Last weekend Carolyn and I helped staff a big Boy Scout camporee. It's held on a large campground just north of the straits of Mackinac and its big attraction is a day trip to Mackinac Island. I took the troop there once or twice when I was Scoutmaster, but this was the first time the two of us went there as staff members. I think it's a sign that age is advancing on us that we like to go camping with the Scouts but don't really care to deal with the boys. But no matter, we're still young enough to enjoy a few days of fresh air, cramped quarters, communal showers, and limited wardrobe that is Tent Camping.

Before the camporee started we took a day for ourselves and stayed in a nice hotel at St. Ignace, just north of the Mackinac Bridge. (I'm going to pause a moment for those of you who aren't schooled in northern Michigan's French roots. The island, the straits that surround it and the bridge that spans the straits spell their names "Mackinac" but they're all pronounced "Mackinaw." The city on the tip of Michigan's Lower Peninsula is spelled "Mackinaw," as it was Anglicized in the mid-1700s.) I slept as well as I usually do in hotels, which means that I lay there and listened to the air conditioner hum while I wished that I'd brought sleeping pills. Eventually I dozed off, just about the time I could distinguish the tree line outside our patio door.

After breakfast we packed our gear and left for the camporee. We arrived just in time to help unload the enormous wooden poles and big vinyl and canvas tents that would house the Trading Post and the Commissary. We joined a crew of about twenty weekend roustabouts and helped steady the poles while the big boys pulled the canvas. In about two hours we not only had the two big tents pitched but some smaller ones for First Aid and Security. We also pitched three tiny dining flies over picnic tables for each of the three subcamps' check-in points. Carolyn and I, along with Carolyn's friend Mary, had charge of the Blue subcamp. Two other teams covered the Red and Green subcamps.

At exactly 3 PM, Boy Scouts and leaders from all over western Michigan started pouring into camp. They came in minivans, SUVs, sedans and trucks. They brought their gear in storage trailers, toy haulers, and trailers made from pickup-truck boxes. Carolyn kept track of the troops' arrivals and site assignments. Mary and I escorted them back to their campsites and gave them their instructions. Ten minutes was all the time they got to unload and then all their vehicles had to be off camp. Trailer-haulers had special parking in a local park across the expressway; everyone else got to leave their vehicles in the state park's parking area. Most of the leaders complied cheerfully, though a few had to be urged to finish unloading their gear and then make camp. One or two ignored the rules completely. I even woke up a couple of stragglers who'd turned in for the night and made them move. It's funny, I thought, how my perspective changed over a few short years. As a Scoutmaster I wondered what was wrong with those staffers and why they couldn't cut us a little slack. This time I wondered, "What's wrong with these Scoutmasters? Can't they handle a few simple rules?"

By about 9 PM every troop on our roster had someone in camp. When no one showed up for an hour we figured we were done and closed down our stations. A breeze blew from the west as a few of us hiked out to a scenic overlook to enjoy the view of the bridge. Carolyn turned in for the night. I was about to join her when Dirk, the leader in charge of physical arrangements, dropped by. Dirk heard from the folks in Registration that about thirty cars' worth of Scouts hadn't checked in yet and we'd need to stay open for them. The good news was that we were only needed until midnight; after that Security could handle them.

Mary and I, along with Roger from the Green subcamp, went back to our station under the dining fly and waited. We played Scrabble to pass the time. The breeze blew stronger as a gentle rain pitter-pattered on our canvas roof. One or two large groups rolled in but most of our business came from single-vehicle arrivals. One of our late-arrivers brought a weather report. She'd been watching a rather large storm work its way across the Upper Peninsula. If it stayed on track it would hit us around midnight. "Just what I wanted," I thought, "to weather a big storm in a little tent."

Midnight arrived. As we finished our game, several poncho-clad Scouts passed our tent. The wind had grown potent. As we shut down our station again an older Scout, who'd just come back from the overlook, told us that the Mackinac Bridge was moving. We hurried down the trail, stepping carefully over roots and rocks. We stared at the two towers. Sure enough, you could see the bridge move, just slightly, if you watched carefully. I glanced at a flagpole near the tollbooth on the road below. The flag stuck straight out, so the wind had to be blowing at least at forty miles per hour.

