One nation dedicated to motorsports, politics, music, social commentary, weirdo art, science fiction, home repairs, cooking and counterculture ephemera.
This story is about sewing, and the image above will become relevant as you read on.
Sewing by hand is becoming a lost art, and I'll be damned if I let it go without a fight. The dance with needle and thread has impacted me in many ways, and I'm grateful to the those who taught me how to replace a button... attach a patch... set a hem... repair a rip.
It's a quiet and singular activity that, much like ironing, can push a certain button in certain people. I like to iron too, but I'm weird that way.
Aunt Peggy
During Grade school, my younger brother and I lived with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Tony while Dad worked hard to create a new space for his two young sons. This is a common arrangement in many families, yet the benefits of that time so long ago are still with me.
To help ends meet, Peggy took in laundry and ironing work, and her small home was always filled with clothes. Regular walking trips to the laundromat were a part of my days from 2nd to 5th Grade, and the rules for using a laundromat were burned into my hard drive at an early age.
After school, I'd sit and watch her iron and learned how to do it (I'm still an Ironing God). She also taught me the basics of hand-sewing, and sometimes she'd let me sew missing buttons onto a dress shirt before it was starched, ironed and hung, ready for pick-up. I was a weird kid, too.
Father Sews Best
My Dad is a jack-of-all-trades, so it wasn't a surprise that he was also pretty good with a sewing machine. When I landed the role of 'The Peddler' in my Junior High School production of 'Oklahoma!' during the 7th Grade, he figured out how to use Grandma's ancient machine to fashion a sporty suit coat out of leftover material scraps. He fabricated the coat while I hovered around him, watching it come together. I told everyone "My DAD made this coat!!"
During my Boy Scout years, Dad was heavily involved with (among many other things) starting an Indian dance team for our local Order of the Arrow chapter. With me at his elbow, he fabricated the entire costume I wore for several years at performances all over Southern California. He also sewed-up and decorated the full-sized 'tipi' seen in the image above, which our team used at Camporees and pow-wows. My Dad RULES.
Camping Capitalism
The image above was taken at Holt Scout Ranch (a.k.a. Camp Cedar Canyon), located in the San Bernardino (CA) mountains. During the summer of 1970, I was a Summer Camp Junior Staffer there and lived at camp for over two months on my own.
Scout Troops would arrive at camp on Sundays for a week of outdoor activities, campcraft classes and fun, departing on the following Saturday. As a Junior Counselor, I conducted First Aid classes and helped the senior staffers to keep things humming. I washed a LOT of dishes in the Mess Hall.
My sewing skills came in handy. Workers in the Camp Store (pictured at left above) knew I could sew and would send visiting Scouts that needed emergency clothing repairs to find me.
My typical charge was $1 per repair, and Scouts would gladly pay me to fix their torn clothes, sew a newly-earned merit badge onto their sash, or attach an official Camp badge on their Red wool Scout jacket. I always had extra cash to spend at the camp store.
The really cool part was that camp staff lived in large individual tents on raised wooden platforms, with electricity! I had a portable record player, an incense burner and my 'Easy Rider' poster in there. Many evenings found me sewing by lantern light, blasting 'Inagaddadavida' into the surrounding forest.
Stitching One Together
I've been lucky to have spent quality time in fast cars on different kinds of race tracks. During my first session at the Jim Russell Racing Driver's School in Sonoma (CA), I unlearned as much as I learned about car control.
In the first classroom day, the instructor kept saying: "The goal is to stitch together a good lap, and then do it over and over again."
This relates perfectly to sewing, and the title of this story.
In motorsports, every turn is another opportunity to screw up the lap. When producing autocross-style tire testing events, I'd do a track walk with the participants, stopping at the entrance of each turn to recommend where the car should be placed, when to brake, when begin the turn and when to accelerate out of the turn. My favorite advice (Thanks, Mark Richter!) was, "Anyone can drive fast INTO a corner. The secret is being able to drive fast OUT of a corner."
Note: watch this vid on 'full-screen' It'll be worth it.
(Not me.)
Anyone who sews knows that every stitch is vital to the integrity of the finished product. A missed or incorrect stitch can weaken the whole, with failure as a likely result. In the autocross video above, each cone turn is another chance to mess up the lap, and the driver messes up a few of them. He's trying to 'stitch one together'... to take each turn just right to keep up his speed and momentum, thus achieving a quick elapsed time.
When I'm patching a pair of jeans, I make double-doggone-sure every stitch is where it needs to be so the repair doesn't fail and the patch stays where it's supposed to. In motorsports and sewing, the goal is to make every stitch count.
Heart-shaped Box
The sewing kit shown above is the reason I was inspired to write this essay. It belonged to The Artist's Grandmother Lila, and I loved her dearly. When she passed many years ago, we inherited both her sewing machine and this sewing kit, which I use all the time.
