For over twenty years, my Husby served
as Scout supervisor.
This included acting as a leader on
numerous scout camps.
A true test of one's manhood.
Or at least one's patience and
endurance.
These camps were held, invariably, in
the great outdoors.
Woods. Mountains. Streams.
Wild animals.
They glimpsed many, many of these
latter.
But the animals they saw most were the
cute, little furry ones who ran in and out of their campsites.
Made messes.
And stole food.
Squirrels.
The original camp robbers.
On one camp, there was a particular
little scamp.
A little bolder and craftier than
others like her.
She got into one too many bags of
treats.
One of the scouts, one who had
aspirations to play major league, threw a rock at her.
Hit her square.
And knocked her dead.
I don't know which of them was the most
surprised.
My Husby looked at the chagrined boy
and decided this was a perfect teaching moment.
One did not waste what was given in the
woods, he told the scouter.
He made the boy skin the squirrel out.
Clean it.
And cook it.
Unfortunately, the lesson was rather
lost.
It was a young squirrel, tender and
succulent.
Rather tasty.
The boys talked about the incident
throughout the rest of the camp.
And into the next season.
And winter camp.
Attended by the younger brother of the
first scout.
Who now had some big shoes to fill.
Or so he thought.
Again, there was an abundance of
squirrels.
He chose one.
Took aim with his rock.
And hit it with one shot.
So far so good.
After enduring the
getting-to-be-standard lecture from his scouter, he skinned the
squirrel out.
Cleaned it.
And cooked it.
And suddenly discovered that not all
squirrels are the same.
This one, a rather elderly male had
been surviving on winter fare and was . . . nothing like the first.
Tough, stringy and decidedly . . .
un-tasty.
Unhappily, he chewed his way through
it.
Then hung up his stones and throwing
arm for good.
Some records just aren't made to be
broken.
