This is part 2. (Moose out front shoulda toldja.) If you haven't read last week's blog, go do that now. I'll wait.
Okay, now that you've done that, I'm gonna recap anyway. (Have to get back in the mood.) If I recall correctly (you don't expect ME to read it again, do ya?) when I left off our regular Staff Advisor (Bob, remember him?) had commitments elsewhere for a week, and had called Stan (more on him in a second) to fill in. Stan had jumped right into the mix by making his own Coup Stick, by the way. Camp Zero had been painted, the Camp Director was pi... not amused ..., but had to leave camp on urgent business. And you were on the edge of your seat waiting for me to continue.
A couple more things: I mentioned that the crapper had been painted shut. My good friend Russell, who happens to have been a camper in Troop Zero that year, sent me some pictures from way back then. Brace yourself:
In case you're not familiar with the way Scout Camp latrines were constructed back then, (modern health codes having brought plumbing to the wilderness,) these were box latrines. There was running water for handwashing, and a shower on the other side of one of the walls, but it basically consisted of a pit with a wooden box over it, with a couple of holes covered with hinged wooden lids (to keep the smell down.) What you see here (under the paint) is the lid. It is painted shut. What I love about this picture (and I had forgotten until I saw this) you will notice at the bottom center that they also painted a roll of toilet paper. I'll won't review the artwork, but if you'd like to I'll be happy to consider publishing it here. (If I can get you to write my blog for me, so much the better. Like Tom Sawyer, painting the latrine.)
Anyway, an atmosphere of impending doom descended upon the staff. We started the morning programs. I made my way down to the Archery Range and taught my morning classes. The Camp Director was out of Camp. The Program Director was in charge. The Staff Advisor was there, ostensibly, in an advisory role.
The Staff Advisor ordered the Program Director to call the whole staff to the headquarters for a meeting. Dave replied that he was not going to shut down the program. Stan's well reasoned reply: "You're fired." Stan dispatched a younger staffer to the Rifle Range to tell Bill to shut it down for a staff meeting. Bill replied that he would, after his last morning class. David had brought a bicycle, for ease and speed of travelling about camp. Stan saw a bike and hopped on it to go round up staff, to which Dave said: "Get off my bike." To the best of my knowledge, Stan complied.
After my last morning Archery class I walked back up to the Headquarters building. Something wasn't right. I saw David (the Program Director) and asked him what was up. His answer was something to the effect of "Don't ask me. I don't work here." Stan tells me to go down to the dining hall and tell the staff there to come up to the headquarters for a staff meeting. Assessing the situation, I cheerfully comply. Later in life, working in Tech Support, I have adopted the motto "Give them what they ask for, not what they want."
Mrs. Mott, I mentioned last week, was also in camp, as was their daughter and son. Mrs. Alexander, the widow of the long-time Camp Ranger, was in charge of the Kitchen. The two Mott ladies were working there too. I'm pretty sure Stan wanted me to round up the boys who were setting up tables. I figure Staff means Staff, so I went to the Staff Members in Charge. Mrs. Alexander said, in essence, Stan can take a flying leap, I have a camp to feed. The rest of the STAFF returned with me to Headquarters. We go in and take our seats.
David was sulking on the porch (as I recall.) I think Stan may have ordered him inside, but he replied that he didn't work there. (I may be making that up.) Anyway, Stan addressed the meeting. He didn't seem particularly pleased that I had brought the ladies. I think I can quote him verbatum: "Mrs. Mott, Miss Mott, I know you weren't involved in this, you can go." Mrs. Mott replied "Thank you, we'll stay." I might mention here that Mrs. Mott had had some health issues that had impacted her memory. Therefore she had developed the habit of taking accurate and detailed notes of things she thought might be important. She had pen in hand.
Also, I had mentioned that Robin was working at least one full time job in addition to his full time job on staff (which can be done easily if you never sleep. I wish I could remember all the sleep deprivation stories.) Anyway, Robin had been working all night at Seven Eleven, just returned to camp, and had obviously not been on the paint crew. Stan says "Everybody who was not involved in painting Camp Zero can leave." Nobody moves. Stan is not amused. No one else seems to care. Robin says "Mr. Stan, I don't think that's fair." Stan's well reasoned reply: "You're fired."
Nothing much came of Stan's staff meeting. The staff proceeded, en masse, to the dining hall, sat and ate. The silence was deafening. The tension in the air was thick. The campers sat at their tables. We finished lunch. The campers finished lunch. No one moved. (I mentioned in part one that we did a LOT of program. The meal programs were very popular.) Stan stood up and dismissed the campers.
No one moved.
It was quiet. One of the Troop leaders ..., the Leader of Troop Zero stood, and announced: "We're not going anywhere. We want our program."
Staff sat.
The dining hall door opened, and Mr. Mott entered, without a word. He walked up to the staff table, right behind his wife. Mrs. Mott lifted up her little notebook. He glanced at it, and spoke: "Come on Staff, let's go." The Staff rose, en masse, and followed him out of the dining hall.
Stan was now in fine form. "We don't need a staff. The Professional Scouters can run this camp." (This from a guy who can't dismiss a dining hall.) Staff proceeds to staff camp, and begins packing. Stan get's on the phone to the Scout Office. (I understand the Scout Executive's response was "What's he doing there? He doesn't work here any more.)
Staff continued packing. Bob reappeared. I'm not sure whether he was on his way back anyway, or he got a call from the Scout Office, but he approached Mr. Mott in the parking lot, as he was about to put two shotguns into his car. (Mr. Mott was a gun smith, by the way.) He was holding two double-barrelled breach-loaders, one under each arm. Bob approached him. "Mr. Mott, I understand your problem...."
At this moment Stan walked across the parking lot. Mr. Mott gestured with the shotgun under his right arm: "THERE'S our problem."
Bob continued. "I understand that, and I promise that is being taken care of." (Or words to that effect. It may be that at this point Stan got into his car and left camp. It would work into the story well that way. Heck, I'm tellin' the story, that's how it happened.)
Bob continued, "I'd like to ask you to reconsider. Would you and your staff stay on? For the campers?"
The whole staff was now standing in the parking lot. (The CK parking lot was not very big at that time either.) Once again, it was quiet. Leroy stood there, with a shotgun under each arm, and looked around. "Well, Staff? What do you say?"
Well, I'm sure you know how it went from there. We spent another hour UNpacking, didn't get any afternoon program at all done, and went back to the dining hall for supper. I'm thinking we pretty much made up for the lunch program. Mott had Stan's Coup Stick, took it to the middle of the dining room, stomped it and snapped it in half. The Crowd went Wild. (That pretty much wrapped up the Coup Stick game.)
Anyway, that's it. The Great Staff Walk Out of Seventy Six. I hope the ending wasn't too anticlimactic. There might be a few followup anecdotes that I find amusing, (like Douglas Adams' packet of bisquets) but I won't inflict those on you now. If you were there I'd like to hear your recollections.
I did just notice that this very evening, at this very camp, my Order of the Arrow Lodge is celebrating its 75th anniversary:
http://www.bacbsa.org/event/1229921. I'm sorry to miss it.
But at least I can retire in 639 days. Get off my lawn.
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