Pack Your Bags!

Galatians Chapter six, verse 9.... "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." My father was the scoutmaster of troop 625 for almost ten years. Daddy (or "JB" as we called him-it stood for "Jackie Boy") delighted in that role. JB loved everything to do with the outdoors, be it hunting, fishing, camping or just rambling through the woods marveling at the beauty of nature and admiring God's handiwork. He especially loved sharing his experiences with us boys and showing us how to overcome great odds by working together as a team. Troop 625 was a sort of rag-tag group of misfits and ruffians; a mixture of Beta Club student scholars and reckless daredevil vandals, a collection of guys from a wide variety of socioeconomic backgrounds be it "Lakeside" kids or "Firestone" kids. Daddy made sure that we all were equals, and not one of us were outside his wrath or love. Oh, it was probably in the Spring of 1980 that we held one of many weekend camp out at Dr. Randolph Charles' farm. He had been the long-time Scoutmaster for 625 and owned a tract of land about 5 miles outside of Bennettsville which he graciously allowed Troop 625 to use for camping. It was a wonderful place for camping as it was situated in a grove of hardwoods on high ground with good drainage. A hardwood grove meant that the red bugs were at a minimum and the high ground with a nice slope to Naked Creek kept us from getting flooded in the unfortunate event of a heavy downpour. A well was onsite with an old pitcher pump for water and a trail had been blazed down to Naked Creek in case you decided to take a bath (yeah, right!). The campsite was also at the edge of a hay field of at least 200 acres. It was as perfect of a spot as any in Marlboro County! We arrived onsite around 4:30 pm and set about getting tents erected, dining fly canopies raised and "chuck boxes" assembled and organized. Friday nights were pretty busy as we all were working to get everything set up and established, and dinner was usually a quick affair like hot dogs roasted over a campfire or "foil meals"...a hamburger patty with sliced onion, wrapped in foil and placed in the coals of a fire. Following dinner we typically gathered around JB's fire where he would lay out the plans for Saturday and to listen to him and whatever adults were in attendance tell tall tales, to listen to each other boast of exploits either real or imagined and to generally enjoy each other's company around the warmth of a soothing fire. Each patrol had their own area for tents, dining fly and a campfire; JB wisely situated his setup a good distance away from the rest of us. Wisely! Saturday morning arrived (as always, after a night of fitful sleep) as a salmon pink glow from the east. We arose, one by one, and gathered around the remnants of the campfires which were coaxed back into life with the addition of piles of pine straw and copious amounts of "Jon-E" lighter fluid. We would stand around in stunning silence, watching the amazing transition of nighttime into daylight.

We would eat Pop-tarts for breakfast to reduce the need for cleaning up which, in turn increased our time for activity! JB, on the other hand, would be over at his dining fly whipping up sausage, bacon and eggs on his Coleman stove. An old percolator would be gurgling it's random rhythm on a second burner, adding to the pleasing aroma that inevitably invited the adults in attendance to exit their tents and face the morning chill with slightly thick heads. With our morning repast of artificially-sweetened crackermeal pastries downed, we would use the time between reveillie and the whistle JB would blow to call the patrols to "fall in" to engage in some sort of tomfoolery. We knew we had at least an hour to get into mischief, for the adults would be taking a bit of time to get "cranked up", to clear their bleary eyes and thick heads of the previous night's assault on their advanced age. An impromptu meeting between members of Rattlesnake Patrol and Bear Patrol was organized to plot out which of the other two patrols would suffer an attack that evening in the form of hidden tripwires, sneak attacks on chuck boxes to raid them of their Pop-tarts or Commando-type excursions to tie twine to tent center poles for the purpose of dropping the tent on it's inhabitants in the middle of the night. Now, Harry Hollis was known for his pyrotechnic prowess and his fires were works of art. He could easily reenact the Dresden bombing of WWII, given enough pine straw and "Jon-E" lighter fluid. He could make a mushroom cloud that would turn J Robert Oppenheimer green with envy and raise the attention of the US Forestry Service employees that manned the Bennettsville Fire Tower seven miles ENE of Dr. Charles' farm. We raked up a giant pile of leaves and straw, soaked it down with a healthy dose of Jon-E fluid and poured off a trail of fluid to ignite the pile. A kitchen match was scratched and we celebrated as the pile ignited in a resounding "Foooomp!" The flames, reflecting our sense of accomplishment, rose to fifteen or twenty feet, bathing the leaves of the sweet gum trees in the brightest light they probably had ever experienced. Branches flapped in the draft and we whooped and hollered in delight. It was the first of many events of the weekend that attracted JB's attention. He was not as amused as we were.

