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Fathers and Sons

It's 6:30 in the morning as I write this. I'm overlooking a quiet field of fathers and 11-year-old scouts tucked in their tents and occasional camp trailer. No one else is awake. An empty flag pole is the only thing rising above the blanket of mist covering the field.

What can subdue a crowd of energetic young boys? Last night it was the flag pole.

More accurately, I suppose it was the flag flying from it. It had previously flown over the USS Arizona on Memorial Day, 2006. Braeden was part of the color guard that retrieved the flag during the campfire to close three days of scout camp. It was quite a site to see a field full of scouts—most in their best uniform—stand reverently as the flag was lowered and folded.

All six patrols were then given the opportunity to retire a worn or weather-beaten flag that was no longer fit for flying. One at a time, each patrol unfolded a flag and carried it to the roaring fire around which all of the scouts and other onlookers were gathered. A solitary scout without the circle sounded Taps as the unfurled flag was placed over the fire. A quiet salute. A burst of flame. Silence.

Six times I watched that ceremony repeated. Six times I felt a pang of emotion. Whether out of respect or in an act of protest, burning the American flag is a violent act. For my part, I couldn't help but consider the personal violence suffered by others who have established this a free nation. I must be getting older. Emotions run close to the surface nowadays when I contemplate the meaning of these United States and, particularly, when I consider the men, women and families affected by our military's deployments around the world.

Last night, though, was about helping boys become men. It was about helping boys understand that real men stand for something good. Real men start as boys to care for the wives and families that are still mere imagination. Real men are good and honest. Real men love.

Real men also take 11-year-old scouts on snipe hunts. I'm not sure how snipe hunting become a rite of passage into young manhood. It was in these very same fields that I first went snipe hunting. In those days the point was to ditch the uninitiated hunters. The objective last night was simply to give the boys a good fright, but they were never sent off on their own.

The hunt began with a serious speech from one of the old men in the camp. Snipes are amazing animals, he said, but they can turn aggressive if you are not careful. They are hard to see but easier to hear. They'll sound like the whistle you get from blowing across a piece of grass pressed between your thumbs. Snipe hunting requires silence, caution and sticking together.

I followed Braeden and the other hunters into the inky forest night. We travelled along a winding path leading to an amphitheater stage well away from the main camp. We beckoned the boys to be silent. The nervous laughter eventually died down. Then they heard it. A solitary snipe cried out from just up the hill on the left. Another one answered back from the hill on the right. A few older scouts ventured up the path toward the sounds. This apparently provoked the snipes. The whistling was now joined by the sound of snapping branches and limbs.

Eventually, the older scouts came running back down the path yelling for the younger scouts to get out of the forest as quickly as possible and head back to camp. There was a mad rush for the exits, so to speak. Braeden was just in front of me, calling for me to keep up. The snipe whistles rained down on us from either side of the path.

I'm proud to say that Braeden can navigate the night forest with the best of them. He was fleet and determined in making his way to safety. Unfortunately, he was also willing to leave his old man to be consumed by the monsters of the dark. I just managed to escape alive.

No sooner had the boys reassembled at the entrance to the forest path than they began trying to outdo each other with tales of personal danger. At least two dozen separate snipes had been spotted along the trail by various witnesses who had just managed to live to tell about it. Imagine the mayhem that ensued when the boys were told it was all a hoax. Bouts of laughter, shouts of disbelief and grunts of disgust all mingled with the cacophony of night creatures, other campers and the nearby river.

I was glad to see no one's feelings were hurt. The boys loved the thrill. They talked excitedly about how great it would be next year when they could continue the tradition with the next batch of younger scouts.

For his part, Braeden couldn't believe how worked up he had become over a few simple sounds and a lack of sight. "I can't believe it," he muttered again and again. "It was so simple!"

Simple things are powerful things. There's that flag pole--alone and resolute. It's a simple thing to raise and lower a flag. It's a simple thing to touch your hand to your heart and pledge allegiance. For me, though, the feelings those acts engender are very powerful.

Yesterday, Braeden simply reached out and held my hand as we walked to lunch. He might as well have thrown his arms around me. Gratitude and joy surged through me. There in front of all those boys, I realized that my boy, my son, wasn't afraid to act like a man.

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