When I sit down and open the lid to repair a piece of clothing, Lila's with me. When I use a needle or thread or scissors or thimble or stitch ripper, it's like I'm communing with her across time and space. Holding those precious things in my hand gives me joy for having known and loved Lila so much, and I think about her all the time, even when I'm not sewing.
The vintage plastic case is now old and fragile, and my head was filled with slow-motion visions of the handle breaking and the kit crashing to the ground, exploding into a thousand pieces. I taped down the handle and cradle it in my arms when carrying it.
Sewing isn't for everyone. Neither is ironing. Both are becoming irrelevant, but I dinna care. I get satisfaction from doing both and will continue until I'm no longer able. Whatever happens to Lila's sewing kit when I depart this mortal coil is of no consequence because I won't know. I hope that another person who loves the intricacies of sewing will see the kit as I have: as a time machine... an homage to human skill and ingenuity... as a way to help their favorite jeans last just a little bit longer.
(again, full screen).
(Definitely not me.)
Images of Peddler coat, Indian costume, summer camp and sewing box by the Author, all other images Thanks to GoogleImages; All videos Thanks to YouTube.
"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware." -- Martin Buber This is a 100% true story. The Set-Up Summer of 1971... Igor Stravinsky and Jim Morrison take the Dirt Nap, the Pentagon Papers are published, and 'Brown Sugar' by The Rolling Stones tops the pop charts. I was 14 years old. It was also My Summer of Discovery, a.k.a. when I went on a 3-week cross-country station wagon road trip with two adult driver/chaperones and ten other Boy Scouts, rolling from Pasadena to New York City and back, without my parental unit. See, I was a competitive Indian Dancer during my formative Boy Scout years... a Modern Oklahoma Fancy dancer, to be specific. My indoctrination into the Order of the Arrow (OA, a Scouting honor society based on Indian lore) lead to our Tatanka (Buffalo) Lodge starting an Indian dance troupe. As a result of my success in Local, Divisional and Regional competitions, I qualified for the US Indian Dance Finals at the National OA Conference that summer in Champaign, Illinois.
This was a pretty big deal for our Lodge, which had never sent a competitive dancer to Nationals, so a formal road trip was set up for a group of Scouts to attend the Conference. We'd drive to the week-long Conference, over-nighting at military bases, then head East afterwards to spend a few days touristing in New York City and Washington D.C. before making the long trek back to Cali. Here are some mental snapshots of that trip that have burned into my memory like a wood-burning tool on a two-by-four.
The Take-Off On the morning of departure, everyone gathered at the offices of the Boy Scout's San Gabriel Valley headquarters in Pasadena. The anticipation among us Scouts and our families was high while we waited for the adult driver/chaperones to arrive with their sleds. The first adult (his name was Gene) rolled up in a Baby Blue '68 Ford Fairlane Wagon, not a bad ride for this journey. It was instantly dubbed The Blue Bomb.
We'd already drawn lots and knew who would be riding in this wagon, so you can guess what the rest of us thought when driver/chaperone/Certified Curmudgeon Leon Tomerlin (I will NEVER forget his name) rolled up in his personal car, a worn-out '63 Plymouth Valiant.
This was not the sled that we had in mind! Seems the wagon he was promised for the trip didn't make it to our starting point so we'd have to pile our bodies and gear into his Valiant and hopefully grab the wagon in Las Vegas... IF it was ready and IF the Valiant made it there in one piece. Once the family members heard about Mr. Tomerlin's plan and looked closely at his car, one the of Dads stepped up and offered up his car for the trip:
That's right... a beautiful Green 1970 Mercury Grand Marquis wagon, complete with vinyl wood siding, leather interior, a rear-facing jump seat and room to stretch out. Suddenly everything seemed OK and we were all thankful for that Dad's selfless act of support. We dubbed it The Green Monster... this would be MY Magic Carpet for the entire trip!
Starry Night
The plan was to overnight at military bases during the trip, but by the end of that first travel day we were so late in arriving at our stopover outside of Salt Lake City that the decision was made for us to just pull off the highway and camp out until morning. Hey... we're Boy Scouts, no problem! I don't recall exactly what city's outskirts we stopped at, but we found a small site that perfectly suited our needs, with the lights of the city glittering off in the distance.
It was about midnight when everyone finally crapped out in their sleeping bags, but I lay awake for a long time looking up at the brilliant starry Utah sky. I was overwhelmed by powerful emotions, being away from my family and essentially on my own, beginning a journey of discovery and friendship and adventure. I was awake most of that first night, looking at stars, enthralled by life, breathing it all into my soon-to-be-15-year old soul.