We roared in delight as the fire roared higher and higher, and JB roared onto the scene to voice his disapproval. "Boys, y'all gonna set half of Marlboro County ablaze if you don't knock it off"! was the first of many admonitions he was to lay on us that day. We let it die down and carefully doused it with water from the pitcher pump to ensure that it was tamed to the point of no return. We were already planning a bigger, better fire. JB had laid out an orienteering course in the hayfield and several scouts were out, aligning compasses with varying degrees and counting paces. Some had gone and felled a few scrub oak trees and were limbing them in preparation for lashing them together to make a lean-to type shed for the camping merit badge. Another group were out working on the Hiking merit badge, practicing the art of blazing trails but mostly doing what curious 13 year old boys did....exploring! You would think that a full day of activity would have worn out the group of boys to the point that the nocturnal silence would be golden but the activities, along with a full moon only stirred the creative juices of adolescence! Dinner, or "supper" as we referred to it was provided by JB and was probably Chicken Bog, which JB had labored over in preparation the bulk of the day. A peach cobbler had also been made, baked in a dutch oven covered in coals from his fire. Daddy had a love of cooking, especially in the outdoors and he had put in great effort to ensure that we had a great meal that would fill bellies which would then lead to grogginess and a full night's sleep. It wasn't to happen this time around. Long after midnight, after the communal gathering of a fire and all the tall tales, all the boasts of exploits and attempts at conveying urban myths were done JB and his elder colleagues had retired to their tents to dream of the three "S" protocol upon the return to civilization. Andy Keith hatched a plan for a midnight vocal performance with rhythmic accompaniment. A group of performers were recruited, musical instruments were produced (pots, pans and an empty coffee can) and a version of the song "Black Betty", made famous by that 1970s one-hit-wonder group "Ram Jam", was performed with great enthusiasm! "Oh Black Betty, bam-a lam.....Oh Black Betty, bam-a-lam!" was chanted over and over, accompanied by a poly-rhythmic display of drum-circle talent that would put to shame any feeble attempts of smelly hippies in Asheville, NC. The lilting choral refrain echoed off the nighttime stillness and the harsh metallic beat could be heard for miles and miles, possibly disturbing the turkeys at JT Kennedy's place a few miles up David's Mill Pond Road from Dr. Charles' farm. JB didn't seem to have the same appreciation for musical talent as we and he busted out of his tent, clad in his boxers, T-shirt and a pair of hiking boots. Apparently we had found his breaking point of tolerance and patience. "Pack your bags! Pack your bags!" Every damn last one of you, pack your bags! You're going home!" His booming salute to our performance was nothing short of epic, and we took the hint and wrapped up the show without an encore. 40 years down the road, whenever any of us from 625 meet we still laugh about "Pack your Bags".....it became a hallmark phrase from our childhood and is illustrative of Daddy's reward. Daddy did indeed reap what he sowed, for Daddy instilled in us what he intended. Our time spent with him formed us into the men we are today and he gave us so many great memories that have stuck with us to this day. There is so much that can be said about him but all I can say is I'm proud to have been under the tutelage of JB, and even prouder to call him Daddy. Godspeed Daddy, I miss you every day and you know as well as I that your time, effort, grief and love has been richly rewarded for many great men still talk about you. Your harvest was bountiful. Thank you!