Some years ago, I examined three years that were historically important to me, 1510, 1892, and 1964. This being an election year, a time to reflect upon what democracy means to the future, and Sunday, I have selected the lattermost as my sermon.
keeping with a somewhat irritating recent preoccupation with dates, I
am going to examine 1964. Hadn't intended to, but I was in the
pumphouse and found an old uniform patch in a disused humidor --as one
does. I picked it up, ran my thumb over its stiff threads and thought of
old chums --Tom, Jack, the boys we used to be. The embroidered patch
measures about one and a half inches by two and depicts our first
president, Geo. Washington, on bended knee proposing to a lily.
The lily is a fleur-de-lis, a heraldic flower that
does not occur in nature. It represents royalty, in which case it's
unlikely Gen. Geo. was proposing marriage. It also represents north,
which makes Washington's pose even more improbable. However, the patch
was one I wore on my Boy Scout uniform that year and fleur-de-lis was on
everything scouty. Also, north is a favorite direction of mine so I
gave it benefit of the doubt.
I just made a long arm and fetched my Handbook For
Boys --39th printing-- and found this: "You probably know there is a
huge chunk of iron in the earth, up north, that attracts the magnetized
needle of your compass -- that this iron deposit is known as the
magnetic north pole." --page 162. I have never had reason to challenge
this idea. Even now, the symbol attracts my memory like a big magnetic
I am in my 60s now and highly suspicious of
brain-chunks. I do not like to think my hairline is receding so much as
my mind is expanding, but one cannot rule out brain-chunks. I was only
14 for most of that year and thought no more of them than I did of
dingleberries on livestock.
In the summer of 1964, last half of July, I was one of
50,000 Boy Scouts camped in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. You probably
know about Geo. Washington's awful winter there in 1777. It was all snow
and blizzards and the Continental Army ruining in ice. If you were in a
high school marching band in the 1960s, you probably know that's where
your uniform got donated from. Here is a slight exaggeration of what
Valley Forge looks like in summer:
was hot. It was very hot and my chums, Tom and Jack, and I tried to do
all the things Boy Scouts are supposed to do. We were, after all, young
Americans with vigorous bodies, hearts of lions and the digestion of
goats. We hiked and tied knots, worked on merit badges, cooked and
puked. But usually we'd give in to the heat, find a little shade, share
cigarettes and discuss the future. We liked discussing the future
--there was so much of it back then-- and as our stay proceeded we got
excited about it. President Johnson was going to visit the Jamboree on
its final evening and give a lecture about the future.
That evening arrived, unfortunately not without
incident. One scout, in a dash to catch up with his troop, was hit by a
bus. Word spread and we all reflected negatively upon our illusion of
immortality. Jack led Tom and me in a prayer over our little supper.
Jack was very religious, even though he laughed when I once asked him
why the Pope dressed like a hand-puppet. He responded by asking why we dressed in little shorts and tassles like circus chimps.
There were no answers.
Doubts were forming even as we made our way to three
hills that served as rough seating for 50,000 boys. Three slopes
converged upon a dingle and we arranged ourselves like berries around
it. There was a little stage and microphone down there. Lyndon Johnson
arrived! We clapped and clapped.
The president began by assuring us we were "the hope
of Amurricah", then outlined what we might expect of our country. He
said: in the next 50 years tremendous progress would be made in
medicine, the puzzling out of biological mysteries; space exploration
would take us closer to the stars and advance earthly technology,
especially in communication. From this remove of a half-century, I must
admit he was correct. We clapped and clapped. But still, there was
doubt. Jack and I looked over at Tom. He was not clapping.
"Come Tom," I said."Clap for Lyndon!"
He clenched his teeth and said, "Do you have any idea what that s.o.b. is going to demand we do in four years?"
Having learned sufficient wilderness survival skills
to decide against a career in homelessness, I left the Boy Scouts
shortly thereafter. Jack also quit to pursue an interest in sociology,
then psychology and finally theology. Tom stayed in Scouts longest, well
into high school and his teeth remained permanently clenched. Years
later, I asked him why.
"Brown shirts," He said through teeth. "I like the brown shirtssss."
Tom became a neo-Nazi. Jack became a Catholic priest. As usual, I became a gardener.
We're all in this together.
Go in peace.