Missouri Breaks
We'd been on the road for a few days by now and were getting punchy, as teenage boys do when caged up in cars on extended road trips. When we reached the outskirts of Joplin, Missouri it was time for another gas station pit stop for fuel, bathroom and snacks... this activity became a running gag during the entire trip because we were always yelling at guys to " HURRY UP AND GET IN THE CAR, MAAAAAN!!!"
While the adults fueled the wagons, we all crowded into the bathroom and discovered (gasp!) CONDOM VENDING MACHINES!!! We'd never seen these before, being from California and all, so naturally we snapped up a bunch of them at $.25 each because... well, who knows why?
Once we'd stocked up on rubbers, sodas and snacks, we were on the road again... but in just a few minutes, we in the Green Monster realized what we MUST do and convinced Mr. Tomerlin to pull over and stop, so the Blue Bomb pulled over right behind us. We jumped out of both cars and did the most important thing in the world: took out several rubbers, blew them up and tied them to the car's antennas.
For the next few hours we rolled Eastward at speed, the condom balloons whipping around on the antennas of both cars while making a loud "WHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMP" sound, much to the shock and surprise of every other driver on the road who looked around to see where that unholy noise was coming from. We were laughing hysterically, and to their credit our chaperones were absolutely magnificent by letting us be weirdos. It was a great day.
Conference Confidential
By the time we arrived at at OA Conference, my wagon mate Kurt (his Dad was the one who loaned us the Green Monster) and I had become fast friends and were known for the rest of the trip as 'Duck' and 'Tonto'. He was Duck because his new braces gave him duck lips, and I was Tonto for obvious reasons. We would always room together and stayed friends for several years after this amazing journey. During the conference we stayed in the empty dormitories at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, and the dorms were all connected via underground walkways that also featured small cafes, game rooms and laundromats. Each night after our group dinners, dozens of Scouts would gather in the laundromats to engage in 'Dryer Bronco Busting'. A Scout would crawl inside one the the large industrial dryers and, with the temperature turned waaay down, would brace himself inside and try not to throw up once we'd dropped in quarters and started the tumbler spinning. Much laughter and vomiting ensued. I made it to the Semi-Finals in the Modern Oklahoma Fancy Dance Competition. Even though I was only 14 years old and dancing against Scouts who were older and more seasoned than me, I placed a very respectable 12th Overall. Here's an example of that style of dancing, performed by the Real Thing... the dancer in black & white is amazing:
Dorm room shenanigans were the order of the week for everyone, from short-sheeting beds to noisy late-night room break-ins to drag a naked half-awake Scout into the hall and locking him out. The shower rooms were witness to many vicious towel-snapping incidents, and huge food fights were known to break out in the underground cafes over the smallest incident. It was AWESOME. Her name was Patti, she was 16 and worked in the underground cafe right below our dorm. She liked my taste in jukebox music (Rod Stewart's 'Maggie May' was my fave), that I was an Indian Dancer, and even came to see me compete. One evening while everyone was out at a stupid bonfire, Patti and I walked around the darkened campus, went up to my dorm room to make out and wound up 'doing it'... my very first time! It was nerve-wracking and crazy, and luckily I still had a Joplin gas station rubber (surprise!) and figured out how to actually use it. I will NEVER forget snuggling with her in that dorm room bed, and we hung out for the rest of the week until the conference ended. We traded a few steamy letters later that summer but eventually lost touch. So it goes. New York/DC Shuffle During our time in New York, we stayed at the Fort Wadsworth Army Base, located on Staten Island directly below the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. We ate at the base Mess most mornings and evenings and even bought snacks and souvenirs in the PX. One evening we went to the Base theater to see the film 'Woodstock', which was in theaters all over the country. We sat there watching this really cool film and then began to smell something. After a few minutes, we realized the theater was filling up with pot smoke... ON AN ARMY BASE. I don't remember if we got a contact high, but it was still an amazing thing to experience... ON AN ARMY BASE. While taking one of our many rides on the Staten Island Ferry, we were all sitting on an upper-deck bench watching the glorious sunset when a very attractive woman sat down next to Mr. Tomerlin. At first we just ignored it until we realized... SHE WAS A HOOKER. She tried for about 5 minutes to get him to go below-deck with her (heh heh heh), and we were loudly egging him on to go for it! He was so nervous and flustered that while he was stammering a refusal to her offer, his dentures fell out of his mouth and right into his lap. Much howling laughter ensued, the hooker split and we all congratulated him for being such a hunky target. I'd been looking forward to visiting Ellis Island and especially the Statue of Liberty, which I'd been told was a pretty amazing place. I wanted to climb up into her head, grab a snack and a souvenir up there and look out over the New York skyline. It was a stifling hot day when we started climbing the steep spiral stairway inside the Statue, and the going was tedious and slow because tourists. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it up to her head... but I was shocked to see how tiny the space inside was! There was only one platform to view out of the ports in her crown, and because of the lineup of people behind us, we had to keep moving. We were in her head all of maybe 2 or 3 minutes before we started the long downward climb. There was no restaurant or gift shop in Lady Liberty's head. I'd been HAD. Our stay in Washington D.C. was filled with visits to the National Mall, the Capitol and all the museums, including a full day at the Smithsonian which was incredible. The place that really stood out for me was the U.S. Mint, where the tour included a glassed-in walkway directly above an open area where they were printing paper currency. I was amazed at what I saw right below me: a huge rectangular stack of freshly-printed $20 bills, easily 5 feet high and 20 feet long. They were in giant sheets that were waiting to be cut and I was speechless at the sight of all that money, right there, less than 20 feet away from me. The image of that stack of money is still vivid in my ancient hard drive.
