James Montgomery Flagg's iconic image of Uncle Sam turned 96 years old yesterday.
Although most of us know the stern, finger-pointing Uncle Sam from the 1917 U.S. Army recruiting poster, he first appeared on the cover of Leslie's Weekly magazine over the caption, "What Are You Doing for Preparedness?"
Among the artist's other patriotic characters was the distaff Columbia. Flagg's Uncle Sam personified American power, authority and resolve, both at home and abroad, while his Columbia evoked Liberty, industry, unity, complacency -- human qualities, human aspirations, human failings.
In short, Uncle Sam embodied the U.S. government and everything it represents. Columbia stood for the People.
Of Flagg's many propaganda illustrations, perhaps my favorite is a menacing-looking Uncle Sam holding a pistol, from a 1917 Leslie's cover. It was captioned, "Get Off That Throne!"
I'll close with one more American propaganda image from the World War I years. This one was created not by James Montgomery Flagg but by renowned illustrator J.C. Leyendecker, a poster promoting the Boy Scouts of America's 1917 Liberty Loan Campaign.
The other day I happened upon an essay entitled, "The Gun as a Weapon of Education," written by one Edward Cave and published in a 1918 edition of The Outlook.
The headline was intriguing, certainly, but the subhead hooked me:
"Lessons from the Long Trail that Goes 'Way Around Beyond the Bleak and Barren Mountains of Mere Marksmanship to the Happy Valley of Sportsmanship"
Knowing of the author's connection to Scouting, I scanned the piece for a mention. These lines jumped out at me:
"A couple of years before the Germans turned loose their war, for eight months I disturbed the pious and pacific calm of the National headquarters of the Boy Scouts with the rude idea that Baden-Powell, the British soldier who originated the Boy Scout idea, meant their slogan, 'Be Prepared,' to imply prepared to carry a gun, not a harp."
That, my friends, is absolutely priceless. Cave continued:
"Despite instructions, I drilled my troop of Boy Scouts, and drilled them hard. Since then I have had the satisfaction of vindication on both counts. In addition, I have had the satisfaction of helping a good many thousands of Boy Scouts and plain ordinary boys to learn how to shoot a .22 rifle properly. I joined the National Rifle Association of America and the United States Revolver Association, and recently induced the former to encourage boys to take up target-shooting outdoors with the .22 rifles."
Cave's assertion that he influenced "a good many thousands of Boy Scouts and plain ordinary boys" was no idle boast -- in 1915 he published Boy Scout Marksmanship, a seminal work on the subject and a valuable primer for boys within and beyond the uniformed ranks.
Later in the text, I chuckled at Cave's expressed intent to "square up some old accounts" -- that is, to needle certain types of people that he found particularly annoying. Specifically:
"Folks who are afraid of a gun, but otherwise all right.
"Folks who will not let a big-enough boy have a gun.
"Folks who are fond of roast chicken -- and, if necessary to get it, would chase a pet rooster till red in the face and chop his head off -- yet raise objection to all hunting, and are classified among wild life conservationists as sentimentalists.
"Pacifists -- the worst of the lot."
That passage is another keeper, for sure. Cave closed his engaging essay with this:
"Far away on the horizon you see what at first appears like a fog in some distant valley. It is the smoke pall above some city, and it reminds you, hunter that you are, of the vaporings of the city men you know who can never stand where you do, nor even rise above their droll little chimneys, yet presume to force upon their fellows their narrow conception of a world outlook.
"Poor little wall-warped and roof-stunted boys who were never allowed to have a gun!"
"The Gun as a Weapon of Education" is a fun read -- playful and unapologetic, relevant despite its advanced age. I recommend it.
On our way home from work the other day, Mrs. KintlaLake and I stopped for a traffic light a few miles from our house. Rather than staring mindlessly at the signal I took purposeful note of the surroundings -- vehicles, occupants, pedestrians and businesses.
As I often do, I posed a hypothetical to my wife: "Suppose one of us needed immediate medical attention -- right here, right now. What are our options?"
We discussed the relative merits of calling 911 and waiting for the EMS squad to arrive, versus driving hell-bent to the closest emergency room (4.5 miles away). Our other alternatives included driving to the police station (1 mile), the sheriff's substation (2.5 miles) and two firehouses (1.5 and 2.5 miles).
