A Matter of Record

 

I better make it clear straight off that there were two completely different iterations of Cambridge Troop 62 in my tenure with the organization, divided into eras I’ll call with and without Record, this Record being Dick Record, Don’s younger brother. Don at least drew a paycheck to put up with my idiocy where brother Dick did it for free, and for many years too. Scoutmaster Record most patiently taught us bunches of neat stuff every boy needed to learn, from first aid to fire safety.

Mr. Record took us for weekend camping trips, organized and led all sorts of community service projects, and provided a role model few could surpass. Most seriously, I think Dick deserves a statue near the old Cambridge school by the library where he led scout meetings most every Thursday night. Much like his brother Don, Dick had much to do with helping make Cambridge a great place to live by working with and inspiring hundreds of boys who needed guidance to grow and people worth emulating. Mr. Record epitomized every quality expected of a great scoutmaster. Unfortunately, even the best can’t perform miracles. Some scouts rise to eagle status. We were a flock of turkey vultures.

When I first hit the keyboards, I thought Dick gave up scouting after more than 30 years of service because he decided he’d rather run naked holding two pork chops with a pack of wild dogs chasing him than trying to get a bunch of adolescent idiots like us to act with any semblance of normal humanity. Dick’s wife Linda remembers this differently and recalls Dick following the events I will soon describe. Having been accused of brain damage more than once, far be it from me to claim hold on infallible memory. I do know for sure that Linda’s as nice and community oriented as her former husband who sadly passed away a few years ago.

Irrespective of timeline memories, I still feel compelled to offer an apology to any adult who tried to mold the characters in Troop 62. Even as stupidly insensitive boobs, we really liked Dick a lot. We were just too wildly immature to fully appreciate what a great guy he was and how hard he worked for our best interests simply because he cared. Maybe it well help to say I learned much later, as a teacher specializing in at-risk teenagers, that we can plant many mental seeds, but these often take years to germinate. I’m completely certain that Dick taught us a million valuable lessons, perhaps the most important about decency and fair play, which he imparted just by being himself. We simply weren’t ready yet to apply the lessons, but nearly all of us eventually did. Dick’s good work with us endured, even if it wasn’t often apparent at the time.

As for my original memory, I thought Dick realized he just wasn’t mean enough to cope with kids who needed a full board of education, in this case a two by four right up side the head, something Dick would never do, but we absolutely required. If I had to draft a most appropriate Cambridge resident to train our mob of junior insurrectionists back in the 60s it would be Carlton Peters because he worked as a Comstock prison guard and would have had the requisite experience, not to mention the handcuffs and mace.

Undoubtedly, there was a distinctly different Troop 62 Mr. Record had nothing to do with, one I could best describe as more of a uniformed street gang than a scout troop, and the Crips were probably more polite. Thanks to Mr. Record, I still remember the Scout Oath: “A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent.” Out of the lot of them, maybe I could apply two. We were fairly cheerful and had no choice but to be thrifty because most of us rarely had any money. The rest? Hoo boy, if they held summary courts-martial in the scouting program, we’d have all gone into the stockade by the time we were 14.

I’m not going to name any of the adults who tried to manage us in this Troop 62 version as none of them deserves the slightest bit of criticism for volunteering to work with a bunch of kids who made a great case for birth control. Personally, I think we should flog anyone who publically criticizes volunteers who take valuable and most limited time to work with kids, especially nutso boys. Then and now, we have way too many critics and way too few volunteers; we’re most fortunate with those we could/can get and should never expect perfection. The people who tried to cope with our crew deserve to be thanked irrespective of performance or outcome, which with us, was often far, far less than desired.

Anyway, our two scoutmasters were completely different guys. In spite of all of our efforts, I never once saw Dick get angry. He had the patience of Job. Our other scoutmaster, though, had human limits, and when he got angry, which with our behavior was about every ten minutes on average, he was, well…colorful. By this I mean when angered our scoutmaster went off a lot like Yosemite Sam, except his vocabulary was X rated when angry, which we absolutely loved and did our best to inspire as often as possible.

My most vivid memory of many lecture series packed with fiery nouns and verbs was at our infamous Camporee at Willard Mountain. We were under formal uniform inspection, the best troop to receive some sort of prestigious award. Of course, we were all on our best behavior.

It took a Herculean effort just to get us into any organized formation; keeping us in place was another matter, and then we still had to pull some sort of prank, in this case on a poor scout I’ll just call Pete, who was completely blameless and just a victim of circumstances.