Homeward Bound
After an event and memory-filled trip from West to East Coast, the roll back to Cali was blur of highway travel with stopovers only for fuel, food and sleep. For some reason, we cruised on I-80 back through Chicagoland and the states of Iowa and Nebraska, maybe due to weather issues as we had a deadline for our return to Pasadena.
The only vivid memory I have of the ride home was that the entire time we rolled through Iowa and Nebraska, all we saw were miles and miles and miles of cornfields. Coupled with the hot and humid weather, the heavy aroma of fresh corn filled every square inch of The Green Monster. Unfortunately, my buddy Duck was allergic to corn and was horribly ill during our transit of those two corn-filled states. He was puking and shitting like crazy, which caused us several unplanned stops for emergency cleanups, for which he felt doubly-awful. Once we left Nebraska and the Cornfields of Death, Duck came around and The Green Monster stopped smelling like an outhouse. WHEW.
Why This Matters
This past summer, my 17-year-old Grandson Ben embarked on a 6-week musical adventure, playing the Contrabass tuba for the Jersey Surf Marching Band in the 2019 DCI Drum Corps and Marching Band Competition Series. It was his first extended time being away from home, and while he was on the road all over the Eastern and Southern US, I told his Mom that Ben would come back changed in ways seen and unseen. The visible changes he experienced are obvious in the image below... the left side when he arrived at Band Camp, the right side near the end of the competition journey:
That right there is one hell of a visible change, and I'm so damned proud of him!! Naturally, his mental and emotional changes were less noticeable upon his return home but his Mom knew right away when those changes manifested themselves in words and deeds that were... different.
Ben's Big Adventure was a catalyst for this essay about one of my youthful Big Adventures, one that (obviously!) saw me return home as a wholly different person. Although I'd had the chance to spend many weeks at Boy Scout summer camps, that trip to New York and back... that one was special for a lot of different reasons.
I'd already been a pretty responsible teenager to that point, mostly staying out of trouble and earning my weekly $5 allowance by washing dishes, cleaning house, mowing the yards and washing Dad's truck. This New York trip forced me to draw on the tools Dad had burned into my head and behave like (gasp!) a responsible adult. I kept myself and my clothes clean and neat, helped the drivers out at pit stops all the time, mediated personality clashes that happened during those loooooong highway jaunts, and generally did everything I could to enjoy this singular adventure without muss or fuss.
Initially, several of the other Scouts struggled with the personal responsibility an extended road trip without parental units requires, and we saw more than a few emotional breakdowns, jags of open hostility and the need for adult disciplinary measures that were embarrassing but warranted and necessary. However, by the end of the trip we were all Road Warriors -- self-sufficient, congenial and adherents to pretty much all twelve of The Scout Laws.
Thanks to my love of science fiction, the summer of 1970 was an introduction to a more expansive universal understanding than my Catholic upbringing could ever have accomplished. Thanks to Boy Scouting and my Awesome Dad, the summer of 1971 was a first peek into the World of Responsibility, regardless of how it may have seemed at the time. I learned a lot about myself, about other guys my age and how adults can interact with teenagers without losing their shit every 5 minutes.
I also learned how a condom works, so there's that.
I can only imagine the fun-yet-shall-never-be-spoken-of adventures that happened during Ben's Big Musical Adventure, and maybe someday he'll be willing and able to share some stories with me. I know he's created memories that will last a lifetime, and has already stated his intention to re-join his Jersey Surf band mates in the summer of 2020 for another Summer of Discovery.
I know this much: the searing memories of our youth are the ones that add context and contrast to the rest of our lives. We never really know which ones will be the stickiest, which will evaporate forever into the cerebral ether, or which will jump into conscious thought keyed only by a word, a song, a story... or a Grandson.
