On a mountain so high,
When along came a cuckoo bird,
Interrupting his cry...
Winter Camp; the main reason for joining Cub Scouts in the first place. I've been alternately dreading and looking forward to it for months. Looking forward to the parts that I know will be fun; hiking, games, good food, and playing some guitar with folks. Dreading, because despite my cheerful disposition, I'm still a cynic at heart, and I'm pretty sure I know what it will be like: a dozen or so increasingly cranky adults surrounded by increasingly smelly and insolent children. And do you know something? I really hate being cynical, sometimes. So, I brace myself, hold my nose, and dive in. We're going to have fun, kids.
They are out of school, they are sleep deprived, and they outnumber us. Behold - the Cuckoo Birds.
On a mountain so high,
When along came an avalanche,
Interrupting his cry...
Trouble and woe seem to pile on all at once, sometimes. My lovely bride seemed to be coming down with something ominous; snow threatened to lay siege during the weekend; our car began flashing random lights -- but only out the corner of my eye. I did NOT want to cancel this trip, but there were rumblings and creakings. Then we were off, and we made it, and dove into the tumult of the cabin.
Behold -- the Avalanche; of boys, sleeping bags, and a cacophonous Friday night in the woods.
On a mountain so high,
When along came a grizzly bear,
Interrupting his cry...
I am here to make sure - as Cubmaster Terry keeps reminding us - that the Cub Scouts have fun, stay safe, and learn something. I'm not complaining about my lot; the group of adults in general is pretty good about keeping the kids out of trouble, making sure we are "two deep" (no adult is ever to be left alone with any number of children... even their own children), and making sure food-prep and clean up happens. If anything, I feel like I'm not completely pulling my weight. I keep showing up to the kitchen after everything is already cooked; I don't quite make it back from escorting a group to the bathroom in time to clear the tables; I don't know how to do most of the crafty stuff.
This leaves "playground monitor" as my fall-back duty - which, in its most common form, means bellowing at the kids who insist on pushing, shoving, and whacking each other with sticks to quit it. Behold, I am the Grizzly Bear. Grr, grr.
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Saint Bernard,
Interrupting his cry...
We are all fortunate to have a real, honest to goodness, professional medic along. Saturday afternoon, the boys simply couldn't hold back on their more violent tendencies, and two had to be carried in within half an hour of each other. Nothing serious; a minor head wound and a twisted ankle. But it gave Fred a chance to break out his kit, and justify dragging it up to Northern Maryland for the weekend. Fortunately, it didn't take much more than that to get across to the kids the danger of not listening to the Grizzly Bears.
Butterfly bandages, an ice-pack, and a few developing colds means a job well done by the Saint Bernard. *pant, pant*
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Jersey Cow,
Interrupting his cry...
One thing was not lacking in any way: the food. There was plenty, and it was good. Mr. Harvey, with the assistance of his son, Harvey Jr., has been the camp cook for 13 years. If what they say -- you shouldn't trust a skinny cook -- is true, then Mr. Harvey is one of the most trustworthy cooks I've ever run across. Everyone was full and content, with nary a case of food poisoning in the bunch.
Behold, the Great Provider of nourishment: the Jersey Cow. (Or, in our case, the Bull.)
On a mountain so high,
When along came a milking maid,
Interrupting his cry...
Among the scouts were a small group of siblings; mainly little sisters who were old enough to come along for the weekend. My own little princess came, and immediately found a soulmate of the same age to spend the weekend with. But what to do when all of the adults are spread amongst the other camp activities? Enter the sweet-sixteen-year-old daughter of the Committee Chairperson, young Katie. Someone to watch over the little ones, who were given their own room (no boys allowed), and to run interference (because a "No Boys Allowed" sign is like smearing honey around an ant hill) when the boys decided to storm the "castle".
Behold, the intrepid babysitting skills of our Milking Maid.
On a mountain so high,
When along came Her Father,
Interrupting his cry...
I confess, I was not looking forward to a second night on the floor, with only a thin layer of foam between my bulk and the concrete & linoleum floor. The symphonic snoring of the first night hadn't bothered me, once the boys around us had settled down and stopped trying to keep each other awake. It was comical, but almost soothing, in a snorty, bandsaw-on-metal sort of way. Very rhythmic, and tidal. But my back was acting up after Friday's relatively brief night, and I wasn't looking forward to the certain agony facing me Sunday. All I could do was try to stay loose, and tough it out. After all, I was committed to being the Entertainment at the Saturday night campfire.
The younger of my boys, the Tiger Cub, woke Saturday morning with a cough, and I tried to keep an eye on him throughout the day. Had to hold him in a chair by the fire and convince him to take a nap at one point. Grew too tired to use subjects in sentences.
When he woke up, he asked to go home, so I told him that we would after dinner and the campfire ceremony. I think in the end, Pain is the Vengeful Father's gift to us all... reminding us that there are consequences to every action.
It worked out well enough. My back protested the extra exertions as I loaded the car, but I kept telling it, "Better to do it tonight than wait until morning!" It grudgingly agreed. I was loading the car between acts; dinner, load sleeping bags; cleanup, load suitcase (yeah, suitcase... the duffel has the tent in it); perform, load guitar. I felt guilty about bugging out the night before and leaving the bulk of the cleaning duties for the Sunday morning survivors, so I did some extra sweeping up and took a couple of bags of trash out to the dumpster.
By the time I was called up to perform, I was more than a little nervous. I wasn't sure the crowd would respond to my silly song; they saw the guitar, and started calling out requests. "Pantera!" "Play some Brad Paisley!" "Don't you know any good songs?" I resisted doing a Pete Townsend on the 10-year-old heckler in the front row. But Harvey Jr. and Katie joined me as I started my main attraction...
...and they loved it! They were entranced! I was a HIT!
Alright, so that was all I had, but that was all I needed. They called for volunteers for jokes and stories, any other songs. We laughed, and sang, and it wasn't lame! What a relief.
Still, I needed to get the little ones home. There were some definite snuffles coming... maybe worse. But at least I went out with a...
Yodel-ee-yah cuckoo, cuckoo!
Swish,
Grrr,
*Pant, pant*
Squirt, squirt,
*smooch, smooch*
BANG!
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