Rain continued to sprinkle as we hurried back up the trail. We said our goodnights and made our separate ways to our tents. I unzipped the rain cover and screen door and stepped in to ours. Carolyn lay in her sleeping bag, her eyes wide as silver dollars. "I've never been so scared in a tent!" she gasped. The sides snapped and popped as the wind tore at it. "Don't worry," I told her. "I've been in this in bad weather before. It's always held together." I stripped off and hopped in my bag, kicking off my socks. Rain fell harder as gust after gust slapped at our campsite, snapping the vinyl dome and bending the fiberglass poles. I snuggled down in my bag, listening to the wind as it whistled through the cedar trees behind us. "There are 1400 Scouts in this campground," Carolyn gasped as the side of the tent blew down hard, nearly laying on top of us. It snapped back into place with a bang. "Are there any emergency plans?" she asked. "What do we do if there's a tornado?"

"What we're doing right now," I said. "We'll ride the storm out!" The answer didn't comfort her much but it was all I had. Campgrounds are notoriously short on storm cellars.

Then the unthinkable happened, something that never happened in that tent ever before. A big drop of water rolled down the from the screen at the top of the tent and plopped on my bag! Then came another. The wind snapped the rain fly so hard it pulled its stake out of the ground. That allowed rain to blow up underneath it all the way to the screen at the top of the roof. That's when I got ticked.

"Dad gummit!" I cried. "This tent has never leaked and it's not going to now!" I stepped over Carolyn, pulled my pants back on, and lurched back outside. Thunder followed great lightning bolts as I ran around to the windward side of the tent. Cold rain slapped me on the back as I bent down, grabbed the tent stake and shoved it hard back into the rocky ground. The wind picked up again, seemingly enraged that I dared to fight it. I gave the tent a quick look. The little hooks that keep the dome taut on its poles had popped off in three places. I popped them back on. The tent tightened. Despite the storm the little dome tent stood its ground.

I crawled back inside, soaked but triumphant. The dome still popped and dipped in the wind but the leak stopped. I grabbed a slightly-damp T-shirt and daubed off what water and mud I could find before I slid back into my bag. The storm continued to crash and pour for an hour. As suddenly as it was on us, it finally moved off, just trailing a gentle rain. My bag started to warm up around me. The whistling in the cedar trees stopped. And the younger Scouts in the next campsite started tittering like tree frogs. Years of Scouting experience told me that this was worse than the passing storm. They'd whispered quietly at first. Then they spoke in very low tones, increasing their volume over several minutes. And unlike the storm, they wouldn't wind down. I snuggled down low in my bag and tried to shut them out.

A few minutes later I said, in my best Scoutmasterly tones, "Guys? It's late. Hold it down, please." Carolyn had dozed off, purring quietly on the next cot. I lay back down as the campground quieted. And then they started again: Whisper-whisper, titter-titter, talking-almost-out-loud. Then an older, much deeper voice sounded in their campgound: "Gentlemen, it's 3 AM. Go to sleep!" The Scouts complied, recognizing the voice as a much more real threat than some old-goat leader next door.

Peace at last! I turned over and stretched, waiting for slumber to come. I drew a deep breath and fluffed my pillow. "Yup," I thought, "I'm off to Dreamland. Annnnny second now." I rolled over a time or two, impatiently re-fluffing my pillow as sleep hung just out of reach.

Just then, WHAM! went something. It sounded like a shotgun blast. I jumped. WHAM! it went again. Light poured through the side of my tent. Voices murmured from across the road. Another WHAM! Footsteps hurried past on the gravel trail. I squinted at my watch. It was 6 AM. All around us cooks were starting their troops' breakfasts. They made quick stops in the porta-potty before beginning their duties, apparently not realizing that letting the door slam over and over inspires murderous thoughts in even the kindliest and most tender-hearted Scouters.