"Life isn't about the number of breaths you take... it's about the moments that take your breath away." -- George Carlin
Post Script: Awesome Dad recently informed me he has boxes filled with 35mm slides of photos that I took during this trip, stashed somewhere in his pile of belongings now being moved to his new home in Emmett, Idaho. You can bet your ass that I'll get my paws on those slides and do the Time Warp... Again.
Lead and station wagon images, Gracias de Google Images; 'Mens Fancy Dance Suite' and Steppenwolf 'Magic Carpet Ride' videos, Gracias de Youtube; Awesome Ben Before and After image, Muchismas Gracias de Rebecca Loren Macias
It was just supposed to be a visit to
the museum… nothing more. But it became something more, purely by accident.
Oh sure, there’s lots of mind-numbing
activities one could enjoy in Las Vegas, and for sure The Artist and I partake
in many of them, both banal and bizarre. But come on... a museum of natural history? IN LAS VEGAS?!!?!?!?!?!
Come ON.
But it’s true. There we were, on one
of our many trips to that dazzling burg in the blanched desert to celebrate our
wedding that took place on The Las Vegas Strip back in the far-away year of
1986. I know, Las Vegas in July is just insanely hot,
but we really don’t spend that much time outdoors anyways, and we both hate
blistering by the pool.
So to make the anniversary trips more fun, The
Artist does something that always makes for an interesting and enjoyable time
for when we’re not sexing up in our room or playing the slots.
In the weeks prior to an upcoming
journey into the Vast Hotness, she searches the intertubes for alternative LV activities. There’s lots of really
cool things to do that don’t involve slot machines, alcohol or endless foot
travel. Recent side trips included the Ethel M Chocolate Factory (she of the
M&M Mars Family), the Pinball Hall of Fame (500 machines from vintage to
modern), the Bellagio Hotel Gallery of Fine Art (world-class art is there if you can find the
place), Frankie’s Tiki Room (a genuine hard-core tiki lounge, darkest bar I’ve
ever been in), and the King Putt indoor/Egyptian-themed/black-light miniature
golf course(!?!?!).
This trip found us sweating
outside of the Marjorie Barrick Museum of Art on the campus of UNLV, which was hosting a gallery exhibit of ceremonial masks from the indigenous peoples
of the West spanning almost 2500 years. She thought it sounded intriguing, so
one stifling weekday morning after we roused from the hotel room sexing bed we made our
way out to the campus, the place literally abandoned for Summer break.
We arrived just before the museum’s
10AM opening, which allowed us the chance to walk the small but excellent
desert foliage garden out front, grabbing whatever shade was available. Natch,
we were the first (and only) people to walk in when they unlocked the doors and were almost knocked over by the arctic air blasting from inside.
The gallery exhibit of ancient masks was simply breathtaking. Displayed on a timeline, it was stunning to see how long-dead hands had lovingly formed these avatars of ancient peoples, fabricating and decorating them in a way that would exalt their ancestors, their spirits, themselves.
But something else grabbed my attention, dragged it away from those beautifully symbolic masks. It was sitting there, in the literal center of the gallery, waiting just for me.
A giant American Indian pow-wow drum, easily 4 feet in diameter. The moment I saw it, drumsticks leaning all around the side, surrounded by empty benches, I looked over at The Artist who was already looking at me with an expression that said 'You're not really going to, are you?' She knew what was in my head, but she also knew it would be impossible to prevent the inevitable. Remember, we're the only people inside this museum gallery on a weekday morning. I walk up to the drum, sit down, grab one of the drumsticks, and begin to softly drum. "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum hum bum..." A steady, even cadence, not the made-up Hollywood drumming that everyone thinks is real. You know: "BUM bum bum bum BUM bum bum bum BUM bum bum bum BUM bum bum bum..." That's a fake drum cadence, and only a very few non-American Indians know the difference. But I do. I sat there, drumming with my eyes closed, hearing the echoes bounce around in the empty gallery, filling the place with an ancient sound, and in that instant I was transported through time and space to other moments in my life. "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum hum bum..." I traveled to my performances of the Eagle Dance at many Boy Scout ceremonies celebrating a Scout's achievement of the Eagle Badge, the highest award in Scouting. I wore my dance costume without the large feather bustle on my shoulders or the horsehair roach on my head, replaced by a set of feathered eagle wings and a ceremonial Eagle headdress, dancing and spinning and flying across the stage, at one with the moment. "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum hum bum..." I traveled to one of the many Indian pow-wows our Order of the Arrow dance team was invited to attend, REAL pow-wows replete with women and children and youth and elders, all dressed in their finest costumes, dancing around and around and around the drummers in the center, all drumming and singing ancient songs of the Original Americans. I even met Iron Eyes Cody once and he shook my hand and thanked me for being there. I danced for hours in those circles with Original Americans.
