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The home of Scouting in Central
and Northern New York |
| Stories | |
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submitted by: Ern Grover
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| The 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. One day 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. |
