Joining the boy scouts at age 12, was a life changing influence. It helps a boy make the rough crossing between boyhood and manhood a little easier. Things change fast around that age, and becoming a teenager one encounters some things for the first time. Like little hairs sprouting up on the chin.
We'd been with Mr. Van a couple of years by the time we'd hit the age of 14. Myself, Dave Tate, Everett Snyder, Bobby Ryerson, were some of Mr. Van's old hands by that time. We were the old pro's from Dover, helping out with the younger scouts, kind of like Mr. Van's acting NCO's.
One Friday night at a regular meeting, we'd been all set to help teach some of the younger kids the fine art of getting a really sharp edge on their scout knives. But like always, Mr. Van liked to inspect the troops to start off the evening right. This one night, he walked slowly down the line, and stopped at Ev. He leaned close and peered at Ev's face with a great intensity.
"Mr. Snyder, just what is that on your chin?" Mr. Van asked in a dangerous tone.
"Uh, I don't know, sir."
"There is a little chin hair with a couple of friends. Have you shaved yet son?"
Ev looked like he'd been asked the 64,000 dollar question.
"Shaved? I haven't had to yet, sir." replied Ev.
Mr. Van made a snort and finished his inspection, stopping at Dave and me as well, peering at our chins. Then he went to the front of the room, and addressed the troop.
"Okay men, some of you are going to take a big step into manhood. You will, before our next meeting make the aqaintance of Mr. Gillette." he said. "You will get to know Mr. Gillette very well, and have a meeting with him every morning. The time has come in your life to embrace the manly art of shaving. There will be no tiny little chin hairs in this troop, nor will there be any scraggly peach fuzz clinging to chins."
Mr. Van paused as his blue lazer like gaze swept us.
"While you wear this uniform, you will be neat and clean, well trimed and barbered. Haircuts will be high and tight. There will be no hair hanging over your shirt collars or ears. " He told us. "If in the future, any scout shows up with little chin hairs, said scout will receive instruction on the art of field shaving with your scout knife. Is that clear?"
Young 12 year old Billy Yates raised his hand.
"Sir, is it really possable to shave with a knife?" he asked wide eyed.
We held our breaths while Mr. Van gave young Billy the stare we'd come to dread. But then he answered with a surprisingly gentle tone.
"Yes Mr. Yates, it is not only possable, but not that bad if you learn to sharpen your knife well. That is what you will do tonight, learn to put a razor edge on your knife. You never know when you go out the door in the morning what will happen before you get home that night. Next meeting, if there are any chin hairs in this troop, you will see it done. "
The meeting went on, and we got the younger scouts up to speed on the fine art of knife sharpening. That week we took care of our marching orders from Mr. Van. I went to my father and told him of what went on, and he just smiled. That evening, he handed me a spare Gillette razor and a can of shaving cream, and gave me instruction in the manly art of dragging a blade over my young face. This was the ancient days before Track 2's, Mach 3's and all the fancy razors that look like they were built for very high speed. You opened up the razor and dropped in a double edge blade that was either a Gillette Super Blue blade, or the stainless blade. I didn't bleed too much due to dad's good teaching.
The next meeting we got there early, and compared shaves. Not taking any chances, we'd shaved just before the meeting. There were a few faces with red tinged pieces of tissue paper clinging to the fresh cuts, but on the whole, not too bad. Exept for poor Dave Dougherty. He' massacred himself pretty good, and had what looked like a half a roll of toilet paper on his face, along with a couple of bandaids. We had little time to raz him, because at 30 seconds till the top of the hour, we heard Mr. Van's footsteps coming down the hall. There were certain things in our life we could count on, like the sun always rising in the east, snow in winter, and Mr. Van being on time.
He entered the basement meeting room with that strait backed marine walk, and without being told, we fell into line standing at attention. He paused only to set a canvas bag down on the desk and he slowly made his way down the line, inspecting us for shaves, haircuts, and uniform correctness.
He made short comments as he went, "Good haircut Mr. Tate," or "That patch is a little off, Mr. Simmonds."
Then he got to poor Dave Dougherty. He looked at the bloody carnage and shook his head slowly. Then he leaned close to him and patted him on the shoulder.
"A bit less pressure on the razor, son. Easy does it."
Mr. Van finished his inspection of the troop, and went to the front of the room.