I knew I was licked. I dug around and found a pair of semi-dry shorts and two just-damp socks, pulled on my uniform, and went to find breakfast on Staff Row, where I'll definitely set us up next time. Oh yes, there'll be a next time. In spite of the big storm we had fun working staff. In a way it was kind of like being a Scout again. We had jobs to do, we did our best at them, and when the work was done we got to hang out with our friends.

I was one of the last kids on my block to move up to a bicycle from a three-wheeler. It wasn't from lack of the ability to ride a bike, it's just that for various reasons it took a while for me to get one. The same thing happened when I wanted to graduate from two wheels to four. I got my driver's license when I was 16, but my family had a tradition, handed down from father to son since the days of wooden-spoked wheels: "If you want to drive, by gosh, you get your own car!" I had a job of sorts at a local hobby shop, but the pay came mostly in the privilege of being allowed to run the trains. It didn't occur to me that there were other stores on Plainfield Avenue that would pay me real money to stand behind a cash register and help customers, which was about all I did at the hobby shop when I wasn't playing with the trains. I believed that the paying jobs were all further out "the Avenue," and without a car I couldn't get to them. If I couldn't get to them, I couldn't support a car. It seemed that my lifestyle was doomed to be rather pedestrian.

My big break came when Bob blew his car up. Bob drove a two-tone 1962 Plymouth Valiant with a motor that made a funny sound. The sound grew louder until the day Bob stopped for gas on the way to a baseball game. The gas-station attendant said, "Man, you'd better trade that off quick!" Bob laughed and told the pump jockey that it was a great car. The great car left the station, turned onto the street, and promptly threw a rod, blowing a four-finger-sized hole in the engine block. Bob's dad towed the Valiant home. The forlorn hulk sat in front of their house awaiting its final trip, to a nearby junkyard on Monday morning.

On Sunday night my fellow Batwipe band-member Dale and Bob's brother Brian stopped by our house to tell me about it. We laughed about how Bob never checked the oil, and how the Valiant went slower and slower, bleeding a huge puddle of oil as it rolled to a halt. In the course of the conversation Brian mentioned that the junkyard had offered Bob $10 for the car but he'd sell it to me for five.

Five bucks for a car?? My mind boggled. This was the chance I'd waited for, longed for, for months! Surely I could find another engine to put in it. Bob's misfortune would be my liberation, freeing me from the travel limits of my bike. I had to move fast. If I waited, the car would be gone. Just one little roadblock stood between me and the open highway: I was grounded!

I stayed out too late on Friday night, mostly because certain of my friends with cars also had parents who didn't enforce curfews. Unfortunately, my parents did. The kitchen window glowed above the dark driveway when my friends dropped me off at about 2 AM. I prayed, "Oh please let it be Mom!" It wasn't: Dad sat at the kitchen table, and he was miles past unhappy. "As long as you live in this house," he roared (well, it seemed like roaring!), "don't you ever come home this late again!!" Then he grounded my scrawny butt for two weeks. Two Weeks! I spent Saturday sulking around the house, enduring the indignity of parental highhandedness and suffering the total injustice that 17-year-olds are forced to endure.

Brian and Dale left. I went to the kitchen, where Mom was finishing up some late-evening cleaning. I explained the situation and begged for a parole. All I needed as a short one, I pleaded, just long enough to run down to Bob's house so I could get that car before they hauled it to the junk yard! Dad had already gone to bed, which was good on two counts: He wouldn't have sprung me, and he also would have forbidden me to do such a stupid thing as buy a junk car. Mom, however, was much more accommodating. "Just long enough to get the car," she said, "and you get right back here."