Iron Eyes Cody "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum hum bum..." I traveled to another pow-wow, dressed in my completely handmade costume, a Modern Oklahoma Fancy Dancer, with my bells ringing and fringe flying and feathers swooping and my head roach tossing back and forth, and then the drumming became more insistent and we youth, we Fancy Dancers, began to dance even faster to keep up with the drumming cadence. "BUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUM..."
Faster and faster we danced and spun to keep up with the beat, and on each heavy beat we'd either bounce in the air or drop to the ground and bounce right back on the beat, each and every time, faster and faster and faster. "BUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUM..." Modern Oklahoma Fancy Dancers, circa 2016
As is typical of time travel, I was only drumming there for a few minutes, but it felt like I'd been there for much longer. Eventually The Artist begged me to stop because I was prolly getting the docent angry, so I stopped drumming, put down the stick and waited for the echoes of the past and present to fade away. I love time travelling. We finished our gallery visit and decided to head out to another weirdo non-gambling Las Vegas activity. As we started to leave, I veered off and went over to the museum office where the docent who let us in was doing some paperwork. Me: (peeking my head into her office) "Hi there... many thanks for the really great exhibit. I'm glad we made the trip out here." Her: "Oh, you are most welcome!" (Brief pause) "By the way, was that you drumming in there?" Me: (highly embarrassed) "Ummm... yep, that was me. Hope I didn't make too much noise on this quiet morning for you." Her: "NO NO NO... your drumming was amazing! It's nice to hear someone drum who knows what they're doing with that wonderful instrument. Thanks for that!" Me: "Oh, OK, you're welcome. Thanks again!" (head swells to ten times its normal size) Out into the Stoopid Hot we walked, into the sunshine and mindless excess that typifies Las Vegas. However, I left something important behind, something that was a part of me, and I was glad to leave it. I had punched a hole in the time/space continuum, stepped through and went for a stroll with a drumstick in my hand, an ancient beat in my heart, and the memories of a joyous time paying homage to the Original Americans in my mind's eye. That hole was still in there, exactly where I left it, waiting for someone else to peek through. I will always be grateful for those formative youthful years communing with Indian spirits at pow-wows, dancing for hours around and around the drummers, singing their ancient songs to their ancestors, who were swirling all around them. I will always be grateful for the chance to participate in such a singular and special activity, accorded to me by the Boy Scouts of America, the Order of the Arrow, and My Father, without whom none of it would have been possible.
My first Indian dance costume, circa 1969, fabbed by Dad
The same Father who spent hours and hours fabricating my costumes while I sat at his side, watching and reveling at his skill with needle and leather and feather and bell. The same Father who spent countless hours carting our dance team around from one show to another, giving up his time and energy to allow us to fulfill our Scouting dreams. The same Father who cheered me on at competitions, soaking in the success when I won, consoling my broken heart when I didn't, but always showing me that my efforts were valued nonetheless. The same Father who watched as I took possession of a set of amazingly beautiful Fancy Dance feather bustles hand-made by a Real Indian, complete with Cloud Eagle feathers, from the son of the man who made the bustles and wanted to see me compete in them. And yes, the same father who I railed against as I grew older and decided I didn't need Scouting or Indian dancing or any of that stuff, but stayed silent anyways. That Father. The Best Father Ever.
To this day, I am always thanking that guy for all the things he gave me as a growing, obstinate, fickle youth. Especially the chance to dance with feather and bell, around and around the giant drum, honoring The Original Americans. "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum hum bum..."
Lead image gracias de drumsktcorp.com; INFP Fancy Dance and Red Eagle 'Song of Survival' videos gracias de youtube.com; first costume image Muchismas Gracias de Mi Padre
For most of my adult life, I thought I was the only one to suffer this self-inflicted wound.
It happens.
I even lied about it for years, trying to rationalize my youthful behavior as if it would make any difference at all. I carried an inner shame that couldn't be shared with anyone, for fear that I'd be judged as an idiot... a cretin... a person who failed at a basic test of courage and tenacity and fortitude.
But after decades of hiding behind a wall of deception, I was finally able to come to grips with my secret shame and understand how and why it happened, and to realize that I had become a better person for it. And when I met someone who had gone through exactly the same torment and shame that I'd experienced, who had also suffered in silence like me, I was able to openly admit the truth:
I DID NOT REACH THE RANK OF EAGLE SCOUT.
There... I said it. WHEW!
Achieving the rank of Eagle Scout should have been a no-brainer, It was almost predestined that I would become one at 14 years old, and yet I made a conscious decision to NOT let it happen, and that decision in 1970 haunted me well into middle age for reasons both simple and complex. But those days are past, and now I actually revel in the notion of what I did and why I did it.