Pete came from a poor Cambridge family and was having a growth spurt at the time, quite common for the age. His secondhand uniform was about four sizes too small; his pants legs were what we called “high water,” a good six inches too short, and he had yet to master matching socks. To top this off his zipper was open, the back of his shirt untucked, and he had his wrinkled scout cap on backwards. Standing next to this poor unfortunate, I just couldn’t resist a little accessorizing, so I stuck a blue jay feather out of the back of his backwards cap, a fine touch if I do say so myself.

Our scoutmaster and official district inspector made their way down our crooked formation looking more like an unemployment line than a scout troop. Both reviewers stopped in front of poor Pete.

First came our scoutmaster’s invocation. Jesus was personally addressed several times before the second stanza that went something like, “Pete, you blankety, blank, blank, blank blank. You call that blankety, blank blank a uniform, you blankety, blank, blank hammerhead.”

This uniform review was special for another reason. We didn’t know it at the time, but our inspector, when not in volunteer mode, was a Methodist minister who could really appreciate fine oratory. He never said a word and was absolutely dumbstruck, mouth partially open in what sure seemed a complete case of shock. I don’t know how long the poor minister stood in place, it seemed like days, but was probably just seconds, before he simply turned and walked out of camp while poor Pete received his third lecture and more calls to higher powers.

It got even better. One of many reasons I believe in God today is that many times in life I’ve witnessed events when somebody should have been seriously hurt or killed but wasn’t. I truly believe God frequently protects fools and those who have no choice but to be near them. Troop 62 kept its Guardian Angel working overtime. The following is a good case in point.

Not long after our fine review, some of Troop 62’s more intrepid members decided to hike up the side of the ski slope at Willard Mountain. At the mountain’s base were many campsites from troops from all over the area, definitely over a hundred tents.

Most Camporees were in the early fall and I think this one was too, but I could be wrong. I am sure though it was warm and well before ski season. The slope was receiving some form of maintenance and there were a number of long telephone poles about halfway up the ski slope placed so that the poles ran in the same direction of the slope and wouldn’t roll down the mountain. These proved irresistible, and I really don’t remember who was involved. For one of the few times in my youth I was doing what I was told to do and that was attending a large assembly of all the troops in some common gathering for what may have been an awards ceremony. Maybe I hoped Troop 62 would merit some special mention as we’d sure done our best to make a most memorable impression earlier, but a larger one was on the horizon. Purpose aside, had it not been for this assembly I’m sure someone would have been hurt or killed because The Fools on the Hill were ready to rumble.

Not being present, I have no idea who decided it was a swell idea to see if one of the long creosote-soaked poles could be rolled down the mountain. It had to take quite a bit of effort and more than a few hands, but Troop 62 was full of industrious individuals. Somehow, someway, a pole was turned 90 degrees and sent down the hill like a fast-moving steamroller. I don’t know how many tents were flattened but do know no one was injured. I’m not sure the event was even pinned on Troop 62, but do remember at some point the whole troop being placed on formal Camporee suspension for a year, but that may have happened later. Like I said previously, we pulled so many boneheaded stunts it’s hard many years distant to keep them in chronological order.

I do have at least one more Troop 62 saga to unfold that I’m sure happened later, a week at Camp Wakpominee. Lots of Cambridge guys remember old Camp Wakpominee, but only a select few had to duck bullets there. I’ll publish this epistle next Monday, but before I do, I’d like to salute another important Cambridge Record.

 

Brother Don

 

I don’t think I ever had pie a la mode at the Cambridge Hotel, but I do remember the best time I ever had there, an evening my wife Mary and I spent with Don Record. He’ll always be Mr. Record to me, my sixth grade teacher and football/ baseball coach, a man I both feared and respected as a student, probably good that Mr. Record imparted both feelings as I was at a stage in life where it was absolutely required I feared something in order to respect it. Today, while I no longer fear the man, I still respect him enormously because I believe he embodies much of what made Cambridge a great place to grow up.

In 1966 Mr. Record drew what has to be one of the toughest jobs a teacher can face, and I speak with considerable experience here after spending 34 years in classrooms and public schools. I don’t know how or why he drew the joker in this particular deck of students, but Mr. Record was tasked with an extremely difficult pupil who also happened to be the boss’s oldest son, both Dad and I being in our first year in Cambridge, memorable for lots of reasons. It wasn’t until many years later, when my own school superintendant’s daughter enrolled in a summer program I directed, that I could even partially appreciate Mr. Record’s challenging assignment.

Even as a stupid sixth grader, I did believe that Mr. Record treated me fairly, which I must stress wasn’t easy as I severely tested every adult and most kids I came into contact with. He was an outstanding teacher and coach, which I didn’t really fathom at the time, but I completely understood, even as a Bart Simpson clone, that with Mr. Record I’d get what I deserved, good or bad, all depending on what I did or didn’t do, and not who I was or was not.

