JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

Ben Delatour Scout Ranch

Don Beamgard stepped up for Atwood Scout Troop 121 when we needed someone and when he didn’t need to.  It wasn’t the first time he stepped up for Atwood and it wouldn’t be the last.

I thought a lot about Mr. Beamgard this past week.  I went with my son Joe to Ben Delatour Scout Ranch (BDSR) near Red Feather Lakes, Colorado this past weekend.  The last time I was at BDSR I was a Boy Scout myself.  Silas Horton and I swam in the lake in the background of the picture for about 10 seconds before we decided it was too cold.  We agreed our best option was to fail the swim test and be banned from the lake for the rest of the week.

I stayed on top of the water this year canoeing with Joe and his good friend Jackson.  We took our swim tests before we left Longmont.  Thank goodness.  The water felt just as cold as I remember.

Back in 1979, Mr. Beamgard spent three nights with our scout troop at BDSR.  He was relieved by Jerry McKee (the high school basketball coach at the time) who also spent three nights as our chaperone.

The previous year, 1978, our scout troop went to the Dane Hansen Scout Reservation in Kansas.  We had a hard time finding an adult who could spend an entire week with us at camp.  Our dads were working and, in those days, moms didn’t stay with scouts at camp.

It was decided, somehow, that we could go to camp without adult supervision.  Hindsight 20-20 (or even 20-60) that decision wasn’t so terribly wise.  One of our troop mates was picked on by boys from another troop.  He got in a scrap and his nose was seriously broken causing several years of problems.

We had a hard time keeping track of time without an adult to help us out.  As young teenagers are prone to do, we got caught up in our own games rather than camp prescribed activities.  One afternoon we decided to use our campsite water buckets to hunt and capture ground squirrels.  It was a great game – except perhaps for the squirrels.

We forgot to show up for dinner that night where we were supposed to lead the camp in prayer.  A counselor came to find us.  We threw on our uniforms – sort of – and marched into dinner like Bill Murry’s squad showed up to graduation in the movie Stripes.  We tried to get the other campers to join us in the song, “Be Present at Our Table Lord,” but no one did.  By the second verse, Paul Hayden put everyone out of their misery when he called out, “That’s all the words we know, sit down and eat.”

The Camp Hansen organizers discouraged Troop 121 from coming back the next year.  That was okay with us.  The chiggers made us miserable.  But we did want to camp the next summer.

Everyone must have agreed we would only be allowed to go to camp again if an adult went with us to supervise.  The next summer, camp was up in the air until almost the last moment when, finally, Mr. Beamgard (who was an Eagle Scout) and Mr. McKee agreed to serve for half a week each.  Neither man had a son in our troop.  They stepped up out of kindness.

I don’t remember a lot about my week at BDSR except for the frigid mountain lake and Mr. Beamgard’s stories.  He was a World War II Vet serving in the infantry.  He sat at the picnic table of our campsite and kept us at rapt attention telling us how he earned his Purple Hearts.  He told us stories about running down hills in Europe and diving into his fox hole thinking he’d escaped harm until his uniform pants began to turn dark red with blood.  These are the types of stories young teen agers love not fully comprehending how real the stories are.

As a boy, I heard many stories about Mr. Beamgard.  He was not only an influential community leader but he loved to have fun – and poke fun.

My dad arrived in Atwood and learned that Mr. Beamgard was an avid ping pong player.  Dad enjoyed ping pong too and challenged Mr. Beamgard to a game.  The story goes that Mr. Beamgard said he could win wearing over boots and a rain jacket.  Dad said, “I’ll take that bet.”

The match was staged in the basement of the Methodist Church.  Apparently, the score was not even close.  Dad retired from competitive ping pong after a humiliating defeat.  Dad’s only prize was a story that he told every time we ate at a Methodist Church potluck.

Mr. Beamgard was a proud Democrat.  He also was a supporter of our hometown politician Mike Hayden.  For Mr. Beamgard, hometown would always trump political affiliation.  But, he faced a dilemma like other Atwood Democrats when Mike ran for governor in a crowded Republican party.  Should he switch parties to help Mike reach the general election?

Mr. Beamgard never considered the option.  He was a Democrat and would never put R next to his name.  But, he did promise to recruit at least 10 Republicans around the state to vote for Mike in the primary.  He challenged other Democrats to do the same.

Mr. Beamgard served as Atwood’s Postmaster for many years.  If I was out and about early enough, I would stop and watch Mr. Beamgard raise the flag outside the post office.  He did it with all the formality we were taught in scouts.

There used to be a joke that Mr. Beamgard kept up with community news by sneaking peeks at people’s post cards.  We received a post card from an Atwood neighbor who was away on a long vacation.  At the bottom of the card was a postscript written in small letters: “Don, please give our regards to June.”

