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Burn It Down
I loved being a Boy Scout. I was honest, loyal, helpful, loving, kind, the whole nine yards. I loved learning how to do things with my hands, even though I was terrible at it. My pinewood derby cars were all misshapen and came in last place every time. The jewelry box I made my mother didn’t close all the way and the glue was on both sides of the felt lining. I earned my merit badges and climbed the ranks dutifully. I learned so much about my country and the world.
My favorite thing was the campouts, though.
We’d lash structures together and explore the hills during the day and, as the sun waned beyond the edge of the mountains, we’d drink powdered hot chocolate and sit next to the fire we would feed like a starving teenager. The flames would eat anything and we loved to see what would burn.
During these campouts, there were no more solemn occasions than when we were tasked with retiring American flags.
It meant something.
The flag was a symbol of our optimism; of everything our country had been, everything it was, and everything it would eventually be. And it mattered that we were trusted to do something so sacred.
I suppose this feeling of divine inspiration was the point, right? We all earned our American Heritage merit badges. And Citizenship. And Law. We earned others, too, but those are…
