Among my voluminous memory files is a fond recollection of my teenage years as a boy scout, especially the one I might title "Thanks, Tough Man." I look back on that event with a sinful amount of pride, the kind of pride that causes a person to boast whenever the occasion permits. Several times I have managed to slip in the story when I am among persons involved in scouting.

Our troop had a reputation of excellence, brought about of course, by the demanding leadership of a strong scoutmaster. We scouts encouraged the reputation at every opportunity, modestly, of course. But one night we were to learn just how good we were. It happened at an area wide camp out with several scout troops participating.

About thirty boys were in our troop, all helping to set up our tent sites under the watchful eyes of our scoutmaster. The location was on a scouting ranch situated just below the Texas Caprock, the part of the state that rises sharply from a few hundred feet above sea level to about a thousand. It was hot, really steaming, and we boys were inclined to take shortcuts in our tent stake pounding, attempting to finish quickly. But that tough man came around examining our work, making us do it right, positioning the tent properly, digging a good drainage ditch on either side and across the back, driving the long tent stakes deep in the ground. We moaned and groaned, but we did it the way he wanted.

About midnight the adult leaders were rousting all of us out of our bedrolls and making us go to a structurally sound building to ride out an approaching storm that proved to be scary with strong wind and hard driving, flooding rain. We were kept in the building until daybreak at which time we were allowed back in camp.

As we walked through the encampment every tent was blown down with personal belongings soaked, every tent of all the other troops. When we arrived at our site our tents were all standing tall, dry on the inside.

Never were we more proud of our tough scoutmaster and his demanding ways.