Determining the "best" option wasn't the goal of our mental exercise. The point of my question was to practice a preparedness mindset -- observing surroundings, identifying potential threats, considering resources and tactics.
That's the way my brain works, the way it's worked for a very long time. For a clue as to why, take another look at pages 40 and 41 of the Boy Scout Handbook that I blogged about yesterday morning:
"The Scout Motto means that a Scout is prepared at any moment to do his duty, and to face danger if necessary, to help others."
"Accidents or emergencies are continually happening and Boy Scouts are prepared to help. Learn what to do in all kinds of emergencies, and how to do it. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, think through in advance what you ought to do. It will be too late if you wait until the emergency happens."
"As a Scout it is your duty to Be Prepared."
The duty to be capable -- at truly useful things, not life's frivolous pursuits -- was drummed into me as a boy growing up in the Heartland. As an adolescent I adopted Scouting's formal doctrine of preparedness, exemplified by the Scout Motto, which simply reinforced what I was raised to do.
It's a mindset that serves me well to this day.
Presented with a cold and rainy Saturday, yesterday Mrs. KintlaLake and I spent a half-dozen hours visiting local garage sales and second-hand shops in search of treasures and odd bargains.
Her prize was a whimsical electric chandelier destined to hang over our patio. I was rewarded with a tattered-but-intact copy of the 1948 Boy Scout Handbook.
The cover price of this edition of Handbook for Boys was 65¢ (equivalent to $5.58 today). I fished it out of a pile of books at the Olde Shoe Factory Antique Mall in Lancaster and paid four bucks for it.
This particular copy is from the 1948 edition's sixth printing in 1953. A handwritten inscription on the first page records that a Scout leader presented it to the young owner in November of 1953 -- that's fifteen years before I earned the rank of Tenderfoot myself.
Thumbing through the Handbook's 570 pages transports me back to my own days in Scouting. All the elements of Scoutcraft are there -- it's chock-full of primers on essential skills.
In the back of the Handbook, among pages devoted to "Books to Read" and the Index, are advertisements aimed at boys of Scouting age. To me, these are just as interesting (and perhaps more significant, culturally) as the rest of the book.
There are ads for woodcraft tools, naturally, from Marble's and Plumb, along with a page promoting Eveready flashlights and batteries. Other ads pitch shoes (Keds, Buster Brown), bicycles (Schwinn, Raleigh), photography (Kodak, Sylvania) and sports equipment (Spalding, Louisville Slugger, Bike jockstraps).
A few of the others: Lionel Trains, Evinrude and Johnson outboard motors, Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix, Coca-Cola, Baby Ruth and Tootsie Roll.
During these post-World War II years, mastering marksmanship (with actual firearms, I mean) still was considered Scoutcraft. That's why this printing included ads for Winchester, Marlin and Iver Johnson rifles. Remington went so far as to invest in a two-page spread, the only such ad in this Handbook.
Air guns do make one appearance in the Handbook's advertising section. According to the Crosman ad, a "bolt-action, single shot, gas-powered pellet rifle" -- complete with refillable CO2 cylinder -- could be had for $21.95.
That's $188.58 in today's dollars. At the time, an honest-to-goodness Winchester Model 69 cost just $28.65 (or $244.32 now).
It's a damp, overcast morning here at KintlaLake Ranch. Seems like a good time to catalog some unexpected finds.
In one of my Urban Resources posts I surveyed The Other Economy,
that rich source of goods and services operating outside the conventional marketplace. My family and I have been "shopping the roadside" a lot lately, turning up bargain after useful bargain.
I've regretted parting with my Black & Decker Benchtop Workmate since leaving it behind when I moved back to Ohio ten years ago. Introduced in the late 1970s, the Benchtop model eventually was discontinued, so if I wanted to replace it I'd have to explore the secondhand market.
I discovered this one (above) earlier this summer at a garage sale halfway down a narrow alley in our village. Other than a few stains and a little rust, I found it in excellent condition, complete except for a pair of original-issue L-bolts that clamp it to a bench.
The price: just $3.00. Two carriage bolts, two flat washers and two wingnuts, purchased at the local hardware store, put it on my workbench for a grand total of four bucks.
