The Eighth Crumb
Troop 76
I discovered much of what I know about the Wolf
Pen Gap area while compiling a history of the Eagle Rock area for the purpose
of completing a Boy Scout community service project, and what a project it
turned out to be. For one of the most highly respected leaders around,
Emory Melton of Cassville, included some
of my findings in a book he published about the history of Barry County,
Missouri.
Talk about being in the right place at the right
time. For aside from being enabled to know people of the stature of Emory
Melton, who later became a Missouri State Senator, Cassville’s Boy Scout Troop
76 was recognized as being the best troop in all of the land in 1970.
Okay, to be honest about it, I could be
mistaken. For I do remember that we did receive some sort of national
attention, but in regards to being named the best of the best, I am no longer absolutely
sure.
Nonetheless, I cannot imagine being in a better
troop. For our Scoutmaster, Charlie Vaughan,
was truly a giant among men, and this was not just in the eyes of young boys,
neither.
Hero worship is one thing, but what I personally
felt for Charlie went way beyond that. For I loved him as much as any son
could love their own father.
No, my feelings for him were not
reciprocated. For he kept me at arms-length to a certain extent, but I
still cherish the memories of being around him back then.
Just to be clear, it was not that I chose to
become a member of Troop 76 over a troop from Eagle Rock. For Cassville
was the only town in southern Barry County big enough to sustain a Boy Scout
troop, and even at that, close to half of its membership was made up of boys
from Eagle Rock, Shell Knob, Jenkins and Horner.
Now, to say that I excelled at scouting would be
an understatement. For I made Eagle Scout (the highest rank) on October
10, 1972.
Making Eagle was almost expected in Troop 76
back then. For over 50% of its members made it, and everyone who did not was considered to be a real loser.
Quite obviously, that was an extremely unfair
assessment of the situation. For the national average for making Eagle is
only around 5%.
No, it should not be assumed that the Scoutmaster must have been really bending the
rules in order to record such a high rate of success. For if anything,
some of the things Charlie did made the goal even harder to achieve.
Case in point is Raymond Jagger. For he is
one of the finest individuals I have ever had the privilege to meet, but he was
a poor swimmer. That was a problem. For one must earn both a
swimming and lifesaving merit badge before they can become an Eagle Scout, and
Charlie was reluctant to cut him any slack. Raymond finally made it
before he turned eighteen (the cut-off point) which added even more to his
legend.
Another example of Charlie doing things his way
involved me. For I was held back from making Eagle for almost two years.
Being held back was something I was not quite
used to yet, but the reason given mollified the pain a bit. For my dad
told me Charlie had said that the reason why he held me back was because of him not wanting to lose me so
soon. For when someone made Eagle, they usually quit scouting soon
afterward.
Yeah, like that was going to happen in my
case. For who could be Charlie's shadow any better than me?
Besides, there were still things to do in
scouting, and many were indeed done by the time I finally left in 1976.
For I received the God and Country Award, as well as three Gold Eagle Feathers
that are to be attached to the ribbon portion of the Eagle Scout Medal for
earning 45 additional merit badges (21 are required for Eagle).
I was also tapped (nominated) to become a member
of the O/A (Order of the Arrow) which came as quite a shock. For I do not
remember knowing all that much about it before then.
I soon learned that the O/A was an honorary
group, who held their own meetings and activities separate from regular Boy
Scout meetings and activities. The first of their activities I
participated in was a weekend-long initiation into the Ordeal level at Camp
Arrowhead, near Marshfield, Missouri (around 70 miles northeast of Cassville).
I suppose that the O/A could be thought of as
being like a college fraternity—minus the wild parties, which was not a problem
at the time. For I was still a good boy back then.
Come to think of it, it could also be said that
the O/A has some similarities with Freemasonry. For there are three
levels to it: Ordeal, Brotherhood, and Vigil Honor, and one must be nominated
by another in order to reach each level.
I think it was a year later that I was tapped to
reach the Brotherhood level, and then things started to become really
interesting. For after completing what was required for joining the
Brotherhood ranks, I was asked to serve as chief of the O/A chapter representing
the Frontier District (headquartered in Branson (around 45 miles east of
Cassville) of the Ozark Trails Council (headquartered in Springfield, around 55
miles northeast of Cassville).
Yes, being named chapter chief was a very great
honor—both for me and my troop. For I was the first to hold such a high
office from Troop 76.
Not very long afterward, things became even more
interesting. For I was informed that I had been elected first vice-chief
for the Ozark Trails Council!
