The Boy Scout

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

For a couple of years now, philosophical differences between the Latter-Day Saint Church and the Boy Scouts of America have filled the headlines of newspapers. As the mother of six sons, I too have had some serious misgivings about what happens during scouting events—through mine tend to center around a more practical issues: it seems to me that the underlying principles of Scouting always require some amount of filth–the kind involving a washing machine and a super-strength laundry detergent.

Every summer when I welcomed home whichever of my two or three sons had spent a week on the shores of Bear Lake or backpacking in the Unitahs, I was compelled to make them stand in the front yard (fully clothed, mind you) while I sprayed them down with the hose. They were so encrusted with mud from sleeping on the ground, grease from campfires, and fish guts from what usually turned out to be a number of raucous free-for-alls, they qualified for hazmat removal before it was even a thing.

Now make no mistake—I love my sons. But boys (as time and experience have taught me) have some kind of yet undiscovered scientific attraction to muck—preferably if it’s lobbed at a fellow male from a nicely protected corner. When Son #4 was born, I thought at last I had found an ally in the battle against grime. He was more analytical than his brothers, often watching their enthusiastic interactions–which inevitably included a layer of grime–with a bemused expression of distaste. He liked his clothes arranged logically in the closet, kept his school supplies in reasonable order, and he never failed to locate a piece of currently due homework in time to meet the deadline. When his younger brother leaped blindly off a cliff at Lake Powell, Son #4 shook his head in disgust and calmly walked to the edge to check the depth before he plunged.

Sadly, however, soon after he was initiated into Cub Scouts, even Son #4 succumbed to the irresistible pull of unsavory substances harbored within the pages of his handbook. One afternoon when I moved a set of bunk beds to clean the carpet, I found a circular patch of scorched nylon about 10 or 12 inches in diameter directly beneath his bed. I hauled every one of my sons within yelling distance downstairs into the bedroom and demanded an explanation for the melted carpet. In unison, the other brothers pointed to Son #4. No!! Not my cautious, look-before-you leap Son?

“What were you thinking, building a fire under your bed? Don’t you know you could have burned the house down?” Son #4 looked slightly abashed. But only slightly. “And why didn’t the fire alarm go off?”

“Oh, it did,” he answered, avoiding looking me directly the eye. I guess you weren’t home.” He dug out the already tattered Cub Scout handbook from under his mattress and began flipping through it to show me. “Mom, did you know sometimes you can identify different metals by the color of the flame when they burn. Isn’t that cool?” He was terrifyingly pleased about his discovery. Staring at him in disbelief, I randomly wondered if other women considered installing security cameras in their children’s bedrooms? Or maybe I could sue the Boy Scouts of America? This was all their fault, right?

Then reason began to overcome rage. Sons #5 and #6 were still in the wings waiting to join the Scouting program. I calculated those two boys’ current ages and the time it would take for them to work their way through Scouting. Maybe it would be best if I waited to replace the carpet? Cheaper than having to do it twice.