|Okay, yes. This is different generation. But the dirt is the same . . .|
For many, many years, Husby served as a scout leader.
Babysitting. With sticks.
Their experiences were many and varied.
Their close calls?
Equally many and varied . . .
For one of their camps, Husby had chosen a spot in the mountains.
A stream fed by a slowly-melting glacier flowed musically past their camp.
A tiny trickle that begged the building of a dam.
Which, with great industriousness seldom seen by any of the boys’ families, was finally completed.
Water began to pool.
Now they had a pond.
Did I mention that said water issued directly from a glacier?
Right. I did.
Well, that meant it was cold.
Or more accurately: C.O.L.D.
Husby, ever the leader, told the boys they would need to use their new construction for the purposes of cleaning their camp-begrimed bodies.
They smilingly declined.
At the end of three days, his urging took on a more—insistent—note.
Let’s face it. Three days of camping with no soap and water can make even the least fastidious among us—umm—cringe.
And head upwind.
Husby was standing with one of his older scouts on the edge of the pond.
I should probably mention that Husby had already ‘done the dirty’—or the ‘clean’ as it probably should be called—when he had scrubbed himself shiny in the frigid waters the day before.
Now he was encouraging his boys to do the same. Admittedly, his ‘encouragement’ was couched in the form of: “Son, you have two choices. You can go in willingly. Or I throw you in.”
The young man’s response? “It was easy for you, Scouter. You have much more body fat than I do.”
I will close with these words: The young man only got one choice.
P.S. On a more positive note, he and his laundry were cleaned at the same time.