I ran upstairs as quietly as possible and grabbed my wallet. Slipping back downstairs and out of the house, I jumped on my bike and raced the two blocks to Bob's house. Dale, Bri and some other kids hung out on the porch. Bob wasn't home. I explained the deal to his dad. "So, Buddy Ter's gonna fix the Valiant up?" Bob's dad chuckled. "Good luck!" Dale and Bri pushed the car and me the two blocks back to my house. I offered to help but they agreed that I should get my first ride in my new car, so they'd do the pushing. I coasted to a stop in front of our house and put the car, my car, into Reverse to park it. It hadn't occured to me that I never drove a stick before; somehow that would all get worked out. I slipped in the house and went to bed.

I woke up early the next morning. I lay in bed, not planning to go downstairs until Dad left for work. Dad, however, was more observant than I expected. He saw the Valiant in what had been an empty parking spot when he went to bed and came back inside for an explanation.

"Your buddies junked their car in front of our house," Dad began.

"No," I said in a tone that mixed pride with just a little defiance. "That's my car. I bought it last night for five dollars."

The room cooled noticeably. "You're parked too close to the driveway," he said. Then he left, probably to have a chat with my parole officer.

I spent the morning behind the wheel, practicing shifting a three-in-the-tree. Down low for first, up and away for second, down again for high gear. And I listened to the radio. The car didn't have a working motor, but the AM radio was first-class, pouring top-40 rock from the speaker in the middle of the dash. If I turned it up and tuned the radio just right I could pick up all kinds of exotic stations from far-away cities: WLS and Super-CFL in Chicago, and WOKY in Milwaukee. At night it got even better. I could pull in KMOX from St. Louis and CKLW from Windsor, Ontario! The way it sat, my car wasn't so much a vehicle as it was a 2500-pound transistor radio with four doors and seating for six!

Dad came home for lunch. "You have to get that car off the street," he said. He went on about how the cops would tow a car without plates that sat too long on the street. I hadn't worked out how to get a car with a dead motor up the short steep hill at the foot of our driveway. He said we'd figure out how to move it when he got home. And then he went back to work. I went back to searching out more exotic radio stations, staying with the car to make darn sure that if any cops came up the street I could tell them not to tow it away because we were going to move it that evening. Later our neighbor Mr. Boer came and asked me about the car. I told him about our plan to move it. Mr. Boer offered to push it with his car, a nice big Chevy with a V-8. I figured Dad wouldn't mind if I got the car off the street, since he brought up that I had to do it, so I accepted Mr. Boer's kind offer. It slipped my mind that he got uptight when I left a mere bike in the driveway; finding a semi-immovable car blocking the path to his garage shoved yet another burr under his saddle.

After dinner we pushed the Valiant behind the garage, unclogging the driveway and tucking my prize where the whole street didn't have to see it. The next step would be to remove the junk engine so we could put a good one in. I didn't know a connecting rod from a tie rod so Dad showed me what to take apart and what to leave until the very end; unbolting the engine from its mounts at the wrong time could be a painful thing. The next morning I picked up a wrench and went to work. I took off the air cleaner cover, disconnected the battery, fuel line and accelerator connector. I drained what was left in the radiator and took it out, removing the hoses with it. One part after another came off, finding storage on the back-seat floor or in the trunk. I disassembled that engine the way a medical student dissects a cadaver.

Unbolting the exhaust pipe from the manifold was the trickiest part. Over eleven years those bolts had heated up and cooled off thousands of times and collected more than their fair share of rust. Considering the car's general condition, that is quite a statement. I found out later that I couldn't leave anything of value in the trunk, not so much because someone with a screwdriver could pop the trunk open, but because whatever was in there could slide around and fall out the open bottoms of the fenders! With the help of half a can of WD-40, a pair of Vise-Grips and a socket wrench fitted with a length of pipe I managed to snap those buggers off clean; the whole exhaust pipe dropped on the ground.

Dad came around at lunchtime to check my progress. The sight of his only son (a delicate boy who hated to soil his hands) covered in grease from the tips of his fingers to his shoulders, his faced streaked with carbon and oil, must have softened the old man's heart, reminding him of a '32 Chevy from another time in a back yard across town. Later that week he offered to spot me an engine until I found a job.

