The signs have been so grim for so long, it would be easy to miss subtle changes.
Summertime canoeing and the big centennial celebration gotme thinking, grudgingly, about the Boy Scouts of America. I was once a loyal Scout, pledging to do my best, but parted ways after three offenses — the BSA’s, not mine. First, the bad stroke. I’d paddled canoes since kidhood under all kinds of conditions, so was taken aback when camp counselors insisted I master the J-stroke, to which I objected as ineffective. That cost me my paddle rights. Strike 1. A campfire skit called for ...
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