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| Tenderfoot |
They mocked him as he rode by on his bicycle. Their stinging
words burned in Billy's heart as he fought back his tears.
Soon he'd be home and far away from his tormenters. Billy was
born of alcoholic parents in a small coastal village of Maine.
Doctors concluded he and his siblings would reap the harvest
of his parent's indulgence. He was a slow learner and plagued
with stuttering and a slow drool.
Lack of hygiene at home kept most people at a respectable distance.
Billy had a kind heart, but he had a very low self-esteem especially
when confronted by his peers. I was Billy's only friend during
childhood.
We lived only a short distance from each other, so it was natural
we found ourselves running through the woods or swimming under the
bridge during the summer months. Billy joined the Boy Scouts with
me when we turned 11.
I arrived in my uniform, but Billy arrived in his tattered and dirty
clothes. His parents couldn't afford to give him new clothes, and a
Boy Scout uniform didn't fit into their drinking budget. My dad saw
his plight, so he rummaged through some packed clothing and came
back with my older brother's uniform. It didn't fit very well, but
after a few alterations it became respectable. I felt his anguish
during our first Boy Scout meeting. A couple of boys behind us
snickered "bugsy-wugsy", "dumbo mumbo" and other such cutting words.
When we were dismissed from formation, Billy and I were assigned to
the Wolf Patrol. We opened the flexible covers of our new Boy Scout
handbooks with an eagerness to see what adventures lay before us. I
read the introduction, and Billy looked at the pictures.
As the weeks passed, Billy became more discouraged. Because of his
learning disability, it would be difficult for him to continue in Boy
Scouts. The jeering by peers continued outside the meeting hall, but
it was his inability to read and comprehend which would become his
downfall.
Billy and I watched my dad pulling on the mooring ropes of the boat.
We gave him a hand, and Billy grabbed the loose end and tied it
around the tree. My dad looked up.
"Where did you learn to tie a knot like that, Billy? I'm all thumbs
with knots." Billy took that as a compliment. With a smile on his
face, he stuttered his response. "I... I... I've got lotsssss of
time on my hands." My dad's eyes lit up, and I could visualize his
brain gears turning.
Over the next weeks, Dad worked with both of us from the Boy Scout
handbook so we could pass our requirements for Tenderfoot. What
Billy couldn't read, he was finally able to memorize after repeated
drilling by my dad. In turn, Billy showed my dad how to tie knots
and splice rope ends.
Billy's moment came during our awards banquet that fall. The troop
scoutmaster congratulated Billy for his achievement. Then he offered
a shock to the entire assembly of Boy Scouts and parents.
With his hand upon Billy's shoulder, he announced, "Billy is my
Number One Scout for knot tying. From this night on, no one passes
the requirements for knot tying and rope work unless Billy qualifies
you."
A tear began to trickle from the corner of Billy's eye as he stood
there, proud and smiling, and a few onlookers cleared their noses
during his moment of triumph.
-- Ern Grover |
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