When a Stick is More Than a Stick: Wielding Nature Two Handed.
This one is for the boys.
I was a boy scout.
Go ahead…get all the jokes out of your system.
I’ll wait.
It’s nothing we haven’t joked about ourselves.
We called ourselves “Death scouts.” A band of rogue scholars covered in merit badge drip.
That also happened to enjoy lighting stuff on fire and jamming out to They Might Be Giants and Smashing Pumpkins.
Was our title justified?
Not really.
But it sounded cool.
That part’s not the point though.
What really matters, and what this week is about, is the treasures the forest would grant us for our innocent delinquency.
A Stick.
Not just any stick, though.
We’re talking one worthy of King Arthur, Merlin, or William Wallace.
Perfectly balanced.
Mostly free of bugs.
Not so dried out that it would crack after a few strikes and give you splinters.
No.
This stick?
Was so perfect that it transported you.
To another world.
Another time.
When imagination was your sword, your shield, and your quest.
Whoever found the stick was the hero.
The rest of us fell in line, in equal parts instinct and our usual D&D alignments.
Taking up lesser sticks because the call was too strong not to answer.
We’d wage epic battles.
Claim invisible kingdoms.
Adventured across lands that existed somewhere between dreams and dirt.
Eventually, the moment would pass.
We’d relinquish our armor and shields to the forest floor.
Return our weapons to the grand armory of the campfire.
And make s’mores.
-KC
Every kid knows exactly what you're talking about. Some sticks weren't just sticks. Good memories.