right. I did.
Well, that meant it was cold.
Or more accurately: C.O.L.D.
Husby, ever the leader, told the
boys they would need to use their new construction for the purposes of cleaning
their camp-begrimed bodies.
They smilingly declined.
At the end of three days, his
urging took on a more—insistent—note.
Let’s face it. Three days of camping
with no soap and water can make even the least fastidious among us—umm—cringe.
And head upwind.
Husby was standing with one of his
older scouts on the edge of the pond.
I should probably mention that Husby
had already ‘done the dirty’—or the ‘clean’ as it probably should be called—when
he had scrubbed himself shiny in the frigid waters the day before.
Now he was encouraging his boys to
do the same. Admittedly, his ‘encouragement’ was couched in the form of: “Son,
you have two choices. You can go in willingly. Or I throw you in.”
The young man’s response? “It was
easy for you, Scouter. You have much more body fat than I do.”
I will close with these words: The
young man only got one choice.
P.S. On a more positive note, he
and his laundry were cleaned at the same time.