"Okay men, last week a question was raised about the possability of shaving in the field with your knife. You will now get a block of instruction on the art of field shaving with a knife. Pay very close attention, because I don't want to have any of you cut your own throats."
With that, Mr. Stevens, our asistant scout master, came in with a pot of steaming water. He'd been mysteriously disappearing upstairs where the church had a kitchen. Now he stood by as Mr. Van took off his shirt, and unhooked his Remington scout knife from it's belt shackle. All the scouts were transfixed by the old Remington, knowing that even back then it was something rare and beautiful. If King Arthur had materialized and drew Exalibur from it's sheath, I don't really know if it would have gotten more attention than Mr. Van's famous Remington scout knife. This was the knife he'd outdone all the other scout masters at carving the picture perfect fuzz stick. Mr. Van kept it honed to a deadly edge, but this week he'd stropped it good for it's new mission. We watched with baited breath, as Mr. Van took out a shaving mug and brush from the canvas bag he'd brought, and with some of the hot water from the pot held by Mr. Stevens, whipped up a good lather, then brushed it on his face.
Slowly, ever so carefully, Mr. Van worked down one side of his face with the old Remington, then relathered, and worked down the other side. He worked slowly and by feel. Twenty pairs of eyes watched as the dark grey spear point blade scraped away the lather and subble, and Mr. Van swished the blade around in the pot of steaming water. Twenty hands felt gingerly at our thoats as Mr. Van shaved down his with the old pre-war Remington. He did his chin last, putting on fresh wet lather from the mug.
Finally he was done. He dried off his face with a towel, and just a single little droplet of blood oozed from one side of his chin. He spent more time carefully drying and cleaning his scout knife than he spent on his face. His last step was sitting down and lightly stropping the knife on the top of his boot. Then he stood and adressed the troop.
"Now gentlemen, you have seen that it is possable to shave with your knife in the field. Any scout having any little chin hairs in this troop, will do as I have done here tonight. I will never ask you to do anything I would not, or have not done myself. "
Mr. Van hung the old Remington scout knife back on his belt hook, and life in the troop went on. No scout had to shave with his knife, as no little chin hairs ever were found on a scout in Mr. Van's troop.
The lesson was enough.
We'd been with Mr. Van a couple of years by the time we'd hit the age of 14. Myself, Dave Tate, Everett Snyder, Bobby Ryerson, were some of Mr. Van's old hands by that time. We were the old pro's from Dover, helping out with the younger scouts, kind of like Mr. Van's acting NCO's.
One Friday night at a regular meeting, we'd been all set to help teach some of the younger kids the fine art of getting a really sharp edge on their scout knives. But like always, Mr. Van liked to inspect the troops to start off the evening right. This one night, he walked slowly down the line, and stopped at Ev. He leaned close and peered at Ev's face with a great intensity.
"Mr. Snyder, just what is that on your chin?" Mr. Van asked in a dangerous tone.
"Uh, I don't know, sir."
"There is a little chin hair with a couple of friends. Have you shaved yet son?"
Ev looked like he'd been asked the 64,000 dollar question.
"Shaved? I haven't had to yet, sir." replied Ev.
Mr. Van made a snort and finished his inspection, stopping at Dave and me as well, peering at our chins. Then he went to the front of the room, and addressed the troop.
"Okay men, some of you are going to take a big step into manhood. You will, before our next meeting make the aqaintance of Mr. Gillette." he said. "You will get to know Mr. Gillette very well, and have a meeting with him every morning. The time has come in your life to embrace the manly art of shaving. There will be no tiny little chin hairs in this troop, nor will there be any scraggly peach fuzz clinging to chins."
Mr. Van paused as his blue lazer like gaze swept us.
"While you wear this uniform, you will be neat and clean, well trimed and barbered. Haircuts will be high and tight. There will be no hair hanging over your shirt collars or ears. " He told us. "If in the future, any scout shows up with little chin hairs, said scout will receive instruction on the art of field shaving with your scout knife. Is that clear?"
Young 12 year old Billy Yates raised his hand.
"Sir, is it really possable to shave with a knife?" he asked wide eyed.
We held our breaths while Mr. Van gave young Billy the stare we'd come to dread. But then he answered with a surprisingly gentle tone.