By the end of the week the only thing connecting the old motor to the car were the motor mounts. Bob and Dale helped me take the hood off; we leaned it against the side of the car. My Uncle Bill, a top-notch mechanic, found a used motor at a nearby junkyard. Since the owner knew uncle Bill, we got it for $65 and he let us use his truck to haul it home.

We planned the engine swap for Saturday. Bob, his dad, Dale, and a few other interested spectators came to watch. We moved an old swing set over the now-topless engine compartment. Bolstering the top bar with a large fence post, Dad hung a come-along on the swing set. He ratcheted the cable up tight, just lifting on the engine. Carefully I unbolted the last of the engine-mount bolts. Dad hoisted the engine as the neighbors backed to the far corners of the yard. Once it dangled clear we pushed the car out of the way and lowered the motor into an old coaster wagon that nearly buckled as we dragged it to the side. We used the truck's winch to install the new engine. Not only was it easier, it was also much safer! The installation was more fun without that potential guillotine hanging above.

The next week ran the opposite direction of the previous one. One part after another came out of hibernation and found its new home on the replacement motor. Dad and Uncle Bill took on the fussy work of getting the new engine tuned and timed. After a few tries the little Slant Six hummed to life; I now had a working car! We all stood around the car, basking in our triumph as wisps of translucent blue smoke blew out the exhaust pipe.

The rebirth of the Valiant, now christened "Junkyard Jenny," brought new responsibilities my way. I had to buy insurance, get plates, and find a job to support my new gasoline habit. I landed a position as a busboy at a local pancake house. I hated the job, but that's another story. I was free to drive wherever I pleased, as long as I made it to work on time and got in before curfew. When September came my old bicycle leaned against the garage wall as I hopped in the little Valiant and drove into my senior year.

If I wasn't such an ice cream fiend, the whole thing never would have happened. I really don't need any right now; I'm starting to look like an ice cream cone! But in a week or two the ice cream booths around here will close up and there'll be a long cold winter before I can once again stand sandal-clad on the deck and stoop down to order cones and sundaes through that sliding window.

I decided one more fling was in order after spending the day mowing the lawn and painting trim on the house. We were going to go to the Ice Cream Caboose after dinner, but Carolyn got busy making muffins for tomorrow's breakfast. Which, by the way, is another reason I don't need ice cream. But as the days are already growing shorter and the opportunities are dwindling, I opted to go pick us up something and bring it home. I didn't want to interrupt Carolyn's baking; she hates it when I mess with her buns.

I hit the road with Celtic music pouring from the truck's stereo. Dressed in jean shorts and the exotically-decorated T-shirt I bought in Florida last year I looked and felt like Mr. Summer Sunshine as we rolled up to the Caboose. The "Ice Cream Caboose," by the way, is a real place. An enterprising local lady bought a retired railroad caboose from the Chessie System, had it trucked to a lot next to the two-lane, and turned it into an ice-cream parlor. She does a big business between Memorial Day and Labor Day, and about the time the kids head back to school she closes up shop.

A specialty of the caboose is the "Locomotion," which is basically a stirred-up ice-cream sundae. They make them in all sorts of flavors: Oreo, Snickers, and Butterfinger are three of the favorites. I opted for "German Chocolate," a heavenly concoction made with chocolate, pecans, caramel, and coconut. Having some dietary sense, I ordered a "small." I ordered up a small low-fat "Moose Tracks" for Carolyn and sat down to wait.

The kids manning the Caboose chattered happily as they bent to the task of whipping up my goodies. I read the menu board while I waited. It wasn't a thing for the calorie-concious. I saw burgers, chili dogs, jumbo battered shrimp, and chicken tenders listed, but not a single salad, sparkling water, or tofu dish graced the menu.

My order came up in a moment. The Locomotion looked wonderful, its pecan-sprinkled peak rising above the rim of its cup. But I saw immediately that I'd neglected to order Carolyn's ice cream in a dish; the young man opened the window and held a cone out to me!

