Cub Scout Meetings

Just looked over at the calendar and noticed it was Tuesday. Suddenly, I had a flashback to Tuesday evenings in the dim past when, if I remember correctly, it was Cub Scout meeting night. The den leader, or whatever his title was, lived right behind us, but I don’t remember ever meeting inside his house. Good thing.

He was a pyromaniac, as far as we could tell. One indication was the day after Christmas when he would burn the wrapping-paper; he stood there, transfixed, watching the flames until they died down. We got quite a laugh about that. Apparently, he had this sort of thing well under control, as he never torched anyone’s house.

Oddly enough, I don’t remember a thing about his wife, or even if he had one. His son, just a little. I know it’s been a pile of years, but you don’t forget neighbors.

In my room, I have a photo of myself, in uniform, atop a white horse. Either it’s stuffed or someone managed to make up a very realistic heroic steed. But there I am, looking so much like Hopalong Cassidy, with Mom’s inscription: “December 1950, 8 years old.” I remember being on a real horse once, scared to death. Here, I am lord and master.

I never made Boy Scouts. Not sure why; could be that I’m not a joiner and much preferred to stay in the cellar and fool around with my shortwave radio. We had Sea Scouts there (you readers in Kansas can write to me to learn about Seas Scouts), which would have been along my line where we lived. An adventure missed.