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UNCLE AL LEADS A SCOUT ASTRAY
Family History published as
a WIP dated July 3, 2001
© 2001, 2005 by Bud Grossmann. All Rights Reserved.
About the biggest act of naughtiness I ever got away with was when I didn't go to Boy Scout camp with my son Dave. Enough time has gone by, I believe, so I can dare to confess the details of my crime.

     This would have been eight or nine years ago, I'd say. I don't exactly recall. Dave's muscular dystrophy had already put him in a wheelchair, I do know that. Seems like forever, when I think back, that the boy was rolling around on wheels. When I look at old videos of David, walking with his tippy-toe, side-to-side sway, I sometimes experience a moment of puzzlement before I recognize my own son.

     But, anyway, let me tell you about camping. Dave must have been eleven or twelve. On a Friday afternoon, I picked him up after school. We went home to change clothes—Scouts had to be in uniform for camp—and we got ready to join the rest of Troop 35 for a night and a day in the mountains that overlook Pearl Harbor. Although we'd done most of our packing the night before, our "last-minute" tasks somehow mushroomed into "last-hour-and-a-half" preparations. We had hoped to avoid rush-hour traffic through Honolulu, but now we would be in the thick of it. And the sky was filling with dark clouds—we might have to set up tents in the rain. Or we might not get there at all—at sunset the gate on the access road to the camp would be locked. We'd been warned twice. The Scoutmaster had called on Wednesday with a reminder, and then, on Friday morning, my wife Frances had solemnly instructed us: "Don't be late."

Year by year, as Dave's disease progressed, "roughing it" got rougher and rougher. My son's joy in camping began to fade. That particular day, when we were at last ready to depart, David asked, "Dad, do we really have to go?"

     I told him we did, indeed. "Now, let's hit the road," I said, "before Mom and your sister come home and find out we've been dawdling!"

     Just then, the phone rang. I almost let it go, but on the fourth ring I lifted the receiver and said hello. A voice said, "This is Alvin. What can I do for you?"

     Ah, yes! I'd almost forgotten: I had left a message for Fran's brother Al at his workplace. He was the Director of Sales at a luxury hotel in Waikiki, but I had called him on a personal matter—to confirm he would meet me on Sunday to trim a tree in his mother's back yard. When Alvin asked "What can I do for you?" I told him, "Well...if you like, you can give your nephew and me a hotel room for tonight. We were heading out to Boy Scout camp, but we're not entirely in the mood."

     Alvin chuckled. "Boy Scout camp? You're going to get rained on!" He knew my request for a room was only half-serious, but he asked me to hold, while he checked with the reservations desk.

     In sixty seconds he was back on the line. "Okay, Bud, you got it. You won't believe this, but we had only one room left, and it was 'handicap.' Show your business card when you check in, and there'll be no charge."

     Wow! Getting my license to be a travel agent years ago had been one of my best investments ever! Of course, there's no harm, either, in having relatives in high places. I thanked Alvin and remembered to confirm our tree trimming on Sunday. Then I quickly changed from camping clothes to resort attire, told David we would be making a little adjustment in our itinerary, and away we went—to wonderful Waikiki. I brought along my jeans and T-shirt, though, because I would need to wear them when I faced Frances the next day.

Now, if David were a talkative guy, we'd have been "busted" when we got home. But he was not. When we dragged our unfurled sleeping bags into the house on Saturday afternoon, Frances asked, "Did you have a good time?"

     "Yes," the Boy Scout truthfully replied.

     "Did you get wet?" wondered the mother.

     "No," said the son.

     "Well, plan on an early bedtime—I'll bet you didn't get much sleep last night."

     "Okay, Mom," Dave agreed.

     And, so far as I ever heard, Fran asked no more questions, about camping. ♦

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This page was updated April 2, 2005, 1016 HST.