Again, being named to an even higher office was
a very great honor, but I found it all very strange. For I had not sought
to hold either office, and I was certainly unaware of being on any sort of an
election ballot.
Around a year later (I think) I was tapped to
reach Vigil Honor, and this is when some cracks in my foundation began to
show. For after getting into a rather heated dispute with the council
chief at the time over something or another, I resigned from my office, and
then I declined to reach the level of Vigil Honor.
Why did I do that? Quite frankly, I do not
know, and this goes above and beyond merely not being able to remember.
For I have absolutely no idea why I would have done such a stupid thing, and I
count it as being one of the most bitter of my many regrets.
Later on, I was informed of some news that gave
me even more to be bitter about.
For I was told by some high officials that I would have been the next council
chief.
No, not every day as a Boy Scout was a good one
for me. In fact, it started out that way. For the first Monday after I reached the minimum age of eleven
in 1968, I attended my first meeting of Troop 76 at the Scout House in
Cassville with my dad, and I was absolutely scared to death.
A classic case of a parent making their child do something that they did not want to do for
their own good (in the parent's opinion, of course)? Absolutely
not! For I really wanted to be a Boy Scout, but there was a matter of
being quite insecure about my physical abilities that had to be overcome.
No, I would not have lasted very long with Troop
76 unless a drastic change took place. For they held outdoor activities
at least every two months back then, and they involved a whole lot more than
just sitting around a campfire.
These activities included several weekend
camping trips in Broken Arm Valley (an area owned by Troop 76 around 10 miles
northeast of Cassville). There were also a couple of Frontier District
Camporees per year, a play weekend at Buzzy Snider's on Flat Creek near the Stackyards (an old logging site around 20 miles
east of Cassville and 10 miles north of Shell Knob), and an annual week at Camp
Arrowhead.
I was absolutely miserable the first time I
spent a week at Camp Arrowhead in the summer of 1969. For on top of being
woefully homesick, I was terrified of having to pass swimming and canoeing
tests in order to earn merit badges that were needed for advancement in rank,
and going to pieces on Thursday night (with the camp ending on Saturday) was
icing on the proverbial cake.
My psychotic break came as a result of being
told about The Legend of Green Hands. It was later revealed that it was
an old tradition to tell rookie campers about the legend, but it took some time
before I could fully appreciate the significance of the rite of passage.
Just imagine being in a darkened tent late at
night hearing about an Indian brave who had his hands chopped off by the father
of the maiden he loved because of how much her father disapproved of her seeing
him, and as if that was not bad enough, his hands were then buried inside of
Soapstone Cave. This cave was, of course, not very far from our
encampment, and what made it even worse on
me was the date. For according to the legend, the glowing green hands of
the brave would leave the cave to search for a body to attach themselves to on
the 4th day of the 4th week of every month
during years when there was an abundance of 4-trees (trees with limbs shaped
like a 4).
Yep, the time of my demise was surely at
hand. For it all lined up, and
several 4-trees had been pointed out to me by older scouts throughout the
previous days.
Adding even more to the drama was that I had to
go to the bathroom really bad a couple of hours before the end of the 4th day
of the 4th week. For the last thing I wanted to do was to leave the safe confines of the tent I
was in, but I wasn’t about to let it all hang out in front of the other boys, nor
was I going to go in my pants.
So, I summoned the courage to sneak outside for
a quick second (I hoped) and what happened next may still be talked about in
certain circles. For I had just stuck my head out of the tent flap when I
saw someone coming into camp with half of his face still covered in darkness.
I went absolutely berserk. No, that does
not do it justice. For by the time my hysterics subsided somewhat, I had
torn down three tents, and my screaming had been heard over a mile away.
Some speculated that I may have even been
speaking in what is generally recognized as being tongues by Pentecostals and
some other Christian denominations—despite being raised a good Southern
Baptist. For several eyewitnesses testified that I was screaming, “YA YA
YA,” over and over again.
No, I never did live that down among those who
were there, but I eventually came to laugh along with them. For it was
just one of those things that happen along the way to adulthood, and as an
added bonus, no one in the troop ever messed with me all that much afterward.
Yes, many of my insecurities were gradually
overcome, and when the summer of 1971 came around, I actually felt more
excitement than dread about going to the Philmont Scout Ranch near Cimarron,
New Mexico (around 50 miles northeast of Taos). For the excursion
promised to include a 20-mile hike over mountainous terrain with a 60-pound
backpack almost every day for over a week, but that had become little more than
a leisurely walk in a manicured park to me by then.
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