Because a man can never have enough vises (or vices, for that matter), at another garage sale that same day I picked up this "hobby vise" (left) for two dollars. It clamps to the work-surface with a thumbscrew and will come in handy for a variety of small projects.
Speaking of The Other Economy, our village held its annual flea market last weekend. It's not a big event, just a coupla dozen canopied tables piled with household castoffs. My wife and I came home with a three-foot chocolate rabbit (brown plastic, actually) that'll grace our front porch next Easter, and a 1960s-vintage glass-and-chrome teapot. Together, the two items cost us two bucks.
I spent one more dollar, that on an old Boy Scout "contest medal." These awards were introduced in the late 1920s, as I understand it, but they'd been retired by the time I became a Scout myself.
Wanting to get a better fix on this medal's age, yesterday I examined it with a magnifying glass. Other than the word CAMPING cast into the front, the pendant bears no markings. Stamped on the clasp at the top of the ribbon, however, is PAT. NO. 2,795,064. A bit of web-sleuthing unearthed a copy of the original patent for the clasp -- applied for in 1953, granted in 1957.
So the clasp, at least, probably is as old as I am. A buck bought me a keeper and a pleasant exercise in discovery.
I love beer -- and I mean good beer. Sure, I'm willing to throw back my earthly portion of mass-produced barley pop, but I prefer beer that has actual flavor.
In a corner-store lager, for example, I enjoy an ice-cold Rolling Rock. If I had to choose a favorite, without a doubt it'd be Rogue Brewery Dead Guy Ale. And as you might expect, I'm especially partial to small-batch local brews, like those from Columbus Brewing Company.
Recently I learned of Rockmill Brewery, located in nearby Lancaster, and its Belgian-style ales. As the story goes, Rockmill's founder discovered that the well on his family's farm produced water with the same mineral content as that found in Wallonia, Belgium, and that served as the inspiration for four unusual ales.
Mrs. KintlaLake and I savored a bottle of Rockmill Dubbel over a plate of summer sausage, sharp cheese and apple slices (this isn't a beer one serves with nachos), and we came away truly amazed. It's strong (6% to 8% ABM), full-bodied and fruity, as well as pricey ($16 for a 22-ounce bottle) -- and worth every penny.
Great beer, brewed barely a stone's throw from home -- that's as good as it gets. There's a bottle of high-octane Rockmill Tripel in my fridge, and I can't wait to pop the cork.
Finally, of course, our vegetable garden offers up discoveries almost every day -- take this green-and-yellow beauty (below) that sprang from one of the "volunteer" vines I mentioned last week. At about 12 inches long, it's the largest gourd that's set (so far). Our unintentional crop continues to spread, so there will be more.
Yesterday's post got me thinking about the dozens of metal cups that have accompanied me over the years. On a whim, I went rummaging through my gear and found four more that are still with me.
Along with my newly acquired GI canteen cup there's an original-style Sierra, a GSI with folding wire handles, a Coleman Peak1 with a rigid wire handle and a battered aluminum cup that first saw trailside duty when I wore the rank of Tenderfoot Scout. Together they span more than four decades of picnic lunches, day hikes, backpacking trips and motorcycle tours.
In the field, especially when packing light, a good cup is more than just a receptacle for beverages and soup. It's a dinner plate and a cook pot, a wash basin and even a trowel.
Each design has advantages, of course, as well as disadvantages. I've probably used various Sierra cups more than any other type, even though their relatively small capacity almost always disappoints.
Lately, with an eye on condensing my kit as much as is practical, I'm leaning more toward a "nesting" setup -- thus the GI canteen cup and also the stainless-steel GSI, which mates with a common Nalgene bottle in similar fashion. A cup's volume has become more important to me, too, primarily for water-purification purposes, so it's no accident that the GI and GSI are the largest of the bunch.
An intimate relationship can develop between cup and camper, for reasons that I hope need no explanation. That's why my well-worn Boy Scout dipper remains a sentimental favorite.
We cemented our bond in 1972, I think, at Philmont Scout Ranch. Over 75 miles of dusty trail it hung from a pack strap or my belt, clink-clanking at the end of a rawhide thong. It served me hot cocoa and tepid bug juice, beef stew and mac'n'cheese. A half-dozen years later, it drew icy water from Kintla Creek.
Other cups may be bigger or more versatile, but that one's a keeper.