Memorable for me and a truly fitting example was a time Mr. Record told me repeatedly, and various nefarious associates also, to remove carpet tacks a bunch of us hammered into the heels of our shoes. Not only did the clicking sound seem cool on the school’s hard tile floors to our sophisticated sixth grade senses, the tacked shoes doubled as skis. We’d take a good run down any hallway, lift up the tips of our shoes and see who could do the longest skid. We also pioneered a wide variety of stunt moves. Stairways doubled as ski jumps, if you jumped quickly enough before the non-skid stair lip grabbed the tacks. If that happened, one could expect a good crash and burn, a quick face plant accompanied by lots of derisive laughter. All in all, good clean fun, but that soon changed for me.

Our class had just returned from lunch when I first realized Mr. Record had a keen sense of humor. As usual, I had a fudge sickle in hand, the best way I ever spent a nickel. I sat down in my desk and so did Mr. Record at his. He quickly looked over at me some six feet away. For some strange reason my teachers always kept me fairly close, although I longed for the back row where the cool crowd congregated with John Quackenbush. Mr. Record frowned at me and growled, “Brown, you have exactly one minute to get those tacks out of your shoes or you’re going to the office.”

Fifty years later I still feel the terror. The dreaded office. Dad would, of course, learn about this, and then things would get even worse. It wouldn’t have been Dad’s office, though, this delightful responsibility would fall on Jim Leone’s shoulders, another good guy I never appreciated at the time.

I knew I couldn’t pull the carpet tacks out by hand, and had no screwdriver nearby to use as a convenient lever and tool of choice for tack changing. I quickly decided the fudge sickle stick might make a good substitute, and reversed my hold, quickly squishing half of the ice cream onto my lap while the remainder dripped down my wrist and arm as I furiously dug the stick into my shoes for no good effect. I don’t know how long I did this, but when I finally looked up in desperation at Mr. Record he was laughing so hard I could see the veins bulge in his neck.

“Go get yourself cleaned up in the boy’s room,” he said, adding something I don’t exactly remember about what would happen to me if he had to again address the tack issue. He never did; the fudge sickle lesson proved most instructive.

Anybody who knows Cambridge is already aware that Don Record was one of the finest athletes ever to play here. Many told me he could have played professionally had he not suffered a debilitating back injury. I never had the privilege to see Coach Record play at his peak, it must have been mighty special, but I sure did get to see him demonstrate his talent numerous times, a most memorable one during a basketball game where he seemed to specialize in hitting his teammates in the face with one of his super-athletic passes. This was not at all deliberate, the essential problem was Mr. Record’s teammates just weren’t anywhere near his ability level.

Living down here in San Antonio, I’ve become a great Spur’s fan. Mr. Record’s game I’d best describe by comparing it to the now retired but still world famous Manu Ginobili. Mr. Record had a most similar bag of exotic tricks, the ability to fire behind the back passes and getting nothing but net after shooting at ridiculously difficult angles just two of them. Just like Manu, he was a blast to watch in action. It’s also important to know when I saw this demonstration Mr. Record was long past his prime and had to wear a heavy back brace that looked to weigh 10 pounds.

Even more memorable, though, was the opportunity to face my coach as a batter. Mr. Record could throw a curve ball that appeared to break somewhere north of Salem but would hit the strike zone just about every time. He could also throw a knuckle ball, one of the scariest things I’ve ever had thrown at me. The ball acted like a tiny spacecraft under remote control. It absolutely terrified me on its approach. I never got anywhere near close to hitting anything Coach Record threw, but this was not really amazing as most JV pitchers could strike me out. I think the most important aspect of all this is that Coach Record took the time to work with a benchwarmer like me just as he did a star like Doug Luke, one of the few Cambridge athletes in my memory that I’d say was anywhere near Mr. Record’s level.

Some 20 years later I had the privilege to spend a few hours at the hotel mostly talking with Mr. Record about teaching. I had about five years under my teaching belt back then, enough to really call myself a teacher, and my former one acknowledged this to my great pride as we visited together. Mr. Record sponsored and organized the alumni basketball tournament for many years, the culmination usually being a gathering at the hotel. This visit came after I first walked into my old alma mater for purely social reasons, finally knowing how stupid it was to have stayed away for so long.

I enjoyed the evening immensely, but still couldn’t get the picture out of my head of Mr. Record during the carpet tack escapade. I swear I could still feel the ice cream running down my arm.