"Yes Mr. Yates, it is not only possable, but not that bad if you learn to sharpen your knife well. That is what you will do tonight, learn to put a razor edge on your knife. You never know when you go out the door in the morning what will happen before you get home that night. Next meeting, if there are any chin hairs in this troop, you will see it done. "
The meeting went on, and we got the younger scouts up to speed on the fine art of knife sharpening. That week we took care of our marching orders from Mr. Van. I went to my father and told him of what went on, and he just smiled. That evening, he handed me a spare Gillette razor and a can of shaving cream, and gave me instruction in the manly art of dragging a blade over my young face. This was the ancient days before Track 2's, Mach 3's and all the fancy razors that look like they were built for very high speed. You opened up the razor and dropped in a double edge blade that was either a Gillette Super Blue blade, or the stainless blade. I didn't bleed too much due to dad's good teaching.
The next meeting we got there early, and compared shaves. Not taking any chances, we'd shaved just before the meeting. There were a few faces with red tinged pieces of tissue paper clinging to the fresh cuts, but on the whole, not too bad. Exept for poor Dave Dougherty. He' massacred himself pretty good, and had what looked like a half a roll of toilet paper on his face, along with a couple of bandaids. We had little time to raz him, because at 30 seconds till the top of the hour, we heard Mr. Van's footsteps coming down the hall. There were certain things in our life we could count on, like the sun always rising in the east, snow in winter, and Mr. Van being on time.
He entered the basement meeting room with that strait backed marine walk, and without being told, we fell into line standing at attention. He paused only to set a canvas bag down on the desk and he slowly made his way down the line, inspecting us for shaves, haircuts, and uniform correctness.
He made short comments as he went, "Good haircut Mr. Tate," or "That patch is a little off, Mr. Simmonds."
Then he got to poor Dave Dougherty. He looked at the bloody carnage and shook his head slowly. Then he leaned close to him and patted him on the shoulder.
"A bit less pressure on the razor, son. Easy does it."
Mr. Van finished his inspection of the troop, and went to the front of the room.
"Okay men, last week a question was raised about the possability of shaving in the field with your knife. You will now get a block of instruction on the art of field shaving with a knife. Pay very close attention, because I don't want to have any of you cut your own throats."
With that, Mr. Stevens, our asistant scout master, came in with a pot of steaming water. He'd been mysteriously disappearing upstairs where the church had a kitchen. Now he stood by as Mr. Van took off his shirt, and unhooked his Remington scout knife from it's belt shackle. All the scouts were transfixed by the old Remington, knowing that even back then it was something rare and beautiful. If King Arthur had materialized and drew Exalibur from it's sheath, I don't really know if it would have gotten more attention than Mr. Van's famous Remington scout knife. This was the knife he'd outdone all the other scout masters at carving the picture perfect fuzz stick. Mr. Van kept it honed to a deadly edge, but this week he'd stropped it good for it's new mission. We watched with baited breath, as Mr. Van took out a shaving mug and brush from the canvas bag he'd brought, and with some of the hot water from the pot held by Mr. Stevens, whipped up a good lather, then brushed it on his face.
Slowly, ever so carefully, Mr. Van worked down one side of his face with the old Remington, then relathered, and worked down the other side. He worked slowly and by feel. Twenty pairs of eyes watched as the dark grey spear point blade scraped away the lather and subble, and Mr. Van swished the blade around in the pot of steaming water. Twenty hands felt gingerly at our thoats as Mr. Van shaved down his with the old pre-war Remington. He did his chin last, putting on fresh wet lather from the mug.
Finally he was done. He dried off his face with a towel, and just a single little droplet of blood oozed from one side of his chin. He spent more time carefully drying and cleaning his scout knife than he spent on his face. His last step was sitting down and lightly stropping the knife on the top of his boot. Then he stood and adressed the troop.
"Now gentlemen, you have seen that it is possable to shave with your knife in the field. Any scout having any little chin hairs in this troop, will do as I have done here tonight. I will never ask you to do anything I would not, or have not done myself. "
Mr. Van hung the old Remington scout knife back on his belt hook, and life in the troop went on. No scout had to shave with his knife, as no little chin hairs ever were found on a scout in Mr. Van's troop.
The lesson was enough.
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I remember thinking how come it doesn't stop bleedin' lol. Needless to say "once bitten twice shy"