Dear Parents and Carers:
During the next few weeks we intend to pursue traditional Scoutcraft, teaching our Scouts about axemanship, bush saws and knives.
We will teach good-practice dos and don'ts and use of woodcraft tools, encouraging responsibility and safety. We know this will be challenging for our Scouts, but we believe it will help develop responsibility and maturity.
Should you wish that your Scout not participate in an activity involving knives and axes, please make us aware of your wishes. You may choose to keep your Scout at home on those days. We will, of course, support your decision.
Please note that even after a Scout earns the Knife Badge, Scouting regulations prohibit the carrying of a knife under any circumstances without the express permission of the Scout Leader, and even then only when the Scout is in camp or is directly supervised.
Many thanks,
Your Scout Leaders
[That isn't a work of pessimistic fiction -- it's typical of letters sent to parents and "carers" of Scouts in the U.K. these days.]
The KintlaLake family traveled to West Virginia yesterday, an all-day excursion that began with a 3:30am wake-up call. We didn't get back home 'til nearly 10pm.
While my wife attended the morning funeral of a family friend, the younger spawn and I camped out for a while at our favorite gun shop. We chewed the fat with the manager, as usual, talking guns and politics and weather and whatever else crossed our minds.
I'd brought my range bag along, fully intending to log some trigger time at the shop's indoor setup, but I was enjoying the conversation so thoroughly that I never got 'round to it.
Mrs. KintlaLake joined us there after lunch. We spent a few more hours in the cozy confines, long enough for the independent garage next door to silence an undercarriage rattle on our Yukon XL. My wife, who practically grew up at the gun shop, even pitched-in to help with sales, advising a female customer about concealed-carry options.
I, of course, commemorated our visit by buying a knife.
The Benchmade #10115 Salmon Creek Folding Fillet is part of the maker's "Red Class," a line of inexpensive (and mostly imported) knives discontinued after 2009. Its "Sliding Tail-Lock with Blade Guard" is one of the oddest mechanisms I know of.
I don't even fish, but I got to thinking that it might make a good light-duty knife around an outdoor kitchen. When the gun-shop manager offered it to me at half-price, I made it mine.
On our way out of town, we made our traditional stop for Morgantown comfort food before heading north and west toward home. The setting sun was blinding, the mood was peaceful and our day, all told, was damned near perfect.
Ravelings
There's a handful of subjects that I'd like to raise on KintlaLake Blog but I probably won't have the time, at least not enough time to cover them in any depth. Take the tug-of-war between public-employee unions and state government, a struggle that's become especially bitter here in Ohio.
For now, a bottle of Labor's Choice Whiskey -- the image clipped from an ad in a 1903 issue of The American Federationist, edited at the time by American Federation of Labor founder Samuel Gompers -- will have to do. Infer from that what you will.
And then there's Libya. In principle, the U.S. has no good strategic reason to be involved with the popular uprising -- we have no compelling national-security interest whatsoever -- but we can't seem to quit our role as the world's cop.
We're defending a mob, an anti-government mob. It's a brave rabble, certainly, but beyond that we don't know who they are or what the they might want when the smoke clears.
The Obama administration, after weeks of dithering and delaying and chatting it up with everyone across the globe except the People, now has us firing missiles and risking American lives -- all without being able to say just what we plan to accomplish.
Screw the U.N. and screw NATO; screw War Powers and screw Dennis Kucinich. We have no military, economic or moral dog in this fight. It is, without a doubt, one of the biggest foreign-policy Charlie Foxtrots I've ever seen.
The President of the United States will address the nation on Monday -- nine days after our missiles started flying.
Behind in my reading
The December 2010 issue of American Rifleman included an article that preceded a couple of my posts (here and here) about teaching marksmanship in Scouting. As its title suggests, "NRA & BSA: 100 Years of Partnership" marks the centennial of the National Rifle Association's involvement in Boy Scout shooting programs. It's typically self-congratulatory but worth reading anyway.
It feels like a good time to re-visit some topics covered on KintlaLake Blog in recent weeks and months. In no particular order, then...
Scouting arms
I posted a pointed commentary last month about the disappearance of marksmanship from the list of essential Scouting skills. And while it may be endangered Scoutcraft, it's not yet gone.