Let me explain.
Awesome Dad worked hard to raise my younger brother and I by himself, with lots of help from various relatives, but sometimes he struggled being a Single Male Parent. I think that's why he had me join the Cub Scouts, where he became involved as a Pack Leader, which morphed into Boy Scouts, where he was the Scoutmaster of our Troop. He wasn't just the Scoutmaster... he and several other Dads of my soon-to-be Boy Scout friends didn't like the look of the local Troops, so they formed a brand new one, based at Sunset Elementary School in La Puente, California.
Troop 715.
Over the next 5 years, I experienced one of the most important, formative, positive and enjoyable parts of my early years on this small Blue Planet. Looking back on it now, I'm grateful to have been involved in Scouting as opposed to sports, because I learned far more about the world as a result. Some of my experiences didn't happen to anyone else I knew who weren't involved in Scouting. Sure, hiking and camping and cooking and knotting and first aid and all the stereotypical Boy Scout stuff, it all added to my quiver of campcraft.
But there were also other special experiences that forever affected my malleable young self. For example, becoming an Indian Dancer, a 'Modern Oklahoma Fancy Dancer', to be exact, the result of being in the Order of the Arrow, a Scouting honor camping society based on Native American philosophy and lore. Dad gave scads of time to organize and support our local Indian dance troupe, and we performed all over Southern California. I was good enough to compete in and win several local and regional events, earning a chance to compete at the Nationals in Illinois.
My first Indian Dance costume, Dad-designed and fabricated!
Imagine: a 13-year-old attending the Order of the Arrow National Conference and Indian Dance Competition in Illinois, part of a 3-week mid-Summer road trip with two adults and eleven other Scouts in two station wagons, from SoCal to NYC and back again. Many firsts occurred during that amazing journey, but those youthful secrets will remain for another essay, another set of searing memories. That kind of road trip could NEVER happen in our modern helicopter-parenting age.
Picture this: a dozen condoms, bought at a gas station bathroom in Joplin, Missouri for $.25 each, inflated and tied to the car's antennae, flapping like mad in the wind while we raced thru the state at 70mph, laughing like hyenas. Yep, that kind of trip.
By my 14th birthday, I had the requisite number of merit badges and the goal of achieving my Eagle Scout badge was in sight. Although there were a couple of others in my Troop that were also on the same path, I was far ahead of them and would soon be THE FIRST EAGLE SCOUT in Troop 715. Dad rode me hard, made me do the work, never relented on the pressure for me to follow through. But somewhere in there, I spun out.
I got mad at Dad, like all teenagers do.
It happens.
I felt he was putting too much pressure on me to make the rank ahead of my friends/rivals for his own reasons. I didn't understand what the big deal was (dumb kid that I was) and that it was all about him, not me. I had completed my Eagle Project, and all I had to do was write and submit a project report to our local Council to cross the Eagle Finish Line, but I felt like it was an empty gesture, a thing of no value to me in any way.
I refused to write the report.
No matter how much Dad cajoled and pressured me to take that last step, I refused. Sure enough, one of my good friends/bitterest rivals caught up and earned his Eagle, the FIRST ONE in our Troop. To make matters worse, I even performed the Eagle Dance at his award ceremony, strutting and spinning on stage with my Eagle head and wings, dancing to the drum beats, feeling Dad's anger and shame from across the room.
I won. I was victorious by denying him what he wanted most. I had POWER, for seemingly the first time in my life. And for the next two years, I just cruised through Scouting, never taking that last step, never going the final mile. By the time I turned 16 and got my first car, I was done and gone from Scouting, separated forever from the specter of the Eagle Badge.
Or so I thought.
As an adult, the shadow of that non-achievement haunted me, making me feel like I'd given up something important, something that was totally in my grasp but let slip away. If the subject came up, I would lie about being an Eagle Scout, but it was just me rationalizing about making it THAT CLOSE, so it counted, right? But it didn't count. I wasn't an Eagle Scout. I had failed.
Eons later, talking about it with Dad, he said he hadn't even thought about it... but I KNEW DIFFERENT. I knew he was pushing down the abject disappointment of my failure all those decades ago, I was sure of it. As time went on, that missed opportunity turned into a jagged little pill, spinning around in my rabid wolverine gut, making me feel like that singular teenage act had some kind of dark juju hanging over my psyche.
And then, a miracle happened.
About 5 years ago, our next-door neighbor's oldest son Boris (not his real name) earned his Eagle Badge, and The Artist and I were invited to attend the ceremony. We went to the church where the event was being held and were hanging around outside when I saw Boris talking to a few of his friends. I asked to speak with him privately for a few minutes. First, I gave him my Camp Cherry Valley (Avalon, CA) 'Staff' neckerchief that I'd had since my Scouting days, which he loved since he'd be spending a week at the same camp later that summer.
