We had traveled long miles to be there—my brother at the wheel of a Jeep grand wagoneer, his eldest son then in his earliest years, his mom, my mom, my big sister. We rolled into the camp in Snow Canyon quietly and unseen. We hid out in a trailer overlooking the tents and fire circle. We peeked out through the curtains obscuring the wide, short windows to see men milling about, making preparations for dinner. When I poked my head up and scanned the camp, I spotted my Dad. The old, unsuspecting buffalo was talking, smiling, and laughing with owls, foxes, and other Wood Badge attendees. He did not realize that his family was watching him, nor that he was about to receive Scouting's highest service award, the Silver Beaver.
Thankfully our presence was made known before dinner, rather than after (I was a hungry teen). Dad was absolutely surprised and after huge smiles and hugs, we grabbed plates and got in line. One of the men let us in on a great Scout leader secret: in the cast iron pot, hidden beneath the layers of hamburger patties, were thick, juicy steaks and, as honored guests, we should dig deep.
I sat down near two men, Chuck Loveless and Bill Birch, both grinning, obviously happy to have a new, captive audience as the jibes started with no delay. Chuck leaned in toward me and began, "So I can tell that you are not two-faced . . . Or you wouldn't be wearing that one." Pun folllowed one-liner followed playful insult, the two winking and elbowing. I started to laugh and, overcome with the suspense and now, the humor, I laughed until it hurt, barely choking down the meal with happy tears.
That was one of the best moments, hiding in a trailer with my family, waiting to surprise my Dad and see him honored by his peers for serving others. Today, it feels like we are all in the trailer again, though he is the one who is waiting and watching for us. It will be nice to hear him laugh.