Two long-gun merit badges remain -- Rifle Shooting and Shotgun Shooting. Earning each requires a Scout to demonstrate knowledge and proper mindset as well as skill with firearms.
Rifle Shooting gives a candidate the option of firing a .22 rifle, an air rifle or a muzzle-loader. The marksmanship standards might sound simple -- putting five three-shot groups inside an inch at 50 feet, for example -- but I'll wager that many of us gray-haired shooters can't do that reliably with open sights. Shotgun Shooting is similarly challenging.
It's also worth noting that Shooting Sports is an elective Ranger Award in the Venturing program, which succeeded Exploring in the 1990s.
There's no telling how long it'll be before runaway political correctness relegates those awards to Scouting's trash heap, but I wanted to temper my previous pessimism with some (encouraging) facts.
Urban Resources: Ranger Bands
Seldom does the sun set without another use for "Ranger Bands" popping into my head. It's a curse.
One sub-zero February evening I pulled a Mini Maglite from my TrailBlazer's console, and after just a few minutes the ice-cold aluminum had my hands aching. The next morning I cut a length of road-bike tube and slipped it over the housing -- problem solved.
I also found a neat idea (above) in a 1919 issue of Popular Science. Soon I believe I'll cannibalize a motorcycle tube and use that "cobbled" sheath on my Vaughan Sub-Zero Axe. Pictures (mine) to follow.
Sharps: Pocket sheaths
Looking at my "pocket sheath for the woods" the other day, it occurred to me to dose the hide with Montana Pitch-Blend Leather Dressing -- beeswax would help repel water, protecting the knife and (especially) the tinder in the fire kit.
The sweet-smelling paste darkened the leather slightly and gave it a nice sheen. Tested afterward, the surface beaded and shed moisture well. I treated my smaller pocket sheath, too, but with the Leather Oil -- less water-repellent than Leather Dressing (owing to the lack of beeswax), but just fine for the application.
Waste management
I hate to see food go to waste -- any food, for any reason. It's safe to say that it's one of my pet peeves. And although composting is a perfectly responsible way for us to turn truly disposable matter into fertilizer, I've been thinking about better ways to save fresh fruits and vegetables that risk spoiling before we're able to eat them.
At a local odd-lots store the other night I spied a brand-new five-tray food dehydrator. It was a convection-only model (no fan), so it wasn't ideal -- but it was "marked down" from $40 to $25. Besides, it came with a jerky kit.
So we brought it home. We'll do some drying, some vacuum-sealing and some canning and see how it goes over the next year or so. As for making jerky, I'll use the nifty convection oven that was in the kitchen when we moved into our house.
Winchester Model 67
I uncovered a relatively recent article about my old single-shot .22 -- "Winchester Model 67: A Product of Another Era," written by Gil Sengel and published in the January-February 2009 issue of Rifle Magazine. It covers the M67's history, development and variants, and I found it a fascinating read.
I'm unable to offer a hot-link to the piece, however -- it's vanished from Google Books. Go figure.
Scout at 16 weeks
The last time I wrote about our new puppy, she could sleep in a teacup with room to spare. Now she's four months old (give or take) and weighs about 25 pounds. She looks more Lab-ish every day -- otter's tail and all.
I agree with our vet that she'll top-out between 50 and 60 pounds before she's done growing. I hope she doesn't grow out of her disposition, though -- she has the most amazing personality.
Smart? You betcha. She was obeying "sit" and "stay" a long time ago. And she doesn't just "shake hands" -- last week she mastered "gimme five," "high five" and "all ten, up high."
She's definitely Daddy's Girl -- and Daddy is incurably smitten.
I was on something of a mission when my wife and I stopped at our rented storage unit yesterday. See, for the last several weeks I've had a taste for Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, and I seemed to recall that we'd put some hard liquor into storage during our 2009 move.
I was right. When I rolled up the locker door I went straight to the correct box and extracted a bottle of Knob Creek and another of Maker's Mark. I also grabbed a fifth of Jack Daniel's and a bottle of Gosling's Black Seal Rum. All were unopened.
The way I drink, four bottles should last me the rest of my life.
On the floor next to the booze box was a large plastic tote. Curious, I set the bottles down and popped off the lid.
