This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
First, I have to admit that I have fond memories of my Boy Scout years. Scouting was one of the few constants in my family's nomadic military life.
No matter which military post the Old Man dragged us to, there was always a Scout troop ready to take me in. Whether it was altruistic intent or poor communication between troops, I can't say. It was enough that they allowed me to participate.
Sure, it could be a bit unnerving moving into a new troop, particularly if a longstanding rite of initiation required climbing a tree stark naked with a pine cone clutched between ones ham's. Drop the pine cone and you had to start over.
Oh, relax. This was old-school scouting. Besides, the embarrassment lasted only until it was your turn to watch. Then you laughed so hard that someone close by better know how to do CPR.
Despite how much I enjoyed scouting, I was thoroughly miserable at it. Assorted mental issues, routine defiance of authority, and zero impulse control made it so that I never advanced beyond Second Class. I failed to earn a single merit badge.
Instead, I earned other badges of note. I still have them: hatchet scar, wolf trap scar, fishhook scar, chained-to-the-bumper-of-a-truck scar, and faint marks on my legs from a can of pork & beans one of the idiot Leavitt twins tossed into a campfire.
None of those is the fault of the BSA, its leaders, or even Ray, the scoutmaster who gave me one of them. I earned all those badges myself. It may not have been completely safe scouting, but at least it kept my interest up. Good times.
My wife is not a fan of the BSA. Her own family didn't have much to do with it. Beyond knowing the program existed, she understood that Boy Scouts was limited to, well, boys. She was basically indifferent to Scouting for the first few years of our marriage.
Everything changed when we had only daughters. Suddenly the outdoor part of the LDS gospel plan became a matter of great concern, specifically how there's no equal program for girls in the LDS Church.
My wife noticed immediately that the Young Men/Boy Scouts rafted rivers, climbed mountains, fired guns, had bloody pine cone fights, taunted bears and occasionally set entire forests ablaze.
Conversely, Young Women went to a park with grass, restrooms and picnic tables. They made s'mores while listening to leaders' testimonies. According to my daughters, girls camp was felony-level boring and they hated it.
Eventually came the day when my wife put her foot down. We didn't have sons, so exactly how were we benefiting by contributing money to the Boy Scouts of America? Since I didn't have a good explanation (and rarely ever do), we stopped donating.
Today, those who come to our door collecting for Friends of Scouting do so at their peril. If my wife answers the door, she will politely explain that FOS does not stand for "Friends of Scouting," but rather "Full of [Something]" before shutting the door.
My LDS ward knows this. The person doing the collecting will call my cellphone from the middle of the street and ask if I personally want to contribute. If my wife isn't home, I might wrap some cash around a pine cone and toss it to them, with the understanding that it can never be traced back to me.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.