Papa John

What kind of a goofball would marry a guy’s sister without bothering to introduce himself to his soon-to-be brother-in-law? That alone was enough to get John Martin off on the wrong foot with me. In the years following the marriage, my skeptical impression of the man seemed to be confirmed when he rarely showed his face at family gatherings. He always had a plausible excuse for being absent, but after a while, it seemed clear that he had no real interest in getting to know me. So, why would I want to get to know him? I did see him on rare occasions. He seemed nice enough, but I just wasn’t sure that he was the caliber of guy that I had always wanted my sister to marry.

It’s funny how one’s perspective changes with time. Twenty eight years have passed since that rocky introduction. Twenty eight years have passed since John Martin eloped with my dear sister and entered the bonds of holy matrimony. Twenty eight years have made me grow to love and appreciate the man.

Thank you John for gracing my sister’s life. Thank you for taking her as your eternal companion. Thank you for being such a good dad to my nieces and nephews. Thank you for being such a fine “papa” to your daughters who aren’t your biological offspring, but get treated like they are. You’re not such a bad brother-in-law after all. (wink) I apologize for any misgiving I might have had about you all those years ago. I’m indeed thankful to count you a member of my family.

Campouts, Scouting, and Other Things

Bear Siding on the Verde River

It was a Friday morning when a bunch of Boy Scouts met in the church parking lot for our first ever overnight campout. Scoutmaster Steve was really only a kid himself, who at the age of 18 had been asked to work with a ragtag patrol of 11 year olds. Our previous scouting experience had been performing lame skits and making mostly useless gadgets in cub scouts. But we were older now and ready for real scouting stuff. When a second “adult” leader failed to show that morning, Steve was not about to leave us disappointed. He stuffed the whole patrol, camp gear included, into his old 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan.

At the beginning of the trip, the stuffy confines didn’t bother us, even though nearly every kid was either sitting on someone’s lap or being sat on. But forty hot and windy miles later we were off the highway and traveling on a washboard dirt road.  We were grateful for the extra room when two boys were relegated outside to the hood of the car. Driving between 15 and 20 miles per hour, Steve did his best to view the road between the two human hood ornaments and avoid large pot holes which might send them flying. The two boys dangled their feet in front of the grill and clutched a headlamp ring with one hand and a metal hood ornament with the other.

Bear Siding was a very remote area on the Verde River which offered a nice camping spot and a splendid swimming hole. We swam a good part of the day. A rock ledge offered a terrific spot to do cannon balls. It was high enough to give us a thrill but not enough to scare us to death. While we swam Steve entertained us with stories of the first time his troop visited this place, including the repulsive behavior of one Don Covey who stood at the end of a makeshift diving board, bared his butt, and pooped into the water. As the story went, boys scrambled from the water as if it were alligator infested and refused to return for hours.

After a long day, our evening meal was unremarkable. When the sun went down, we returned to the river for more swimming – this time not bothering with swimming trunks, but skinny dipping in the dark cool waters of the Verde River under the evening stars and a silvery moon. It was done in perfect innocence. The next morning we faced a whole day of more fun, but decided we had had enough. We packed up our gear early, made the short hike to the car, and were home by noon.

Decades have passed. I’ve served as scoutmaster myself four different times. That overnight trip of yesteryear broke a dozen of today’s Boy Scout regulations which fall under the headings of “Youth Protection”, “Safety Afloat”, and “Tour Permits”. And if any scoutmaster today were to swim naked with his boys, I can only imagine he would end up on a sex offender list declaring him to be the pervert that many would assume him to be.

Last week the Boy Scouts of America settled a lawsuit with six men who were molested by a former Portland Scout leader nearly 30 years ago. That lawsuit and dozens that preceded it have made the Boy Scouts of America a safer place for boys. It has also left an organization so encumbered by rules and regulations that far more time and effort is placed on compliance than the fundamentals of scouting.

Next Spring I’ll once again donate to “Friends of Scouting” because I want to make a difference in young men’s lives. But it will pain me knowing that much of my donation will be used to pay for the crimes of a demented individual and not to enhance the lives of America’s youth. And while the plaintiffs are quick to say, “It’s not about the money,” the lawsuits quite obviously would not have been filed without it.

Scoutmaster Steve cared for his boys. His intent was to teach us to abide by the Scout Law, which declares that a scout is “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous…” and eight other attributes of goodness which today’s society places little importance. I give thanks for Steve and the favorable impact he had on my life. He gave freely of his time to help a handful of snot-nosed boys grow up. He taught principles of goodness. It is a shame that every young man involved in scouting can’t have leaders like him.

Pocket Knives and Change

My introduction to pocket knives began at age five. It really wasn’t much of a knife but when I found it lying around the house I claimed it as my own. In reality, with only a 1-inch blade, it was nothing more than a keychain trinket. The blade was so dull I’m not sure it would have cut my finger if I tried. But that didn’t stop me from whittling on a church pew during a particularly dry Sunday service. My mother apparently was not as bored as I since she sat focused on the speaker, oblivious that her five year old was defacing God’s house. When she finally glanced my way, her face turned to horror. I got smacked. The pocket knife was confiscated. After the meeting I was tearfully marched to the bishop’s office where I was prodded to declare my sin and ask for forgiveness. Fourteen years later when I stood at the pulpit in that same chapel prior to embarking on a full time mission, the third pew from the back still bore the scares inflicted by a thoughtless five year old.

In fourth grade I was trustworthy enough to have a pocket knife of my own – a real one. I may have gotten it for my birthday. It resided full time in my blue jeans pocket. I took it to school. With it in my pocket I felt grown up, like my big brother, who at 16 years my senior was an avid outdoorsman and always carried one.

As a teenager I carried a knife. As a Boy Scout, it was one of the ten essential items for the outdoors. My Kabar pocket knife was used for a variety of purposes – from cleaning my fingernails to eating apples one slice at a time. The blade got cleaned between uses, if wiping the blade on a pant leg could be considered cleaning. As an adult I continued carrying a pocket knife. Even in middle age, a knife in my pocket served as a reminder of my big brother, especially after he passed away.

As my sons grew, times were changing. As adolescents they learned like I did that a knife was a Boy Scout ten essential. But if they carried one to school, zero tolerance resulted in a week-long suspension.

The September 11 demise of the Twin Towers brought more change. Since then, I’ve twice found myself in an airport security line and realized too late that I had a knife in my pocket. Both times I removed myself from the line and searched for a safe hiding place in the airport. When I returned to those airports a week later, my knife was still there – once under a sink in a men’s room and the next time on a high ledge in baggage claim. I felt a little guilty, clandestinely hiding contraband, trying to avoid security cameras, but at least I kept my knife.

Further change was evident yesterday when I read about Monday’s police shooting at Boren and Howell streets in downtown Seattle. John T. Williams, better known by the street name “Cowboy”, sat whittling a piece of wood. This homeless man was actually an accomplished carver who sold his wares nearby at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. When a police officer ordered him to drop his knife he didn’t comply. The office responded by pumping four balls of lead into the man’s chest. Witnesses were dumbfounded by the act and felt the man posed little or no risk to the officer. The officer’s version, though yet to be released, will undoubtedly claim he felt threatened. Either way, the knife cost the man his life.

In recent years I’ve quit carrying a knife. It’s just too much of a hassle with security checkpoints.

Things have changed. I liked them better the way they were.