Inside, packed away for decades, was a good chunk of my Scouting stuff. There was every handbook, from Wolf to Eagle, and every single wallet card, including all of my rank and merit-badge records. (I even found my Totin' Chip.) Neckerchiefs and slides, patches and hats...I don't remember the last time I'd laid eyes on my short-billed Cub Scout beanie.
Nestled in a box at the bottom of the tote was a pair of Sears lace-up boots, what we used to call "clod-hoppers." My parents bought them for me in early 1972 so that I'd have proper footwear for a trip to Philmont Scout Ranch that summer.
Those boots, now sporting what must be their fourth or fifth pair of soles, served me well beyond Boy Scouts. I wore them throughout my college years. They carried me to Europe and back, and they were the only boots I had with me 33 summers ago in Montana.
They've seen miles upon miles of trails, countless campfires and untold hours of yard work. They were my first motorcycle boots.
Running short on time yesterday, I re-packed the tote and tossed it into the truck. I knew what I'd be doing as soon as we got home.
The old boots still fit. The leather is soft, the stitching is intact and the Vibram soles are nearly new.
I wore them around the house for a few hours before taking them off and setting them on my work table in the basement. Soon, I think, their well-loved hide will get the full Montana Pitch-Blend treatment.
The visions I mentioned at the end of Monday's post persist this morning. The memories linger.
Seeking still more of my father's frame-of-reference, I found an ad (left) depicting Winchester's Model 67. The single-shot .22 was promoted as capable and (most important, considering the times) inexpensive.
That ad appeared in Boys' Life when my dad was 11 years old, about the age I was when I first fired his Model 67. He wasn't a Scout, however, and his family was dirt-poor, so the only way he might've seen the magazine would've been at school.
The Model 67 was produced from 1934 through 1960. I managed to dig up print ads for the rifle through the mid-1950s, all characterizing it as low-priced but every bit a Winchester.
Pushing further toward the turn of the century, I traveled back one more generation. I shifted my attention to my grandfather -- Depression-era dairy farmer, son of a hard-working Scottish-immigrant coal miner.
He was 20, not yet a dad himself, when Remington gave us "Father Will Show You How to Handle Your Rifle" (right). The ad is charming, practically outlining a father-son talk -- from taking care of the gun to accepting responsibility.
(Something tells me that dads in those days didn't need a script for that stuff.)
A few years earlier, Forest & Stream magazine had published "Give the Boy a Twenty-Two" (below -- click on the image for the full article). George Brown wrote the piece almost a century ago, and yet I don't think I've ever read a better primer on introducing a young person to a rifle. It rings of Heartland tradition, capturing principles of both mentoring and gunhandling that are as relevant now as they were then.
In my imagination, I can see a father and his son traipsing through the woods toward a quarry. I can hear my grandfather instructing my father just the way that Mr. Brown suggested.
I'm pretty sure that's how it happened because, decades later, it's the way that my dad schooled me.
(The Winchester ad above dates to the October 1937 issue of Boys' Life, page 24; the Remington ad comes from the July 1920 issue of Boys' Life, page 45; and "Give the Boy a Twenty-Two" was published in the August 1917 issue of Forest & Stream, pages 344-345. All can be viewed on Google Books.)
I returned to Google Books again this morning, focusing on a particular topic and how Boys' Life treated it when I was a Scout.
I'd graduated from Webelos to Tenderfoot less than a year before this installment of "Scoutcraft" (right) appeared in the April 1969 issue. At camp a few months later, I'd fire a gun for the first time -- a .22 Winchester Model 52 with peep sights.
I was 12 years old.
Before we had political correctness, universal psychotherapy and other forms of wussification, a rifle was a tool and marksmanship was as much "Scoutcraft" as knot-tying, whittling and firebuilding. For any self-respecting American boy, hell, handling a rifle was an essential part of growing up in the Heartland.
My dad took me shooting shortly after I returned from Camp Buckeye that year. We drove out to the farmstead where he was born and raised, parked the car and trudged through tangle to the edge of a sandstone quarry.
It was the very spot where his father once taught him to shoot.
To my adolescent delight, we spent the morning bagging tin cans, one shot at a time. We took turns plinking with a well-loved Winchester Model 67 -- fittingly, the first gun that my dad ever fired.
I remember noticing how much my father enjoyed himself that day. It wasn't until many years later, when I had boys in my own life, that I understood why -- it was a rite of passage.
