The motto of the Boy Scouts of America is “always be prepared.” While at first this might sound like a warning against the perils of unprotected sex, its real purpose is to drill into young boys the value of thinking ahead. I think this is perhaps where I went wrong when my Boy Scout troop visited a local nursing home at Christmastime when I was eight.
I didn’t want to go, but my dad told me I had to. It would be a nice thing to do and that it would make a difference to the elderly residents. I was then told that I would have to get a ride from a friend because my dad wanted to stay home and watch football.
Throughout my three-year stint with the Boy Scouts of America, my dad and I expressed equal dread whenever there was some type of meeting or event. Usually, our troop would meet on a semi-regular basis in the school cafeteria. I would run around with my friends and make fun of whoever my music teacher was that year, while my dad and the rest of the dads sat around and talked. Neither of us were that committed, but we went because my mom liked the idea of my dad and I doing something productive. I’m pretty sure there were a few times where we skipped the meetings and went out for ice cream and then lied about to my mom later. Add this to the times when I would pretend to be sick to get out of the meetings and we have arrived at the first lesson the Boy Scouts of America taught me: the art of lying.
Rarely we would have something to do that didn’t require us to be held hostage in the cafeteria. We went camping once, but it certainly wasn’t an authentic experience. My dad bought a new, over-sized tent and two air mattresses. Our troop’s camping activities didn’t seem to be planned in advanced, so we all just sat around the campsite until it got dark. This didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t we have gone fishing or learn how to tie knots? Making s’mores isn’t exactly my idea of “roughing it,” but as a fat kid I wasn’t about to suggest that we do something that required physical activity. Once we got home, my dad complained about how the air mattress had messed up his back and we both decided never to go camping again. Our idea of father-son bonding involved cheese steaks, train sets, and ice cream; not fresh air and exercise.
The annual Pinewood Derby race was probably the most exciting for both my dad and I. I would take the small kit bought at the hobby store, hand it to my dad, and tell him to do a good job. Then, I would go bury myself in the latest Lemony Snicket novel. He loved putting together the cars. At one of the cafeteria meetings, I remember he couldn’t help but put together at least four other cars for some of the other boys in the troop. Looking back, he was probably just sabotaging the competition. He always did a great job with our cars and I was always proud of him. Each year, he grew more and more optimistic of our chances of winning. Even at the age of seven, I was a realist and knew we didn’t stand a chance, but I would play along and encourage my dad. Obviously, we never won, but each time I acted surprised and disappointed.
Other forms of rejection followed closely. I was never that great at peddling popcorn. I think I lacked the natural charm and charisma of most salesmen. The boys on the popcorn box obviously were a part of a different troop than I was. They actually looked happy as they climbed mountains, kayaked, and rode bikes through the woods. Meanwhile, I was sitting on a folding chair outside of my local food store next to a large stack of popcorn doing an awful job at hiding my boredom. There was nothing special about this popcorn; it couldn’t hold a candle next to Girl Scout cookies and my customers knew it. At least I had the decency not to lie to them. If I really wanted to be helpful, I would’ve pointed them in the direction of the popcorn sold inside the store, which was a much more economical option. My mom was always my biggest customer. From 1999-2002 our house was never without a primary-colored box of Boy Scout popcorn.
But perhaps the most enlightening experience I had while in the Boy Scouts was the visit to the nursing home a few days before Christmas of 2000. I really didn’t want to go, and not having my dad as back up made it even worse. I sulked the entire ride there and anticipated the smell of mothballs and the inevitable pinching of my chubby cheeks.
Before we met with the old people, a nurse met us in the lobby and told us that the people we would be meeting were alone for Christmas and that our visit was very important to them. The nursing home was nice enough, and the old people weren’t as close to death as I had thought they would be. We met with about a dozen senior citizens in the common area of the nursing home. There were five of us from my troop along with two dads. There were pitchers of soda and bowls of pretzels laid out for us. I would’ve had some, but one of the ladies stuck her bony, veiny hand in the bowl to take out a handful of pretzels. That was enough to kill my appetite.
Unsurprisingly, the two dads who had accompanied us had disappeared. We were left to our own devices. I certainly had no interest in talking to any of the old people and for some reason there was a box of puppets on the floor. There was only one thing to do: put on a talent show. I don’t remember exactly whose idea it was to start performing for the elderly, but I’m willing to bet it was mine. Even back then, I was a big fan of TV and I knew I could give these old people a Christmas show to remember.
Even if I wasn’t the one to come up with the initial idea, I took charge of the puppet show and was able to recruit two of my other troop mates. The other two over-achievers in the troop politely chatted with and charmed two members of my geriatric audience. What losers, I thought. No one wants to hear you talk and say “please” and “thank you.” These people want a show!
This was my first attempt at improv and it probably made a lot more sense in my head than to anyone else. The loose plot was hard to follow and was heavily inspired by How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Just like any good Christmas story, the show was loud and involved a lot of screaming and violent imagery. As the show was going on, I had no idea how my audience was reacting. Looking back I’m sure they were confused and terrified and wondering why their real grandchildren hadn’t come to visit them. When I got to the final scene where the evil Christmas monster was murdered by the heroic bunny, I realized I hadn’t been playing to my audience. They wanted Murder, She Wrote but I was giving them Donnie Darko. In SoHo, the show would’ve been praised as an avant garde look into the dark underside of Christmas, but at the local Monmouth County nursing home it was just the ramblings of an over imaginative eight year old yearning for attention.
The barely audible applause after the puppet show weren’t that encouraging. I had put a lot of work into that show and they didn’t seem to appreciate it. I decided to give them something more their speed, so I screamed Christmas carols at them. Naturally, I assumed that since they were old they must also be deaf, so I screamed these tunes until my throat hurt. Again, they didn’t seem impressed. As I finished my second song, one of the over-achievers who had been politely talking with my audience had started playing the piano. One by one, they turned their attention from me to him. He was very good at the piano, but everyone seemed to be forgetting that this was my talent showcase. I counteracted the piano playing by singing more loudly. I knew it wouldn’t sound better, but I knew I’d draw attention. I wasn’t sure why these old people weren’t eating this up. My grandma was old and she loved whenever I sang. I eventually gave up and sat on one of the couches, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
This was the hardest I’d ever tried to make a difference and I had nothing to show for it. Even though no one ever visited them, I’m sure these old people would’ve preferred if I hadn’t showed up at all. All I had done was remind them of the family they didn’t have or the family they did have that didn’t love them enough to spend Christmas with them. As I sat and listened to the piano, I realized how depressing the whole thing was, especially the part where no one complimented me on my puppet show.
About a year and a half later I quit the Boy Scouts. I felt as though I was getting too old for it and I had never gotten much out of the experience to begin with. So, what did I learn from the Boy Scouts? Well, I don’t know how to tie any knots other than shoelaces, I don’t know how to climb a mountain, start a fire, sell popcorn, win a Pinewood Derby, or even make a lonely old person smile on Christmas. But I guess I did learn one important lesson that I have carried with me ever since: it’s easy to quit.
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