Anyway, while I've been working on my latest toy plane, I had a few memories pop up that I wanted to share with you.
There's much to discuss about those warm summer days in Pennsylvania...
- The cold showers from spring-fed water.
- The rain that soaked just about everything for days.
- The patch trading.
- The lack of girls, except when Junior Miss Teen rode through the camp in her limo.
- The demonstration tents - how to make paper from scratch and stuff like that.
If you're the same person you were, you still have compassion for those less able to participate in normal social activities, folks with severe physical ailments or mental challenges. I'm glad people like you exist in the world, who have the drive, commitment and patience to care for folks like that. Even when we were teens, you volunteered to help other Boy Scouts at Camp Davy Crockett during the week set aside for "special" kids.
While I was sorting through these thoughts three decades old, another memory came to me. When I was a teen, I built framed-and-papered balsa wood flying models. So, while at Jamboree, when we found out about a contest to see who could build and fly a balsa model, you encouraged me to try.
I still have the two planes I built at Jamboree. They sit on a shelf a few feet from me in my study, a reminder of my youth I like to keep handy. Somewhere behind me sits a box that contains the prize I won at the Jamboree balsa plane contest, a scale model of the B1 bomber.
I suppose you have kids by now. I don't. My wife has me as her "child." Otherwise, we spoil our nieces and nephews, although they've grown up and are past the spoiling age. Pretty soon, we'll start spoiling our great-nieces and great-nephews.
Speaking of spoiled, do you remember what happened after the contest was over? As you may recall, another Scout brought with him a large, beautiful balsa wood model he had built for the Jamboree. He was upset that the judge would not let him enter the model that he'd built with his father's guidance. After the contest, he approached me and offered to buy the B1 bomber from me. When I declined, he offered to trade his balsa wood plane for the B1 bomber, wanting to take home something to show his father that he'd won the contest with this special plane he'd built.
I have a dim memory of what that kid's plane looked like. His design was something outside my budget at the time, my being somewhat restricted to plane size/cost because of my income (lawnmowing), which was eaten up by double dates and church outings.
We all have our dreams. We have family. We have our reasons for interacting with others. Can I say why I didn't trade the little B1 bomber for a big balsa wood model I'd never build for myself? Not really. I can guess that I had a form of integrity and fairness in my thoughts, balancing my ideas of what others would say about me in keeping the B1 bomber against trading it for something bigger and better.
Today, you're probably sitting behind a bench or sitting in your chambers balancing the lives of one part of a family against the lives of another part. More than likely, you operate with your compassion first and foremost, weighing it and comparing it to the laws and regulations with which your education and on-the-job training has provided.
When we were 15, you congratulated me on winning the contest fair and square, even though I had officially gotten second place. You saw the facts for what they were - my plane had flown farther than any others - and ignored the judge's verdict that the other boy's plane had ended up farther down the hill than mine because a gust of wind cartwheeled the boy's plane across the ground.
Today, I sit here and ponder the wisdom of a fellow 15-year old. You showed me that it's what we count in our thoughts that matters, not what others say, think or do. You showed other kids it's not what you're missing or what others say you don't have that matters - make miracles with what you have. I hope you're stilling making miracles.
Your friend,
Rick
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