That Model 67 is mine now. I think I'll take my 15-year-old spawn to the range soon and give him a turn with the old single-shot .22.
Checking the calendar, though, I see that it's not 1969 anymore. Our culture has changed -- for the worse, in my opinion -- along with what boyhood means. There's no rewinding that.
Move these items out of the "expected" category and file them under "endangered": inspirational ads for Winchester, Remington or even Daisy in the pages of a magazine for boys; encouragement to become a Junior Member of the NRA; tutorials on how to be a crack shot.
A boy who wants to learn to shoot raises more eyebrows now than he does smiles. In some places, a dad who hands his boy a gun -- even an air rifle -- risks having his name inscribed on some nanny's list.
Writing a couple of years ago about vanishing traditions, I concluded,
"We've lost so much more than we've gained."
That commentary on our society, sadly correct though it may be, shouldn't prevent independent Americans from raising our children the way they ought to be raised.
(This classic Winchester ad appeared in the August 1967 issue of Boys' Life.)
It's quiet here in the KintlaLake household, as I'm the only one who's stirred at this hour on a Saturday. Sitting at my desk, sipping coffee from a stoneware mug, I found myself browsing Google Books -- specifically, trolling its trove of old magazines.
The first article that caught my attention today was "The Scout and His Equipment," penned for the February 1934 issue of Boys' Life by the incomparable Dan Beard.
There's nothing earth-shaking in the piece, certainly. It's basic and, from a modern perspective, undeniably quaint. To the clear-eyed reader it's also obvious that it was placed to accompany dozens of "official" product pitches from the likes of Remington, Eveready, Ulster, Marble, Buster Brown, Plumb, Johnson & Johnson and others.
Seems the "special advertising section" isn't exactly a new concept.
Beyond the commercial slant, and given my own affection for sharps, one particular line stood out to me: "A boy without a knife is as bad as a canoe without paddles, a lumberman without an axe, or a girl without a compact."
Uncle Dan was right about that, of course. Knowing that present-day Scouts are explicitly discouraged from carrying knives, however, his words have almost a poignant ring.
Moving on to a 1950 issue of Popular Mechanics, I flipped through a primer on "Trail Knives," which prominently (and intentionally, I'd wager) featured Marble's fixed-blades and the Woodsman's Pal.
Last I landed on the June 1919 issue of Popular Science, where I found reader Rodney Bryson's advice on what to do with old inner tubes (pictured at right).
Strange -- he didn't call them "Ranger Bands."
Whenever I catch myself craving the latest and greatest something-or-other, rewinding through these old publications often reminds me that there truly is nothing new under the sun.
I've loved woodcraft for as long as I can remember, but I didn't discover the landmark works of Sears, Kephart, Beard et al until later in life. My spark came from a much more ordinary book.
I don't recall ever not having The Golden Book of Camping and Camp Crafts. Typical of Golden Books it's a primer, equal parts inspiration and information.
It was my favorite bedtime reading well before I was a Cub Scout, certainly before I became a Boy Scout. If I added up the hours I spent poring over Gordon Lynn's words and, most especially, Ernest Kurt Barth's illustrations, I probably invested a year of my boyhood in this simple book. I was, in a word, hooked.
It had me imagining and planning, studying and dreaming -- and for the first seven years of my life that's all I could do. When it came to family vacations, my parents were all Holiday Inn, no KOA.
Scouting changed that. Suddenly I was taking real hikes, sleeping in real tents and cooking over real campfires. Scouting also gave me an official handbook, though I found myself still measuring my experiences against the wellspring of my imaginings -- the scenes in a dog-eared Golden Book.
I'm sure that I still have my original 1959 edition packed away somewhere. I haven't seen it in years, but I was pleased today to stumble across a blog post paying tribute to The Golden Book of Camping and Camp Crafts.
I can't begin to describe what it was like seeing those pages again. In an instant I was a kid pulling the covers over my head and clicking on my flashlight, imagining that it was me in colorful pictures I'd seen a hundred times before and to which I'd return for inspiration a thousand times more.
Although most of us know the stern, finger-pointing Uncle Sam from the 1917 U.S. Army recruiting poster, he first appeared on the cover of Leslie's Weekly magazine over the caption, "What Are You Doing for Preparedness?"