Don did more for Atwood than a young boy can even begin to appreciate.  He and his wife June were the energy behind the Beamgard Learning Center, a regional school located in Atwood for severely handicapped children.  They both sang in the church choir and were leaders in the congregation.

And, like most Beamgard men, Don served a term or two as Atwood mayor.  Dad, also a former mayor, rode on a parade float for those who had previously held the office.  He was the only non-Beamgard on board.   In an effort to fit in, he wrote on his name tag, “Bob Beamgard.”

Don Beamgard was a civic man.  He gave countless hours of service to Atwood, to his church, civic clubs as well as to his state and country.  He was indeed a member of the greatest generation.

Like many folks who are active in community life he ruffled a few feathers.  That’s what happens when you’re passionate and want to get things done.  I appreciate now more than ever people who are willing to stay involved in community life year after year after year.

I will remember Mr. Beamgard for the many roles he played in our community.  And, I will also remember him as the person who saved our trip to scout camp in the summer of ’79. 

The Spy Who Loved Me film poster by Bob Peak

Roger Moore is the only James Bond those of us born in the mid-60s to early 70s ever really knew.  Moore made his first appearance as James Bond in 1973.  The movie was Live and Let Die.  Paul McCartney was singing with Wings. I was not quite nine years old.

Moore reeled off a series of tween and teen favorites: The Man with the Golden Gun (1974); The Spy Who Loved Me (1977); Moonraker (1979); For Your Eyes Only (1981); Octopussy (1983). Tweens and teens of the 70s and early 80s remember Bond skiing off a cliff and parachuting to safety; the tenacious Jaws; Grace Jones and co-stars such as Barbara Bach who married Ringo Starr and made Caveman. We were curious about those women in silhouette in the opening musical sequence.

Movies played four times at the Jayhawk Theater in Atwood – once on Friday, twice on Saturday and once on Sunday.  Then, they were gone.  Silas Horton and I saw new Bond movies two or three times.

Moore reigned as Bond until 1985’s A View to a Kill.  I was nearly twenty-one. Yes, Sean Connery made a reprise as Bond in 1983’s Never Say Never Again. But by that time he was the competing Bond, not the franchise.  He was the USFL to Roger Moore’s NFL.

Ten to fifteen years old are the prime years to become a Bond fan – to become an action movie fan.  When you’re eight, ten and twelve, the movie is more important than your date.  During those years, Roger Moore was the only James Bond for those of us in our early forties.

If people my age are completely honest, they will admit they didn’t know Sean Connery had ever been James Bond until they were much older.  Perhaps our parents mentioned something about Connery as Bond.  Perhaps we saw a magazine article.  But, we’d never seen a Connery-Bond movie.  Not in the 70s.

We did not have a multitude of cable movie channels playing old movies.  There was no Bond Marathon weekend on AMC.  There was only one old movie a week, after bedtime on Saturday nights.

We did not have VHS machines until the very late 70s.  No Blockbusters or Netflix.  Not even a local video rental store.  The earliest VHS movies cost seventy or eighty dollars. 

In short, old Bond flicks were nowhere to be seen.

Roger Moore’s version of Bond was far campier than the contemporary Bond.  Moore’s Bond made no pretense of being serious.  He did not have a dark and mysterious past.  As far as I know, he had no past at all.  He’d always been James Bond in a three piece suit.

He was upbeat, over the top and unapologetic for having fun.  He was Austin Powers before Austin Powers.  Moore’s Bond movies didn’t try to be anything more than a fun ride – like a new roller-coaster at an amusement park.  Perhaps not as much fun later in life, but not meant to be.

So, admit it, forty-somethings.  You sang along when Sheena Easton sang “For Your Eyes Only.”  And, you loved Roger Moore because he’s the only Bond who could pull off Cannonball Run.

Rawlins County Campers

My parents made sure I had experiences to build my sense of confidence and independence.  As a boy, I was completely unaware of their intentional and thought out schemes.  I appreciate it today.

I was eight when both parents agreed to be counselors at the Rock Springs 4-H camp.  I was afraid to go without them.  I know my dad detested the counselor role.  He told me so 34 years later.  I can’t imagine my mom liking it much better.  There are very few parents who pine to be camp counselors.

The next year, I went to 4-H camp on my own – well, along with 20 or 30 other Rawlins County kids (I’m sitting front and center).  My parents gratefully stayed home.

These are the types of building blocks my parents engineered so I would gradually gain the confidence to do things on my own.  I always got sick the night before “sleep away” camps.  But I made it through several years of scout camp, KU basketball camp and KU baseball camp before the eighth grade.

Traveling to Flagler by bus was another one of the experiences my parents planned for me.  I took an annual Greyhound trip (or was it Trailways) from Colby (the nearest stop at the time) to Flagler where my Creighton grandparents lived.  Each year, the trip was done with a little less supervision.

