Can toppling a rock topple an organization?

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

As if the Boy Scouts of America didn't have enough public relations problems with its recent anachronistic ambivalence related to the involvement of gay Scouts and leaders, two of its Troop-level volunteers -- two out of more than one million adult leaders throughout the program -- stupidly toppled a 200-million-year-old rock formation in Utah's Goblin Valley AND more stupidly posted a video on Facebook that the Salt Lake City Tribune posted on YouTube.
 
Just in case the print story wasn't damaging enough, the video clarified any misunderstandings or hope for justification by vividly showing the leaders' -- oops, no leadership characteristics there -- the morons' testosterone-laced intent to vandalize the irreplaceable natural landmark, even grossly singing and dancing to the hip-hop tune, "Wiggle It" as the rock falls.
 
I fully understand the operational and public relations challenges that the Boy Scouts of America faces, especially related to matching its national face with its local "boots on the ground." I worked as a full-time, executive staff member for local offices of the Boy Scouts of America for 20 years. 

I loved the work and most of the volunteer leaders I met and collaborated with to deliver quality programs to young people. I enjoyed opportunities that few of my social peers couldn't even imagine, from backpacking in the Rockies to having top-level corporate leaders follow my lead on fund-raising campaigns.
 
From a national perspective, the BSA is torn by its long-time partners -- mostly churches -- on the homosexuality issue, yet few can deny the positive impact of the program.
 
The results of a recent study by Baylor University showed that young men who attain Scouting's highest youth recognition, Eagle Scout, are more likely to have closer relationships with their friends and families and, as adults, to serve in leadership positions at their place of employment or in their communities, contribute to charitable organizations, and be goal-oriented and network with their peers. A visit to the BSA's website shows countless stories of young Scouts performing far beyond the expectations of their peers, many saving lives using skills only acquired through Scouting.
 
But the unit-level program is the core of the Scouting program. That's where young people reap the benefits of being in Scouting, and I remain amazed at the opportunities I've seen given to young people as a result of caring, role-model volunteer leadership.
 
On the other hand ... In 1988, when I was working for the Boy Scouts in Houston, the national organization opened the door to women to become Scoutmasters, a role limited only to men since the organization's founding in 1910. We arranged a media event at a local church for a TV station's to interview our area's first female Scoutmaster and to get feedback from other unit-level leaders and Scouts.
 
Most of the counter arguments to women as Scoutmasters focused on the need of young men to have male role models that could help shape their character, citizenship and personal fitness (BSA goals at the time). I vividly remember the video footage that accompanied these arguments: a slow scan of a group of pot-bellied male Scout leaders who'd spent more than their share of time sampling Dutch Oven cobblers (a camping delicacy). Good men, but visually in direct conflict with the BSA's stated goals.
 
And then there are those like the Goblin Valley duo. Every organization has them somewhere, just waiting for that stupid gene to launch them into the spotlight.

Interestingly, Fox13, a television news outlet in Salt Lake City, reported that the rock-topplers were on a church camp-out; however, most other new sources have focused on the men's Boy Scout connection and have reported that eight Scouts were with them. So, were the men on a sanctioned Boy Scout activity, or is the media focusing on the men's involvement with the Boy Scouts of America and its close tie to outdoor stewardship to give one more swift (but lingering) kick to a stumbling organization?
 
How much control can an non-profit organization the size of the Boy Scouts of America have over the 24/7 actions of its volunteers? More importantly, do organizations like the Boy Scouts of America, when failing to take a relevant and firm stand on societal issues, hurt themselves and the beneficiaries of their services more? And are those organizations painting a target on their backs by the mishandling of the larger public relations challenges and then enduring harsher media response as a result of localized issues?
 
The BSA is managing this episode as well as can be expected at this point, and I think they're headed in the right direction. Here's the official statement, as posted on the local office's website serving the Goblin Valley area (and not found on the national BSA site):
 
In regards the recent incident in Goblin Valley, the Utah National Parks Council releases the following statement:

We are shocked and disappointed by this reprehensible behavior. For more than a century, the Boy Scouts of America has been a leader in conservation—from stewardship to sustainability. We teach our 2.6 million youth members and 1.1 million adult members, who collectively spend more than 5.5 million nights outdoors, the principles of “Leave No Trace.” These principles stress a commitment to maintaining the integrity and character of the outdoors and all living things.

The isolated actions of these individuals are absolutely counter to our beliefs and what we teach. We are reviewing this matter and will take appropriate action.

On background, for additional information about what Scouting teaches, please visit: http://www.scouting.org/scoutsource/boyscouts/teachingleavenotrace.aspx.
 
Just as an aside ...

I think the Boy Scouts of America will allow openly gay adults to become volunteer leaders. In a similar environment, it won a case to prevent women from becoming Scoutmasters in 1987, but reversed its stance in 1988, I'm thinking, to acknowledge the changing needs of our society and to better serve more young people.

