Up and at 'em

“A scout! He enjoys a hike through the woods more than he does a walk over the city’s streets. He can tell north or south or east or west by the ‘signs.’ He can tie a knot that will hold, he can climb a tree which seems impossible to others, he can swim a river, he can pitch a tent, he can mend a tear in his trousers, he can tell you which fruits and seeds are poisonous and which are not, he can sight nut-bearing trees at a distance; he can reef a sail or take his trick at the wheel, and can pull an oar or use paddles and sculls; he knows the stars by name and can find his way by them; he can identify birds and animals and fish and knows the ways and habitat of each.”

And it goes on from there. He is brilliant. He “possesses the quiet power that comes from knowledge.” He “would die rather than have [his honor!] stained.” Creepy, but he “can make himself known to a brother scout wherever he may be by a method which only scouts can know.”

The introduction to the 1920 Boy Scouts of America handbook. The picture they’re painting of a boy scout sounds like a woodland Jesus, Daniel Boone crossed with Mata Hari and the dog whisperer. Sadly, guys, I’m nothing like that.

I’m Emily, a late-20s NYC schoolteacher. I live a half a block from the subway in a walk-up in Brooklyn, a long way from the woods the ideal Boy Scout holds dear. I can hardly tell my right from my left, and I wouldn’t know a nut-bearing tree from a can of salted peanuts (which, I’m pretty certain, do not grow on trees). Also, I’m not a boy.

However, this is no reason not to strive for self-improvement. (Isn’t that what a good Scout would do?) In a moment of weakness, and in a search to escape my urban lifestyle, I’ve gotten my hands on a reprint of the original 1911 Boy Scout Handbook. And I’m planning to earn me some badges . . . .

Welcome aboard.