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Tribute

As you may have heard, there was an accident at the annual scout Jamboree in Virginia.

One of those killed was Scott Powell. Here I have a tribute to Scott written by a friend of mine, James Pendleton.

I haven’t seen Scott Powell since I moved out of Alaska in 1992.

That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about him; Far from it, in fact. As the resident Ranger for Camp Gorsuch at Mirror Lake, Alaska, Scott provided a kernel of knowledge about the way to reach young boys in the Scouting program. I learned if you’re going to sing, sing loudly and if you’re going to wave your arms and clap your hands, do it in the most exaggerated fashion imaginable. Normally staid adults might give it a crossways glance, and a half-hearted attempt at joining in, but the kids like me were right there with him, giving one hundred percent of our energy and vocal chords to whatever song was underway.

Lined up for chow, or flag ceremonies, or any of the numerous events at summer camp we’d wait for his cue and we’d holler out our patrol yell in a vain attempt to blow off his hat with the sheer force of our voices.

He’d laugh and play along with our usually bad skits, rife with inside jokes and muffled voices from scouts who weren’t anything close to thespians. When it was time to end the week of camp, Scott would talk to us about our goals and the ways to incorporate the values of the Scouting program into our daily lives. He closed his talk with what seemed an impressive feat even for his athletic, borderline wiry frame. He’d remind us we can do anything we set our minds to, and then he’d do a standing back flip, right there in front of us.

Scott was one of countless adults who touched my life in what could be perceived as small ways yet undoubtedly profound. As a boy, my father was unable to be there with me due to serious illness. I eventually lost him just shy of my sixteenth birthday. My mother did an unparalleled job of raising two children on her own, but she wanted to make sure I had strong male influences to shape my formative years. Luckily, she encouraged my career in Scouting.

It would be wrong of me to try to name all the folks who were a part of that, but Scott was one. Others included Chuck, who taught me how to lead quietly through observation and gentle nudges in the right direction. Tim gave me the value of going the extra mile, beyond what is asked. He also gave me my love of Pat McManus books. Paul taught me the values and lessons and skills I have learned are a gift to be shared, and that with those gifts come the responsibility of ‘replenishing the well’, if you will.

There are countless others. Some are family, some are completely unrelated to the Scouting program, but all of them left an impression on me. What amazes me is the spirit in which they shared what they knew. It wasn’t because they necessarily knew me personally, but because they had (and have) a love of sharing their knowledge. They wanted to make ‘the little fat kid with the rope’ into a productive adult, and I live every day trying to make them thankful of their efforts.

These folks were volunteers. They didn’t get a nickel for the time they spent with me, or any of the other youth they donated their time to, and ninety-nine percent of the time they didn’t even get a thank you. This is that one percent.

I don’t know how I would have ended up without the influence of these people, but a little bit of them is a part of my every-day life. I thank the Lord for them, and I wish words could express the gratitude I feel for their efforts. They made, and still make a difference and our world is a better place because of people like them.

I would love to say this to every one of them in person, but I can’t.

Scott Powell, 57, was killed Monday, July 25 in an electrical accident at the Boy Scout National Jamboree while setting up a tent. Three other adult volunteers from the Western Alaska Council were killed alongside of him.