Today, my family, along with the local Boy Scout Council and Congressman Holt, honored my father for his approximately fifteen years of service to the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). It was a nice event, especially since my father was taken by surprise with it. We told him nothing with regard to the ceremony, instead telling him that we wanted to go to a local Rumson restaurant for brunch.
My father started in the Boy Scouts when I was old enough to join. He saw a lack of adult leadership in the local scout troop, largely due to turnover as older boys (and their fathers) left the troop. He stepped in, along with a close family friend, and eventually ended up running the troop. Through that, he had a remarkable effect on the young men in the area. My father led, taught, and encouraged over 300 young men from 1986 to the present date. Of those, approximately 38 rose to the rank of Eagle Scout, including my brother and myself. Nationally, only about 1% of all Boy Scouts become Eagle Scouts. My father ensured that 12% of his troop attained the rank. It’s a definite achievement, reflective of my father’s dedication and patience. Thus, the surprise event was warranted.
Unfortunately, along with keeping the event a surprise for my father, the planners of the event also kept the fact that I was one of the speakers a secret from me. Thus, I had to ad lib it. Fortunately, though, I was the speaker expected to provide the “roast” portion of the event. I think I managed to pull it off without much stage fright, which is a nice change.
Anyway, here is the speech I used to embarrass both my father and myself in front of a member of the United States Congress:
I want to thank all of you for coming here today. It means a lot to me, and it means a lot to my father. You know, many of you, that my father is very dedicated to scouting. He has given many, many hours of his life to it. Through scouting, my father gave us – those he led – an education on morals, on leadership, and, most importantly, a deep and abiding love for nature.
With that in mind, it’s worth considering how far my father has gone. When he and I first joined scouting, my father was not an outdoorsman. Other than shore casting, my father’s understanding of nature came from a few hours of “Wild America” on a lazy Saturday afternoon. However, he learned the ropes, learned how to camp, and became a master woodsman. Today, I am here to tell you how my father became "one with nature."
Just as my tenure in scouting winded down, in 1994, a year after I returned from my trek of New Mexico [1], my father, enamored with my stories of the Desert Southwest, decided the family needed to take one last trip before I went off to college. As my father was afraid of flying, he got the idea that a cross-country drive would be a great summer excursion.
This…was perhaps one of the worst ideas he ever had.
After many weeks of traveling from National Park to National Park, during which we stayed in campsites with Hell’s Angels or cinder block hunting motels with men who spent their evenings polishing guns that, I think, may have been used to assassinate presidents of small Latin American countries, the family arrived at Arches National Park. Arches, a true desert park, is located in the famous and beautiful Four Corners region of the United States. Filled with beautiful sandstone arches and remarkable rock formations that resemble… well… well… Freud would have been at home in Arches.
We spent a week at Arches, hiking the slot canyons, mountain biking, off-roading in my father’s new SUV… walking back to town after my father crashed his new SUV into a gully, and engaging in many, many other foolishly dangerous yet amusing activities. By the last day in Arches, we were hot, tired, and ready to head back home. We decided to have a nice meal in town, one last night under the stars, and then make a break for civilization in the morning.
So… on the last day, we went into the park’s cool, clean facilities to wash up before heading into Moab for dinner. My father decided to use one of the stalls to relieve himself. My brother and I busied ourselves by washing up, aggravating each other, and all of those wonderful things that siblings do.
You know, one of the most interesting things about visiting our wonderful National Parks is the people you meet. We meet the aforementioned biker gangs, as well as the numerous Europeans that come to America each August, as part of the traditional European summer holiday, in order to take pictures of our natural wonders, complain about the quality of our cheese, and demonstrate to our youngsters that Europe is suffering horribly from the effects of a three-generation embargo on underarm deodorant and women’s shaving products. [2]
As my brother and I washed up, two Germans who we had seen earlier in the week walked into the bathroom. Seeing that the single bathroom stall was occupied, the two Germans stood politely in the corner. I began to brush my teeth, when, from the stall, I heard my father say, in a startled manner, “Oh… Oh my.”
My brother and I turned from the sinks, and watched as my father lunged from the stall.
My father, surprisingly, doesn’t usually leave bathrooms in this manner.
He buckled his pants, and turned towards the German man who was attempting to pass him en route to the stall. My father held up his hand to stop him. He shook his head, and simply said “scorpion.”
The German man looked at him with puzzled eyes.
“Scorpion,” my father said again.
The German didn’t get it.
My father, as we’ve noted today, was always very patient with the scouts he taught. If he couldn’t explain to them how to do something in one fashion, he’d always be willing to try another, until that scout learned. Dealing with the German, my father was no different. Seeing that the language barrier made his words meaningless to the German, my father attempted another method.
Stepping from the podium, I paused for breath. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
He lifted his hands into the air on either side of his head. “You know,” he said, “Scorpion.” He then began to clap his fingers against his thumbs in a pincer-like fashion while, at the same time, swaying his bottom from left to right and back again.
I then began the same horrible, scarring dance-like movements I watched my father engage in while at Arches.
This, quite frankly, did not have the desired effects. Panicked, the German’s eyes bugged out in his head as he slowly backed away from my father. At this point, ladies and gentlemen… at this point, I noticed the final piece to this puzzle….
As you know, my father is a neat, clean man. He would never dare sit on a public toilet seat without some sort of protection. Thus, in the stall, he had carefully lined the seat with long strips of toilet paper. One of those strips, I suppose, had gotten caught in my father’s pants as he escaped the poisonous desert creature.
I turned around, still dancing as my father did in Arches National Park’s restroom. My butt swayed from left to right in front of 150 people. Never before have I intentionally embarrassed myself and others in such a public manner... still, for a laugh like I was getting, I would have probably gone on for another ten minutes like this.
That same strip, ladies and gentleman, was now swaying from the seat of my father’s pants!
It was horrible. The Germans were horrified. I was horrified. Many years of therapy were needed for this episode alone.
Fortunately, my father did not share this horror. That’s because I didn’t tell him about the toilet paper until after he had carried his ‘tail’ into the restaurant, throughout dinner, and on the ride back to the campsite.
Thankfully, though, the Germans safely were able to escape the restroom, free to return to their homeland with tales of deranged American tourists dancing in restrooms. We made it back to New Jersey, and now, we find ourselves here today, inflicting grievous insult on my father’s dignity… and, quite frankly, after that spectacle I just made… mine as well.
After that trip, I went off to college, leaving scouting behind [3]. The interesting thing, though, is that my father stayed on. Long after my brother and I left scouting, my father continued to guide and instruct many of the young men you see here today, and many more beyond these walls, on how to become upright and productive members of society. After my brother and I left, he stayed. You know, there’s two things I take from that. First, my father gave. Freely, and without reservation. The Greeks call this ‘agape.’ Looking out in the audience, though, I think it may actually be an investment. I see out in the audience a group composed of social workers, engineers, med students, teachers and lawyers. All of these people now make great contributions to society. This brings me to my second point. My father’s greatness seems fairly patent to us because it is one that cannot be hidden in bank vaults or portfolios. It is an investment in humanity that has produced great returns. For that, I am thankful. Once again, I’d like to thank all of you, as well, for helping me show appreciation for my father’s many years of dedication.
1. In 1993, I had hiked the trail that runs the length of the Sangre de Christo Mountains from Colorado to New Mexico as part of a BSA promotional stunt. It made for a lot of fun, and began my love for the desert.
2. I know it’s offensive. Please stop slapping me, Francois, your feeble arm movements might stir up a breeze.
3. Enough fun. Time for tribute.
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