The same logic will prevail, and the BSA will take a hit from its chartered partners (local "sponsors" like churches, civic clubs, etc.). But if it stays the course and maintains focus on its core mission, it will survive, even with abandonment by more conservative churches (probably not the BSA's staunchest supporters for most of its history anyway) and the onslaught of Scouting "alternatives" (that I won't link to because I want no association).

If it doesn't, it's dead.

Follow me on Twitter: @FWgib

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#5)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Numbers 1-4 earlier.

Number 5

My dad was so trusting, and his friends and family (okay, me) knew it. I played that trust for a few minutes; a friend of his took him for a 'ride' for 18 years. If MTV practical joker Ashton Kutcher knew him, my dad would've easily been 'Punk'd.'

PUNK'D BY ME
Some time around 1993-94, my parents, my wife, daughter #1 and my son spent Thanksgiving with other families at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch near Bridgeport, Texas. I was working for the Boy Scouts, and a tradition had started a few years earlier that those staff members and their immediate families who couldn't be with their extended families for Thanksgiving would meet at Sid for a huge, community meal. Sid has a large dining hall with cabins and dorms to accommodate the more civilized camper.

After dinner, I was talking with my dad on the porch of the dining hall. Jim Gidley, who was responsible for the local camping programs, was building a fire down near the lake for . . . you guessed it, s'mores.

Knowing how trusting my dad was (and thinking that he would appreciate a good practical joke), I tested an old Tenderfoot Scout trick on him. I told him that I couldn't find the tool that we needed to help build the fire, so I instructed him, 'Go ask Mr. Gidley where I can find a left-handed smoke-shifter (for you non-campers, there is no such thing as a left-handed smoke-shifter).'

My 70+ year old dad walked the 150 yards down to the lake, which was too far for me to hear the conversation, talked with Mr. Gidley, then trudged back up the hill. As he got closer to the porch, I asked him what Mr. Gidley said.

My dad replied, 'He told me to tell you to go to hell,' and gave me that 'smart ass' look and laugh.

PUNK'D FOR 18-YEARS
My son's mom and I were born two days apart in Port Arthur's St. Mary's Hospital. Both of us are the youngest in our families; she has two older sisters, and I have one older sister. Our dads had worked together at Texaco since the '40s, and like any group of co-workers, everybody knew their wives were pregnant.

I was born first, and my dad was so proud. In a world of blue-collar working men, most of them World War II veterans, having a son must've been like winning the title fight or hitting a home run to win the World Series. My dad followed a long-lost custom and passed out cigars to friends at work while he bragged about his new son. When the phone rang and the caller asked for George, he'd ask, 'Do you want to talk to George Senior or George Junior.'

My son's mom and I grew up in the same town and both attended St. James Catholic Church, but we didn't meet until the summer after high school, when we were 18 years old. When I told my dad who I was dating, he said, 'I work with her daddy. She has a brother about your age.'

I'd just met this girl, but I knew enough about her to correct him, 'Daddy, she doesn't have a brother. She has two older sisters.'

For more than 18 years, my outgoing, very trusting dad would ask my future father-in-law, 'How's your son?' And, for more than 18 years, my tight-lipped FFIL responded in his typically Cajun mutter, 'He's fine,' never admitting that he'd had a third daughter instead of a son.

Punk'd for 18 years, but one of my dad's best traits was that he loved to be around people, and he trusted them, maybe the most important gifts he passed on to my sister and me (and I see it in both daughter #1 and daughter #2).

My dad died in 1999, and the visitation at the funeral home became a real celebration of his life, as his former co-workers and friends approached me with 'George' stories: 'good man,' 'always smiling,' 'always happy,' 'always playing a joke on somebody' . . . WHAT!?

Things to Do When You're Bored #1

I've been home with the flu since Monday afternoon, and I'm surprised I've lasted this long. Here's the first of what I hope won't be many tips on what to do when you're stuck at home and all the traditional activities have run dry.

Check out maps.google.com.

Here's an aerial view of my house. It must be in the winter, not just because my grass is dead but so is everyone else's. If it were summer, everyone else's grass would be green. That's my daughter's 1993 Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, the first of many substandard vehicles forced upon her in high school.

And here's a street view of my house (this kind of scared me when I first realized this was available). We're still trying to throw away that white thing on the curb; we just can't seem to put it out the week the City will pick it up. And that's my pick-up truck . . . adds an all-new manly appeal to me, doesn't it?

The street views are taken by a random crew that cruises up and down every street in America (or at least that's the eventual intent anyway). In the street view, you can actually 'walk' up and down the street, and I've heard there are groups of 24/7 Internet users who've searched to find the same people in more than one street view. A friend told me of one guy who'd supposedly given up smoking and his friends busted him via Google map. If I come up with another Things to Do When You're Bored idea, I may send it to those people.

By the way, we didn't have a cotton candy explosion. I think all the pink is from enlarging the photos.