No problem, I said to myself with the assurance that comes from not thinking through a situation. Home was only three miles away. I could easily hustle home in three minutes while only inflicting minor damage to the speed limit. I accepted the order as it was offered and started for the truck. Before I reached the cab door I had to juggle the cone and the Locomotion to reach my keys, which were stuck in my cone-side pocket.

I placed the Locomotion in the cup holder and started up, hovering my left hand and the cone just above the steering wheel. Backing gently out of my spot, I shifted into Drive, coasted gingerly around the Caboose while watching four tiny ice-cream snitchers as they played nearby, and made my way to the driveway. Reaching through the steering wheel, I managed to trigger the wipers as I hit the turn-signal lever. "Now Truck," I said, "you know that's not funny." I clicked the wipers off and steered on to the two-lane for the return trip. Almost immediately something cold and wet dripped onto my pinky. The cone had already started to melt!

This can't be happening already! I thought as I accelerated down the highway. Sure enough, another drop landed on the back of my hand. I licked them off, carefully watching the road. Home was just over two minutes away; I pressed slightly harder on the gas. Another drip hit my knuckle. It was too late to go back and ask for a bowl. I moved the cone back away from the steering wheel.

Just then something wet and very cold hit my chest. Somehow the top scoop of the cone had lept from its lofty spire, probably assisted by the breeze from the open window, and smacked me just below the right pec, rolling down my shirt and into my lap, leaving a trail of Moose Tracks all the way down my front!

"Freaking A!!" I yelled, grabbing the glob of ice cream and sticking it back on the cone. Barely slowing down I turned at the dirt road, steering with the heel of my right hand because it was now the only non-Moose-Tracked appendage I had left on that side. Halfway home, I thought as I grabbed another mutinous glob of ice cream and stuffed it back where it started. I hauled down that dirt road, hoping that the neighbors had their dogs tied up and the kids in the house. The cone was in full China Syndrome melt-down mode as I approached the stop sign. Not this time! I thought as I slowed down, watching for cars in general but especially for the Sheriff's Patrol.

Half a mile left! The wheels barely touched the ground as I bounced down the road. One thought stood alone on my brain: Give this stupid cone to Carolyn and let her deal with it! I palmed the wheel and bounced into the driveway. I found one clean knuckle with which to push the door-opener button. It didn't open on the first try and I almost knocked the opener off the visor. "Move!" I shouted at the door, the very garage door that I hung myself and was so proud of, and at the moment would have driven through without even flinching to get myself in the garage. I punched the button more fervently; slowly the door rose.

The door finished its ascent as I stopped in the driveway. I popped the truck door open with my pinky, somhow unhitched the seat belt and climbed out. Just then there was a strong tug on my arm; the seat belt was tangled around my elbow and threatened to knock the cone out of my hand! I grabbed the cone with my right hand and untangled myself, not even stopping to contemplate what nearly happened.

Carolyn had just put her muffins in the oven when I came through the door. I offered her the drippy ice cream cone with my sticky right hand while my sticky left hand untucked my Moose-Tracked shirt. She looked at me in horror. "You're going to have to pre-treat this," I said as I undressed my way into the laundry room. I stopped in the bathroom just long enough to wash the goo from my hands and arms. And chest. And belly. Then I went to the bedroom and found some clean clothes.

Decent once more, I remembered my Locomotion out in the truck. I returned to the driveway and opened the door. The icky, sticky horror had repeated itself: That luscious little pecan-crusted peak had melted into the cup holder and flooded the center console!

I was out of anger. My rage was all used up. All I had left was resignation. I just retrieved the now-semi-liquid Locomotion, took it over to the garden hose, and rinsed the outside of the cup. I ate the German-chocolate goodie without much joy, knowing that a good half-inch of it was waiting, inedible, in the truck.

There are so many lessons I can draw from the episode. Don't buy ice cream you don't need. Next time ask for a cup. Wear gloves and an old shirt. But this is probably the most important one: Watch out for late-season ice cream...it doesn't last very long!