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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