Then I told him about my not having achieved the Eagle rank, how and why it happened, but also why I was a better person now because of Scouting, Eagle or not, and that I was incredibly proud of him for finishing his quest. He was visibly moved, thanking and hugging me for taking the time to share these personal truths with him. Very powerful stuff.
Once inside the church, we witnessed a ceremony steeped in tradition and reverence. I was time-warping in a big way from all the trappings... the scouts, the uniforms, the flags, the adult leaders... all of it. The thing that really took my breath away was the joy, pride and happiness of Boris' parents, sitting there beaming. When I saw the bliss on their faces, I was thunderstruck at the reality of what I'd done to my Awesome Dad all those years ago. He'd been denied that moment of parental joy because of my youthful selfishness, denied of the honor that would not and could not ever be grasped.
I sat there mute, holding The Artist's hand, thinking to myself, "How could I have done that to Dad?!?!"
I felt terrible.
But it only lasted a few moments, because I also realized that, good or bad, I'd made a decision and stuck with it all those years ago. I became filled with pride and joy for Boris' achievement and felt like I was up there with him on stage, smiling like a loon, being THE MAN. I had been talking about this Eagle mindfuck with The Artist in the days leading up to this moment... I looked at her, she smiled and I knew she knew exactly what I was thinking. Funny how that works.
All at once, the guilt and shame and regret over my selfish act of parental denial faded away, replaced with a sense of understanding, happiness and compassion. When the ceremony ended, we left for home, me released from a weight that I'd carried for most of my adult life.
This is what it means to be forgiving of one's own (self-perceived) faults.
How many of us carry around these self-inflicted wounds, forming scabs that constantly get ripped off to reveal the raw emotional flesh underneath?
It's almost unbelievable that I labored with this internal struggle for so many years, all because of a teenage angst-ridden decision. But the truth is, most everyone have regrets from their youth that were never resolved and still haunts their sub-conscious mind. Sometimes it becomes so prevalent, is filled with so much anger and pain and hurt, we drown ourselves in drugs or booze or food or emotional upheaval and it poisons and destroys every other aspect of our lives. Anyone who has ever watched an episode of 'Intervention' knows that one single childhood trauma can have disastrous repercussions for the rest of your life unless you deal with that trauma, learn to forgive yourself and then move on.
"Deal with the faults of others as gently as your own." -- Chinese proverb
However, I am here to say that as traumatic as this insane Eagle issue was for me, it is now merely another closed chapter in my life's novel. I've removed the bookmark from that page and have started the next chapter.
HOWEVER.
The things I learned in Scouting... the 12 Scout Laws, the concepts of the motto 'Be Prepared' and the slogan 'Do a good turn (deed) daily'... those things have stayed with me and will always be a part of my deep rooty-root character. How could I have known the idea of always doing for others first would be my life's mantra? I couldn't and didn't, yet they're among the most important elements of who I am now. I may not be a fan of what the Boy Scouts have become these days, entrenched with religious dogma and its regressive ideology, but I'm glad to have gotten my Scouting goody when it mattered most to me. I owe it all to the Awesome Dad.
The Twelve Scout Laws:
A Boy Scout Is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, Reverent (my troop's secret laws also included 'Hungry, Lazy and Girl-Crazy'... heh heh heh).
Could there be a better list of secular human behavior to aspire to? No, I don't think so.
Closing Notes: I used the lead image and closing video clips from the 2012 Wes Anderson film 'Moonrise Kingdom' for a very specific reason. Although the 'Khaki Scouts' portrayed in the film don't really exist, the tone and context they display, along with the entire film, are crazy-similar to my Scouting and youthful reality, strange as that may seem. I totally identify with Sam Shakusky's main character in so many ways, it's almost scary. In addition, heroine Suzy Bishop is a dead-on ringer for The Artist in her formative years, and I like to think that her and I would be exactly like Sam and Suzy if we had met as barely-teens.
See this film.
In a strange and not-ironic twist, one of the most popular custom art projects The Artist creates is (wait for it)... AN EAGLE SCOUT MEMORY BOX. Now whenever she completes a special commission for one, I photograph it with my very own camp knife, neckerchiefs, merit badge sash and Order of the Arrow patches inside as props:
"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things." -- Robert Brault
Lead image, Gracias de arewenotentertained.com; 'Moonrise Kingdom' videos, Gracias de youtube.com; Eagle Scout Memory Box image, Muchismas Gracias de MisguidedDesigns.com. Hungry, Lazy & Girl-Crazy!
.jpg)
.JPG)
.JPG)
