It was the first day of March , and the first day that I think spring peeked around the corner to make sure it's safe and is going to make a run for it.
The sun was bright that day, and any white, fluffy evidence of the snowstorm we had had during the weekend melted, and was racing to the sewer grates. It was the first day since, oh, I don’t know, November, that I didn't have to wear my scarf or button up my coat. I actually rolled down the car window today March 1st, because the heat of the sun was uncomfortable behind the windshield as I cruised up the highway.
When my son and I left the gym, the thin, barely-there puddles hadn't yet completely frozen over, and the sky was a beautiful cracked ice flow of clouds with stars twinkling in the dark lines between the broken sky. As we walked along the path beside the lake on our way home, we both looked up and marvelled at the beauty of the sky, and voiced our hopes for a great camping season. “It’s so beautiful, isn't it?, I said to my son. “It is, but it’s not as interesting as that,” he said, pointing his caught-between-being-a-child-and-adolescent finger to a large group of human shadows blocking the path, just beyond the lamp post.
At first I bristled a little bit. I couldn't make out how many of them there were, or imagine why they might be standing out there after dark, huddled together like that. Oh well, we’ll just keep our heads up and keep walking, I thought instinctively to myself. Followed immediately by the thought that my eyesight is getting exponentially worse. Step by step, the group became less of a shadowed huddle, and I could make out the distinct shapes of a few adults and a group of little people. As each pace brought us nearer the huddle, I could make out the voice of a gentleman who was addressing them, and then his telltale neckerchief. The elusive, urban species of Cub Scout leader.
I couldn’t help but snicker under my breath a little bit. When I was a little girl, the Cub Scouts would meet in a little barn-like shack just on the outskirts of town. They went there to learn all about tying knots, and poison ivy, and about always being prepared, while their parents sat outside or in another wood-panelled room smoking cigarettes and gossiping about which Cub Scout’s dad had been fired from his factory job. The kids would do their thing, promise to do their duty, or whatever it is they promised to do, and as a reward, they would get to camp out a few times a year. We actually lived where there were trees, “woods” even, and you could take your fishing pole down to the lake and catch dinner. Poison ivy rashes actually happened, and we all knew how to suck the honey out of clover, catch smelt, and paddle a canoe, way before our tired out, blue collar parents sent us to what we called "the scout hall".
When my son and I left the gym, the thin, barely-there puddles hadn't yet completely frozen over, and the sky was a beautiful cracked ice flow of clouds with stars twinkling in the dark lines between the broken sky. As we walked along the path beside the lake on our way home, we both looked up and marvelled at the beauty of the sky, and voiced our hopes for a great camping season. “It’s so beautiful, isn't it?, I said to my son. “It is, but it’s not as interesting as that,” he said, pointing his caught-between-being-a-child-and-adolescent finger to a large group of human shadows blocking the path, just beyond the lamp post.
At first I bristled a little bit. I couldn't make out how many of them there were, or imagine why they might be standing out there after dark, huddled together like that. Oh well, we’ll just keep our heads up and keep walking, I thought instinctively to myself. Followed immediately by the thought that my eyesight is getting exponentially worse. Step by step, the group became less of a shadowed huddle, and I could make out the distinct shapes of a few adults and a group of little people. As each pace brought us nearer the huddle, I could make out the voice of a gentleman who was addressing them, and then his telltale neckerchief. The elusive, urban species of Cub Scout leader.
I couldn’t help but snicker under my breath a little bit. When I was a little girl, the Cub Scouts would meet in a little barn-like shack just on the outskirts of town. They went there to learn all about tying knots, and poison ivy, and about always being prepared, while their parents sat outside or in another wood-panelled room smoking cigarettes and gossiping about which Cub Scout’s dad had been fired from his factory job. The kids would do their thing, promise to do their duty, or whatever it is they promised to do, and as a reward, they would get to camp out a few times a year. We actually lived where there were trees, “woods” even, and you could take your fishing pole down to the lake and catch dinner. Poison ivy rashes actually happened, and we all knew how to suck the honey out of clover, catch smelt, and paddle a canoe, way before our tired out, blue collar parents sent us to what we called "the scout hall".
So, as my city-raised son and I walked past this group, the leader asked the question, “When you’re walking or hiking, why shouldn't you walk off of the marked path? Well, what do you think? Because you might get lost? Because a stranger might pick you up? Because you’ll get your shoes muddy? All sensible answers from tots who have been raised under streetlights, and never more than five minutes from a non-fat, decaffeinated latte and a printed edition of world news. That poor leader. He held his hands in his hands as he tried to explain that walking off a marked trail might damage the flora that was native to the area. Huh?
And then a huge aircraft flew directly overhead, it’s massive, gas binging engines drowning out the common sense of that elusive endangered species; Cub Scout Leader.
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