The first year, when I was six, I traveled with my brother Alec.  My dad followed behind in the car.  Alec made a separate trip that year with Thorn Hayden and no parents shadowing their progress.

The next year, I traveled with Alec and Paul Hayden.  Our parents or Paul’s dropped us off in Colby.  My dad waited until the end of the work day to travel to Flagler.

The trip with Alec and Paul was marked by the infamous “Stuckey’s Experience.”  I fought tears for nearly an hour.  In the era of low gas mileage and small gas tanks, filling stations populated the Interstate at exchanges between towns.

Stuckey’s and Nickerson Farms – part lunch counter, part filling station and part novelty shop – were  the prominent chains along I-70 in western Kansas and eastern Colorado.  You could fill up your tank, get a hamburger and buy a felt picture of a jackelope all in one stop.  These stops were shrines to American entrepreneurs and consumers alike.

We stopped at a Stuckey’s near Goodland, KS to pick up passengers and a mid-morning snack.  At seven, my head barely cleared the top of the lunch counter.  The waitress’ eyes never made contact with mine.  I tried to get her attention but to no avail.  There were 20 other passengers to serve.

When the bus driver yelled for us all to re-board, I had failed to garner a snack.  The devastation was almost more than I could bear.  Alec and Paul tried to comfort me by sharing their food.  But, I could not be consoled.

The next year was the big trip – no parents for two days.  Silas Horton joined me on the bus that year.  We stayed in my grandparent’s “guest house” – a detached studio apartment in their back yard.  We thought we were on a grand adventure.

Joni and I have not been as deliberate as my parents in creating a series of experiences for our kids.  Our kids do a lot but camps and unsupervised travel are not among the things they do.  I sometimes wonder if that’s been an error.

Perhaps my parents weren’t as deliberate as I imagine.  But, knowing my mom, they were.  I’m glad I’m remembering the steps they took.  There’s still time for Joni and me to do the same favor for our kids.

Bill Horton and I had a tense relationship.  When I was around, I made Bill tense.

I called him Mr. Horton, of course.  I wouldn’t have dared to call one of my friends’ parents by their first name.

Mr. Horton was Silas’ dad.  They lived on the opposite corner of our block in the big green house, which the Yount family would later buy.

It was a great house.  It had an in ground swimming pool and an in ground trampoline.  There were lots of cool rooms inside.  Silas and I burned a trail in the alley going back and forth to one another’s house.  The Horton’s also had a mobile home which was the best way to go to Trenton (Swanson) Lake and just about anywhere else for that matter.

There were many reasons that I made Mr. Horton tense.  For starters, he had a lot of safety rules that I found very difficult to follow.

I often was invited to go to Trenton to the lake.  We weren’t supposed to sit on the edge of the boat when crossing the lake.  I thought that was such a comfortable seat.

Back at the house, the rule was one person on the trampoline at a time.  Mr. Horton did not want us to “double bounce” each other because we might land on the surrounding bricks.  But trying to “double bounce” someone was the best part of being on a trampoline.

The swimming pool was only eight feet deep under the diving board.  Mr. Horton had a strict rule that all dives must be done with hands extended over the head to prevent neck injuries.  I couldn’t resist the temptation to do a “hammer head” – a dive with arms pinned to the side.

I hid in the back hall of my house the next morning listening to Mr. Horton and my Mom in our living room.  He was explaining why I was “banned” from the pool for the next two weeks.

One summer our dirt alley was dug out to replace sewer pipes.  It would be paved once the sewer repairs were made.  Silas and I received strict instructions from our parents to stay out of the trench.  I did nothing to improve my reputation when I was discovered in the hole a few days later.

Safety concerns were not the only reason I made Mr. Horton tense.  Sometimes I was just annoying.

I ended several sleepovers at the Horton house at one a.m. – knocking on Mr. and Mrs. Horton’s door asking if they’d call my Mom.

We were on a boat in Trenton.  Mr. Horton was working on the ski ropes, or something like that.  I couldn’t resist the urge to pull the lever by the steering wheel.  The boat lurched.  Mr. Horton fell.  (I did the same thing to my father-in-law thirty-five years later.)  If you’re laughing now, let me tell you there was no laughter on that boat in Trenton.

There was something about levers to pull or squeeze that seemed to fascinate me.  The Horton’s took me to Denver to see Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus.  We stepping down the stairs of the motor home into the Denver Coliseum parking lot when I noticed a red canister with a silver handle just begging to be squeezed.

I would never have guessed in 100 years that the foam from the fire extinguisher could cover so much area inside the mobile home.  Mrs. Horton took us to the circus.  Mr. Horton took the mobile home to be cleaned.

Then, there were the times I was just plain scary.

The Hortons built a one of a kind house west of town on a hill to the south of Highway 36.  Before the house was built, Mr. Horton would take Silas and me to the property to fly kites or shoot Estes rockets.

We were having trouble launching one of the rockets.  Silas connected the wires to the rocket “engine.”  I pushed the button on the launch device but nothing happened.  Silas check the connection.  It looked good.  I pushed the button, again.  Nothing.

Mr. Horton came over to lend a hand.  As he approached, I noticed that the safety key for the launch pad had fallen out.  I didn’t notice that the launch button was stuck in ”go” position.  I inserted the safety key.  The rocket shot into the air in the blink of an eye, barely missing Mr. Horton’s face.

My children are often complimented by their friends’ parents.  “Your kids are great to have around,” they’ll say.  I don’t know that Mr. Horton ever said that about me.  But, he must have had patience because I was always welcomed back.

Mr. Horton’s time in the house on the hill was cut short.  Cancer got the better of him when Silas was a sophomore (maybe a junior) in high school and I was a freshman.

At the time, I didn’t begin to appreciate what Mr. Horton and his family endured during those years.  I didn’t appreciate what Silas was experiencing, either.  He spent many days on the hill by himself while Mr. and Mrs. Horton were out of town for Mr. Horton’s treatments.  I had a hard time saying goodbye to my parents in my forties.  I can’t imagine doing it at sixteen.

Silas and I have talked about many things.  We have never talked about his dad.  Maybe the next time we’re together we can have that chat – perhaps we’ll have a few laughs and a cry.

We are going to the Mickey cabin in a couple of weeks for a three day weekend. It is one our favorite places to go as a family. It is especially fun when extended family or friends are able to join us. It’s literally a memory making machine.

One of our favorite winter past times at the cabin is skating on the lake. Joe and I spend hours together, and with friends when they are there, playing ice hockey and speed skating. I’ve learned some valuable lessons. For instance, don’t lean back when making a slap shot in hockey. You’ll fall on your backside if you do.

Joe gives me a head start so I can stay competitive in our speed skating races. I’ve also learned that if I hold my arms out wide it’s a lot harder for him to pass me on the corners. He usually waits ‘til the last lap to dart by. He’s a kind hearted soul. After each victory he says, “I’m sorry Dad. But, you did really good.”

We take breaks from our games to check on Johnson’s ice fishing efforts. He has a “fish TV” to see what’s below. It must help. For years, I never saw him catch a thing. First time out with the TV he caught four. Ada Grace made him throw them all back.

Inevitably, while down on the ice, one of the kids will say, “Dad, tell us that story about Silas and Paul.”

You’ve heard it 20 times, I’ll say.

“Just tell it, please.”

And, so I do…

We went camping out at Steele’s Pond one winter. We liked to camp in the cold. We must have, because we went back year after year. Our parents would drop us of at the Sportsmen’s Club in Blakeman and we’d hike the rest of the way in – about three or four miles, I’d guess.  Little did I know that I was walking by your mom’s house on the way to the ponds.

One winter, I got sick while we were camping.  Since we didn’t have cell phones, we couldn’t call anyone.  I spent half the night outside the tent.  I could barely make it back to Blakeman the next morning.  Turned out I had a fever of 104 degrees.

“Dad, what about Paul and Silas?”

Right.  Paul and I camped together the most.  We spent one winter day huddled over a transistor radio straining to hear the 1974 NCAA Final Four. I was nine and Paul was ten. KU lost to UCLA in the consolation game. It was the year that UCLA’s string of seven consecutive championships came to an end. It may have been one of the last times they played a consolation game.

“Dad, what about Paul and Silas and the lake?”

Okay.  Okay.  Paul, Silas, our friend Todd, and I camped out at Steele’s Pond one winter when I was 15 or 16. I had to be older because Silas drove us to the campground.

After we set up camp, we headed up the hill to one of the ponds. It had been cold for several weeks but it was warm on this day. We tested the ice on the pond and decided it was thick enough to play some hockey.

We found a few sticks and crushed an aluminum can to make a puck. We were having a great time. Paul and I were on one team. Silas and Todd on the other.

At one point in the game, Paul hit the “puck” toward the edge of the pond. Silas and I raced to get it. Silas was way ahead of me so I let up and turned around. Suddenly, I heard a loud crack.  Then a splash. I turned back around and saw that Silas had fallen through the ice.

Silas, arms flailing, immediately began to yell, “Help me. Help!”

I got down on my stomach just like we learned in scouts and started to inch my way toward him. I would try to pull him out even though he was much bigger than me.

That’s when I heard Paul yell from the other side of the pond, “Stand Up!”

Silas climbed to his feet and discovered the water was not quite knee deep.

“Dad, was Silas scared?”

Well, that was kind of the end of the story.

“Dad, did you think he was going to drown?”

Just like every time, that’s all I’ve got.

“Dad, did you keep playing hockey or did you quit?”

Stories over.

“Dad….