Texas loves sending their sons to the boy scouts. Why not push the kid out of the house for a few afternoons to learn a thing or two about the outdoors? Hell, if I’d paid more attention, I might be able to tie a decent knot, rather than tie-a-lot. But I do carry more than one memory of my days as a scout. I remember why I joined. I watched a video of Steven Spielberg giving another boy an Eagle Scout reward. I was pretty big into the director, even as a kid, so I aimed to get a little metal pinned on my chest by the guy who made E.T. Probably my least favorite memory was being sent to my room for distracting the troop. And I’m serious when I say I got sent to my room. See, dad was a den leader. And rather than getting scolded like the rest of the kids, I got ordered out of the scout room (my garage) and straight to my room. I can’t blame my younger self from rapidly losing interest in the whole establishment once the Thursday night meetings at some city building turned into another night at the Treece’s. Needless to say, I didn’t come anywhere close to getting promoted to Spielberg status.
One memory sticks and often urges me to question the existence of fate, chance, and divine interaction. That day in autumn started early. The Thanksgiving Day parade in town invited several outfits to participate and we scouts were eager to show off our flags. Pops got us all downtown in our uniforms and yellow scarfs. We carried around a giant banner, passed out candy to the spectators, and walked the block.
Ahead of the troop, a few salesmen for a used car dealership drove around in a beat up drop top. For some reason, they dressed up like clowns. They got a little attention. They also got little pieces of candy thrown at them by a few jackass boy scouts.
Behind us, a horse stable had come out dressed in pre-industrial attire, rounding the corners in an authentic wooden wheeled caravan pulled by horses. Cowboys rode other ponies alongside the wagon. Some dudes walked around with lassos. It was those damned dogs they brought that screwed the whole day up.
My sister weaseled her way into joining us for our parade. That pissed me off to no end. This was a guy thing, and she tainted our pack with her girlyness, but again, Dad was a den leader and she was daddy’s little girl…tramp. Anywho, another outsider joined our group. A middle aged man, blue polo, blue jeans, clean shave, parted haircut. At first, we thought he was a father of one of the kids. He was real friendly and cool. Didn’t seem to have a care in the world. So when we found out he had no relation to the tribe, none of us thought it necessary to kick him out, or even query his participation.
Then bang – a loud bang. Like a tree snapping in half and falling on a house. I turned my head to see a stampede of horses running right for my face. I looked to my left to see the boys scattering to the side of the road. I looked to my right to see my dad carrying my sister off to the other side. I, being the nippy son I had always been, just stood there and watched as these monsters, carrying feet bigger than my whole puny body, stomp right for me with no hesitation in their stride. I literally saw a horse charging directly towards me.
And then I felt by body get picked up. Amazed, I looked around as my carrier weaved through the stampede, leaving only inches from us and the passing animals.
Of course, as I jot this story down, I made it out alive. And without a scratch. It was the outsider that had picked me up and brought me to safety. The guy that no one knew and had no reason to be there. Apparently, those damned dogs had spooked one of the horses, which then broke free of the caravan, and broke one of the wheels. And after one of those monsters got loose, they all followed, conquering through town.
I guess my dad had his reasons for rescuing my sister and leaving me behind, even though he had, and still has, two arms. Maybe he thought he could only save one of us and had to make a quick decision. No worries pops. I made it out okay. He approached me after the dramatics came to a close, assuring that I was okay. He then ordered me to thank the man who had saved me.
I turned to offer my appreciation – and my savior was gone.
Not a name, not a number, not a place of employment, not a home, not one of us had any idea how to get in touch with this guy. The small talk he made did not disclose any background on him whatsoever. I never got to offer my thanks.
So I like to say that every time I get on a plane, close my eyes, and thank whatever powers that be for the life I have been given, I am thanking the same person that saved my life. I don’t tend to rely on anyone to get my back, but it’s nice to know that there may be someone that keeps an eye on me. Us scatterbrained folk could use the help.
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