Who am I to fool around with the future of the scouting program? It just doesn’t seem right. An organization so rich in history shouldn’t have to suffer an embarrassing coup d’etat attempt from a troop of hastily organized magicians. If I do nothing, everyone prospers. The scouts keep their uniforms and their pledges, and JK Rowling keeps her hoards of cape wearing followers. What would I do with so many kids hounding me anyway? Sounds like a horrible imposition. Can you imagine the mail?! And between you and me, I’m not sure my magic would hold up well under such a load. I might be labeled charlatan, driven from town by a mob of angry, plastic wand waving children. The scouts, no doubt, would assist by directing traffic.
It’s not that the idea isn’t a good one. I’m just not the man for the job. As much as I hate to admit it, a few of my leadership skills leave something to be desired. More specifically: I was never a very good scout. I joined the ranks, but never thrived. I fell for every snipe hunt. My matches would never light. My jackknife blade snapped in two. But I liked scouting, despite the setbacks. When my hat would drop through the hole in the outhouse, I tried to smile. And when every hike led straight into the heart of a poison ivy patch, I remembered that it would all be over soon enough. I assured myself with the fact that I was only a Tenderfoot, that honorary rank given to each and every scout upon slipping into the uniform. How could I possibly be expected to know all these things? I would remain a Tenderfoot my entire tour of duty.
One of the funny things about being a man is that all of this stuff that crams into our heads doesn’t really begin to work its way back out for at least twenty-five years. There’s this unexplainable gap between “remembering” and “knowing”, like converting memories into knowledge is some sort of arduous challenge. For example: I have always remembered the struggles of scouting, but was never able to use these memories in any timely manner. The ground was literally thick with subtle clues - Structured life is not for you, young Tenderfoot. And other clues, not so subtle - Military life disagrees with your temperament. Be not a fool. Walk another path. I saw the clues. I even read the clues. But it wouldn’t be until much later that I knew the clues. Upon turning eighteen I would hike directly into the military like it was the biggest patch of poison ivy in the woods. But that’s a different story, for a different time.
Maybe if I’d only had the stern, knowledgeable, guiding hand of Lord Baden-Powell, Scouting’s founding father, pointing me in the right direction. Maybe then life wouldn’t have been so oblivious. Surely he would have instructed me in the proper technics of understanding life’s direction. I mean, just look at him, shaping those boys right up.