Slip and Slide

Boys stink! This is particularly true for young ones. Back in 2013, I embarked on a journey to the Little Sioux Scout Ranch in Iowa with six young boys and two adult women. Over the course of three days, I would share an expansive tent with fellow moms, dine alongside a hundred fragrant little boys, and trek with men who were pretending they were still young and vital.

At that time, I was dealing with heart failure, which made me anxious about keeping pace with my nine-year-old son. On the first warm, sunny morning, the boys and their leaders headed up the Blue & Gold Trail. Joannis worried that I might struggle, so he remained near me throughout the journey. Every five to ten minutes, he would ask with genuine concern, "How ya doin', Mama?" To my surprise, I finished the hike with the same energy and gusto as the other parents and returned to camp feeling quite hungry for lunch.

After the grueling hike through the dense woods, the sound of the lunch bell chimed like a siren's call, and the boy scouts and leaders eagerly clamored into the dining pavilion. The other boys in our troupe couldn't hold back their complaints as they bemoaned the “gross looking” food on their trays. Their gripes echoed through the structure, but Joannis and I, decidedly less picky and more enveloped in the camaraderie of the moment, exchanged a knowing glance and dove into our meals with unrestrained enthusiasm. The warm casserole, while perhaps not gourmet, satisfied us from the inside out, soothing tired muscles and replenishing our spirits. As the others continued to whine, we savored each bite, appreciating not just the food but the experience that led us here: the vivid colors of the Loess Hills, the thrill of spotting wildlife, and the triumph over tiredness that made us hungry for more than just nourishment.

That afternoon, the sun had warmed the camp to a balmy ninety-five degrees. As the sun beat down relentlessly on the Cub Scouts, their enthusiasm gave way to heat-induced lethargy. They had started the afternoon with a vibrant energy, excitedly studying rocks under cover of a picnic shelter, the intriguing fossils and colorful pebbles sparking their imaginations of distant places and ancient times. Moving from geology to archery, the boys lined up to take their turns at the target range, the thrill of hitting the bullseye tempered by sweaty brows and the frustration of arrows that veered off course. The last workshop, tying knots, became a test of both skill and patience, with groans echoing around them as some struggled to master the bowline and square knot. By mid-afternoon, however, the combination of physical exertion and relentless heat began to take a toll; the once-animated chatter faded to weary grumbles as they sluggishly trudged toward the Trading Post to buy ice-cold slushies.

Behind the camp store, several men were occupied laying out white hay bale wrap along a sloped, grassy incline. As I enjoyed my iced lemonade in the shade of the overhang, they positioned square hay bales alongside the edges of the plastic tarp to secure it firmly. Suddenly, I realized the brilliance of their scheme when a stout man brought over a garden hose and connected it to a pump. What unfolded before my eyes was an enormous slip and slide!

Later, after satisfying their sweet tooths, the boys rushed to their tents to don their bathing suits before gathering at the top of the hill for some slipping and sliding. Someone foolishly put me in charge of holding the hose used to keep the plastic nice and wet, while a dad who appeared quite responsible took on the role of squirting each eager child’s tummy with Palmolive dish soap. The kids then launched themselves toward the plastic, bellyflopping down the slope like seals.

To avoid melting as I stood directly in the sun, I occasionally dowsed myself with the hose. The boys thought this was a jolly idea and began begging me to spray them with cold water as they waited in line. Since I have the maturity level of an adolescent, I decided to "accidentally" aim high so I could spray the dads sitting under the roof of a picnic shelter. Five men laughed cheerfully, but one grumpy fella didn't take kindly to my shenanigans. His outrage amused me, so I periodically repeated my childish antics.

Each time I sprayed the men, Mr. Grumpy Pants chewed me out without realizing his outrage only encouraged my sophomoric behavior. The other guys started ribbing him about his lack of humor, causing his face to turn red with frustrated anger. When I sprinkled the party pooper one too many times, he sprang from the table and charged toward me. As he reached toward the hose, I crimped the end and bent over while holding it close to my abdomen. I cackled maniacally during the scuffle, occasionally uncrimping the hose to soak my assailant. The boys, caught up in the insanity of the tussle, joined in on the fun. After collapsing onto the ground in a wet heap, I was forced to relinquish the hose to the mob of boys. Defeated, the wet guy returned to the picnic shelter to be heckled by his cohorts.

That evening everyone gathered by the stage to take part in the annual skits. Understanding that my earlier behavior was unkind, I had purchased treats for the man I mistreated earlier as well as his cub scouts. Smiling, I approached him before the skits started and offered the treats to his boys. When I offered a bag of cookies to him, he crossed his arms while glaring at me with disdain. Biting my tongue, I smiled and nodded before making a hasty retreat.

As the skits commenced, laughter filled the air, and I found myself caught up in the infectious energy of the crowd. It was impossible not to enjoy the playful skits and sing-alongs under the twilight sky. Between skits, I noticed Mr. Grump standing at the edge of the group, keeping a watchful eye on his troupe. In a moment of impulse, I decided to seize the opportunity for a truce. After all, the evening had brought us together in this crazy camp experience. I encouraged a couple of kids to join me before marching over to the man armed with my sugary offering.

“Hello again!” I called out, a cheeky grin splashed across my face. The boys shook their cookie bags in unison, clamoring for his attention. “Are you sure you don't want a bag of cookies as an apology for my earlier hijinks. What do you say? Care to join the fun?”

To my surprise, he hesitated but then uncrossed his arms, a flicker of humor lighting up his features. “Well, I suppose a cookie wouldn’t hurt,” he muttered, grabbing one from a nearby boy’s hand. The surrounding dads eyed him with anticipation, waiting for a sign of acceptance. I held my breath as he took a cautious bite, allowing the sweet flavor of the cookie to work its magic.

With his first mouthful devoured, a faint smile broke through the grumpy facade, and the other dads cheered him on, urging him to indulge further. Before I knew it, he was cracking jokes at the expense of my earlier antics, and soon enough, laughter bubbled between us. We shared the camaraderie that only a day full of fun can forge.

As the night wore on and stars twinkled above us, even Mr. Grumpy Pants joined the ranks of enthusiastic dads, cheering on the kids during their skits. By the end of the evening, he approached me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Next year,” he began, a smirk playing on his lips, “I might just have to bring my own hose.”

The evening closed with shared laughter that echoed across the ranch, leaving behind a glowing warmth that smoothed out the wrinkles of the day. A new friendship had emerged from mischief, reminding us all that sometimes, behind every frown, there's a heart ready to join in the fun. As we crawled into our sleeping bags, the memories of funny skits and a bit of water-play danced under the luminous night sky.

Joannis and I at Little Sioux Scout Ranch