As I look back on my life, there were moments that need to be preserved in time.  On my last post (#288), I wrote a humorous poem about an unforgettable camping experience when I was ten years old.  I’ve often wondered how that night might have changed my life?  Someone else has the physical scars to prove it, but I’m left with mental scars, wondering what ever happened to the “bully” that tried to scare a group of young kids?   The actual story of “The Hand” is recounted in post (#150) and the poetic tribute was posted yesterday.  Several years ago, I started a humorous poem about the consequences of “The Hand” on my life.  I found the poem half-finished and just updated it today.  It may explain why I don’t like camping.  Here is the newly written sequel:

Eagle Scout

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Looking back,

I have no doubt.

I should have been,

An Eagle Scout.

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I started as,

An Indian Guide.

Father and son,

Names to decide.

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But getting together,

We couldn’t agree.

“Big” Turtle for Dad?

“Straight” Arrow for me?

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I wouldn’t be “Little,”

Nor could he be “Broken.”

Like a stubborn couple,

Truer words never spoken.

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After his war service,

No tents for my Dad.

The camping experience,

I never quite had.

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Next a Cub,

The Scouting norm.

I got to wear,

A uniform.

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It sounded so serious,

A manual to learn.

Meetings to attend,

I had concern.

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Earn those badges,

Make them proud.

Words in my head,

That echoed loud.

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Cub then Webelos,

Then official Boy Scout.

Shiny new knife,

Oaths to learn about.

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Then came “The Hand,”

And no more Scouts.

Wounds were inflicted,

I can still hear the shouts.

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Could have been a doctor,

Maybe a lawyer?

Or better yet,

Your employer.

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A nuclear physicist,

Perhaps your President?

But with an “F” in camping,

I was hesitant.

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But I am what I am,

The Eagle flew away.

Could -Would-Should,

But my knife got in the way.

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Copyright 2017 johnstonwrites.com