PORT MATILDA — He was a man among boys. No, really, he was. Bob Crain was the scoutmaster of Troop 59 in Port Matilda back in the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.
He had a high-pitched voice and walked kind of funny, but what he gave to hundreds of boys in and around town was immeasurable.
First, he gave us discipline. He had served in the Army in World War II and he imposed a military-style tone to the troops. We didn’t always appreciate that but it was part of the price to be paid to be one of his young soldiers.
He taught us close-order drill so that we looked good when we marched in the annual Fireman’s Carnival parade every July. And we got to be really good at it. In fact, one summer he formed a drill team and took us to several parades in the area, going as far as Lewistown. We wore sailor’s hats, white shirts, black pants and white shoes, and when he barked “Right face” we knew which way to go and which foot to pivot on. Oh, and we were carrying those white wooden rifles and went through the Manual of Arms — pretty impressive for a bunch of 14- and 15-year olds.
Crain was a bit of a rebel, however. By rights and geography, the Port Matilda troop belonged to the Seven Mountains Council. But we had gone to Camp Mountain Run one summer and it was part of the Bucktail Council. We liked it better than the Seven Mountains camp, so Crain insisted that we go to Mountain Run. That provoked numerous fights with the Seven Mountains folk, but we went to Mountain Run anyway.
And we absolutely loved it there
Plus, we ruled that camp for the week we went there every summer.
We slept in tents and the camp had a daily inspection every morning, checking the cleanliness of the campsite, how neatly the beds were made and the general appearance of the area.
Crain loved that. It was right up his military alley. And, so, he insisted that we have the camp site spic and span in time for the morning inspection. At the end of the week, at the Friday night awards campfire, the Inspection Award went to Troop 59. And that was for every day. And for every year that Troop 59 went to Camp Mountain Run, the Inspection Award belonged to it.
Then there was the matter of us marching, in step, in formation, to and from the mess hall for every meal while the other troops straggled along in twos and threes. They didn’t like us very much. And that was never more clear than at the weekly battle for the greased watermelon in the pool, which was filled with ice cold mountain water. Let’s just say there were some split lips, bruises and bumps on the head which were handed out in violation of the Scout law that says a Scout “shall be a friend to all and a brother to every other Scout.’’
By setting us apart from the other troops in the camp, Crain also set himself up as a target for derision. Which is why, when the word reached camp about his “grapevine incident,” it was met with great enjoyment.
Here’s what happened.
One afternoon, we went for a hike on one of the many fire trails around the camp. Midway through the hike we stopped for a break and several of us noticed a grapevine hanging from a tree downhill from the trail. Being who and what we were, we were soon swinging on it, trying to reach a dead tree some distance down the hill. We couldn’t do it, and periodically the vine would pull loose from the top, so we cut the bottom foot or so of it off so it wouldn’t drag on the ground.
Crain watched our attempts and, finally, he decided he would show us how to reach that tree. We warned him that the vine wouldn’t hold him since none of us weighed more than 110 pounds or so and he was a grown man.
He brushed off our warnings, backed up the hill, got a running start and launched himself toward the tree. And just when it looked as though he was going to reach the tree, there was a loud snap as the vine broke loose from the top of the tree and our scoutmaster went sailing past the dead tree and landed many feet past it, on his back.
They may have heard his scream back at the camp. Not sure about that. But at the scene of the accident, a number of Boy Scouts who had earned the first aid merit badges stood in shocked silence. Finally, we dug found some merthiolate out of the first aid kit and painted the abrasions on his back. That stuff was nasty. Merthiolate was similar to tincture of iodine and mercuochrome for treating abrasions and minor cuts, except it was stronger. But it was all we had, so we painted his scrapes, helped him back up the hill and headed for camp. The hike was over.
Word of the incident spread through the camp like a stomach virus. and by the evening meal the mess hall was buzzing and a lot of fingers were pointed in Crain’s direction when we marched through the doors.
I wrote an English paper on that afternoon and got an A on it. Somehow, Crain found out and always wanted to see it. I never showed it to him. I didn’t want to embarrass him.
Long after I had outgrown the Scouts, Crain kept the boys marching and winning awards until he finally had to give it up.
I had lost touch with him long before that. One evening, my wife and I were having dinner at a restaurant and Crain came in. We chatted for a while and he invited us to dinner some evening.
Time and work kept that from happening. Then, one day I got word that he had died, alone in his easy chair — he was a lifelong bachelor — an open Bible in his lap.
Naturally, I regretted never having taken him up on his dinner invitation.
The world has turned over many times since then, but I can still hear his high-pitched voice calling out, “All right, boys. Attention!”
And, like the good little soldiers we were, we snapped to just like he had taught us.
