Last Monday I became a parody of myself.
I took to the woods with my ten-year-old son, accompanying six of his friends, and some of their parents to Scout Camp in Wisconsin. Our kids are Webelos, going into fifth grade. We joined around 100 other kids and parents (mostly dads) from Minnesota and Western Wisconsin. I take exception to some of the political views and social policies of the Boy Scouts of America at an organizational level. I also acknowledge and appreciate the excellent work that they do creating opportunities for real achievement and leadership for boys. I saw it first-hand: the program was run by young people, who were, um, uniformly competent, as well as “Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly…” and at least eight other things that they aspire and commit to be. Say what you will – the Scouts teach a time-honored conception of virtue. It is not an accident that the Scouting movement in the U.S. celebrates its 100th anniversary this year.
As a kid, I bailed after Cub Scouts, and I wasn’t paying attention during most of that time. So this week, I felt like I was venturing into unknown territory. My son and I followed the packing guides, and we got our mandatory training on how to coexist peacefully with bears in the woods (no Snickers in the tent, no how, no way…).
Most important, I decided to be fully in the experience. I chose to leave my laptop behind, rather than harness my considerable backup battery capacity. I took an actual vacation from work. I brought my smart phone, but turned it off while stuff was going on, choosing instead to be a part of the stuff. We had a great time together.
A highlight was the first campfire. The wood was blazing, the s’mores were sticking to everything (but none were returning to the tents), and ten-year-old boys delighted in whittling sticks into all kinds of…whittled sticks.
Then some kid said, “Tell us some ghost stories!”
We were thrilled – for a moment. Then, we realized: we couldn’t do it. We stared at each other. All of us remembered a few terrifying climaxes: bloody hooks hanging from car doors, avenged dismemberments, and legendary acts of mayhem committed ON THIS SPOT! None of us could remember – or spin – a single, coherent ghost story.
The ancient storytellers could regale their campfires with epics like Homer’s Odyssey, or the Epic of Gilgamesh. I even talk to leaders about the power of storytelling to transform and reinforce organizational cultures. But, when the rubber met the road, I was NOT PREPARED. Nobody else was, either. We couldn’t compose enough plot line to startle a bunch of ten year olds.
So, we grabbed our phones and Googled “Ghost Stories.” The show went on, but I cannot help but fear that a small part of our ancient and collective soul died on the spot.