Here's an aerial view of the building where I work, International Plaza in Fort Worth. I still haven't figured out what's international about it except that I understand that the owner also owns Rosa's Cafe and Tortilla Factory restaurants. We've got a pretty good cafeteria of our own on the first floor. Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches are the best! So are club sandwiches. And Wednesday is chicken wrap day. Breakfast burritos are available every day, too.

For those of you into George trivia, the building to the northeast of International Plaza is formerly the Boy Scout office, where I worked for about 10 years. At that time, the salad bar in International Plaza's first-floor cafeteria was the best. It's okay now; I just don't eat as healthily (Philly Cheesesteak and breakfast burritos vs. salads . . . duh!)

Here's a street view of International Plaza. I'm just about where the arrow is pointing. I've always described the building as looking like a Coors Light can (see the cylinder to the left). My part of the building is rounded, too, and so are the hallways inside. When I first started working there (it's an engineering firm, and stop me if you've heard this before), one of our more introverted engineers was trying so hard to not make eye contact with me as we walked toward each other in the hall that he missed the curve . . . smack!

I did look up the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Nice aerial view but no street view, and I didn't see George W. or Laura out on the lawn. I'm just hoping now that I haven't made somebody's list for downloading a satellite view of the White House.

I'd better go back to work soon.

Our Dreams: A Family Tradition

When I sleep, I dream. Not simple, random dreams; but continuous, vivid dreams, from the moment I close my eyes, when the commercials and previews start, until I wake up following the final feature.

Vivid dreams seem to be a family tradition. My dad would talk in his sleep and often would 'act out' his dreams. During a weekend stay at a local Scout camp (I worked for the Boy Scouts for about 20 years), we stayed in cabins; and in our cabin, his side of the bed was up against a wall (apparently his side of the bed at home wasn't). From my room across the cabin, I heard him smack in to the bedroom wall, later learning that he had jumped up in bed and chased someone right into the wall.

I spent my 40th birthday in my dad's hospital room, where dehydration was one of the doctor's concerns. Apparently, hallucinations are a symptom of dehydration. After an evening of zig-zag, sometimes-difficult-to-follow conversation, my dad asked me to get the nurse a Coke. I realized that he thought she was his home-health nurse when I looked at her name tag, and it wasn't the same name he was using.

I went to the nurse's station to ask what to do about his hallucinations. The nurse said to gently bring him back to reality and let him know that he's hallucinating. Some time around 2:30 a.m., I'd pretty much resorted to 'yeah, dad. whatever.'

I've carried on the tradition, in many cases, much to the concern of my wife. A couple of recurring dreams from my earlier parenthood days:

- I'd dive out of bed to keep my kids from falling, a dream that made a trip to the dome of the Texas capital building a nightmare (get away from the railing! Daddy, we want to see!) and a visit to the Grand Canyon a real nerve-tester.

- I'd stand up in bed and reach up to get the kids off the ceiling fan, a dream that significantly improved my wife's sleep-to-alert reflexes (I'm sure her response saved my fingers and the top of my head many times).

My 'favorite' has its own place in the lore of our family history, a story oft' repeated 'round campfires and television sets.

My wife stayed up late to watch a movie with daughter #1, and I'd already gone to bed. She walked into our room, and I jumped out of bed, ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. With what I would call my best Jack-Nicholson-'Here's-Johnny' leer, I started shaking her and shouting, 'I've got you now!' My wife's not petite, so fortunately I woke up before she and daughter #1 threw me down the stairs (I did make it a point to tell a friend because I'd heard that sleepwalking was a solid defense for murdering your wife if there's documentation of previous, similar events . . . I have since heard that it's not).

Now it seems like my action-filled dreams are limited to seeing 3-D geometric patterns on the ceiling, usually well-lit, and me waking up my wife to show her and explain the details. She's usually not interested.

But the tradition continues . . .

So far, daughter #2 only talks in her sleep. When my son was much younger, I woke up to him standing next to my side of the bed. Fortunately, my ever-vigilant wife sounded the alarm, 'He's still asleep . . . and he's about to pee!' When daughter #1 was younger, I followed her down the stairs in the middle of the night and caught her pulling down her pajama bottoms as she was getting ready to pee in the middle of the living room.

I have the flu this week, and I left work early Monday. After daughter #2 came home from school, I went upstairs to take a nap while she went across the street to play. Unfortunately, daughter #2 has become quite the 5th-grade socialite, and her friends started ringing our phone just a few minutes after she left. Around 5 p.m., I gave up and called her to come home.

From 5:17 p.m., when I gave her the phone, until 6:35 p.m., when my wife called, there were no dreams.

For somebody who always dreams, that's pretty frightening. When daughter #2 woke me up to talk to my wife, I felt like I had to crawl out of a deep black hole to wake up. And that darkness is all I remember about those 78 minutes.

Pretty scary, although I'm sure the fever prompted that deep sleep; but I keep wondering, where did I go?

Just in case you missed my previous post, only one person can answer that: