Lost Journal

Humor Column
by Tim Mollen
December 7, 2006

Bad Scout Reports to Dad Scout

Journal Entry:  September 20, 1977 (age 8)

“So, Tim, how close are you to getting that Wolf Badge?”

I had been dreading this question for months, and tonight it finally came.  Dad had called me into the living room for a “talk,” which is parental code for “interrogation.”  The stern tone of his question made me sit up straighter in my chair.  But as I did, I glimpsed something softer in his eyes, revealing the question as something more hopeful than harsh.

As a Scout Leader in our local Pack, my father was more than just casually interested in my progress as a Cub Scout.  He got involved with scouting to spend more time with my older brother, Dan, and me, and to foster in us a sense of confidence and accomplishment.  His time and effort haven’t been wasted on Dan, who recently made the leap from Bear-Badge-bearing Cub Scout to weird-hat-wearing Webelo.

More than a wee below that, I, meanwhile, have racked up substantially fewer accomplishments, straggling behind the runtiest of my 8-year-old Packmates.  My lackluster performance has been somewhat surprising even to me, given my early string of successes in the scouting world.  The Cub Scout Promise?  Memorized.  The Cub Scout Motto?  Ditto.  The Cub Scout Salute?  Right back atcha!  These and a variety of other learned tasks had meshed nicely with my bookish qualities, and I was awarded my first badge, the Bobcat, in record time.

But once I cracked open the thick tome of requirements known as the Wolf Handbook, I knew my winning streak had come to a close.  Its many pages were filled with illustrations of Native American rope knots and bulleted steps on how to clean the bite wounds left by badgers.  Even the chapter titles were terrifying:  “Tools for Fixing and Building.”  This was the stuff of my nightmares!  To follow the instructions within this book would require two qualities that were completely absent in my small body and even smaller mind:  physical coordination and a desire to spend time out of doors.  No amount of studying was going to enable me to “do a falling forward roll.”  Nothing short of a brain transplant would allow me to “make a birdhouse!”

When I failed to answer Dad’s question about my badge-ward progress, he ordered me to go to my room.  I was halfway to the stairs and smiling with relief when Dad finished his thought.  “And bring back down your Wolf Handbook, so I can take a look at your notes, and see the activities you’ve checked off.”  Moments later, my blood chilled as I watched him flipping through the pristine pages, looking for any sign of a pencil mark.  When he finally closed the book, he started to turn red.  But then he looked at me and let out a long sigh.  “What do you want to do, Timmy – quit?”  I answered immediately, and with a certainty that took Dad by surprise.

“Oh well,” he said, “at least the Scouts have taught you to be honest.”

© 2006 Tim Mollen

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