Scouts

Yes, dear readers, I was quite the scout. Escort old ladies across a busy street? No sweat.  After all, when you are a tenderfoot for your entire scouting career, you eventually get the basics.

No doubt out of desperation, they advanced me to a Boy Scout. Now we were getting somewhere. You learned how to build fires, blow your nose in the wild, and stay upwind of the latrine. Important lessons still today.

We had an annual convention - the "Klondike Derby." It was a series of tests that teams of scouts raced each other to outdo. This was a big deal. I was chosen to be a team leader, apparently under the fundamental misunderstanding that a tenderfoot that hadn't advanced in 6 years must know what's going on.

So off we went, shouting encouragement, pulling our Klondike sled. We forded streams, threw stones at opposing teams - all manner of fun.  One of our tests was quite complicated, but we were ready: there's an injured girl in this burning building - she needs immediate medical care, has a broken leg, and you must save her.  Full of ourselves, we selflessly raced into the building, stabilized her, put a really good splint on the leg, and then carefully carried her out.

We were quite proud of our performance.  The scoutmaster, not so much. "Good work boys, but you DO know you all burned to death?"  Crap - the burning building bit.  Well, that was pretty unfair - it was obvious the girl was in distress, but without any smoke, falling flaming timbers and such, the "burning" bit was easily forgotten.

These days I let old ladies find their own damn way across the street.