MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / January 14, 2000

Yesterday we turned in the order sheets for the Annual Cub Scout Popcorn sale and my son sold the most in his den. Rather, my husband sold it, in away too shameful to acknowledge here. The illegitimacy of my husbandselling it is a mere technicality, since he is the real scout; Retro Scout, I call him, as my son tags along.

Judging from an informal poll I’ve taken of the moms, their husbands fall into one of two categories; dads reliving great adventures in scouting from their boyhood, or dads having great adventures in scouting they missed in boyhood. My husband is in the latter group, a minority, so let usnot begrudge him his triumphant popcorn sales.

While I was still feeling a slightly guilty about my little 48 year-old Super Sales Scout, another scout came over to play. He was surprised thatmy son outsold a kid in his den, who is quite a salesman himself. I askedhow he did it.

“Oh, his mom makes all her patients buy popcorn.” Then he added, “I soldover a hundred dollars myself!” I congratulated him and inquired about his sales technique. He sheepishly admitted that his mom bought it all herself.Such parental “assistance” in fund-raising is nothing new. I fondlyremember The Annual School Candy Sale. This is the fund-raising endeavorthat my parents dreaded. There was no choice. Each kid got a box of candy,and at the end of the sale the family was required to turn in the big brown envelope filled with money. Any candy not “sold” could be returned. All ofthe children possessed a hidden talent; very promising salesmanship potential. Only rarely did any candy come back.Some did, though. All children returning candy must have had one thing incommon; parents with a locked safe in the house, and a hidden key. Therest of us had delicious closets.

The procedure was delightfully predictable. The candy boxes came homeand my mom lined up the five of us to give her annual speech about responsibility, discipline, and the consequences of obscene gorging on candy.

The heavily scented sweet air lulled us into a mild stupor, which she mistook as attentiveness. Behind our dumb smiles we were plotting ourfirst raid of the candy closet.

Pillaging those boxes was priority A for all of us those blissful two weeks. Bad day at school? Hit the closet. A little mid-afternoon snack?No problem. The sugary smell emanating from the closet diminished daily.About a week before it was time to turn in the money, my mother would plead with us to go out and sell the candy. (These were the days when achild could do this and actually return.) We never tested that theory,though, because by the time she got around to that speech, there was nothing to sell.

The closet full of empty boxes shook us into rapt attention, which she mistook for interest. My mother was a smart lady, though, so I know shewas aware of the futility of all of her candy speeches.

Finally, the day we all dreaded arrived. We waddled to the closet andbraced ourselves for the Rage Speech; our least favorite. Fear of ourmother rocked us into wide-eyed silence, which she mistook for remorse.

As the years passed the Rage Speech gave way to the Resignation Speech, which all ended with the disgust of a missed opportunity to learn how to sell, and the discipline of keeping money and turning it in.

As my husband writes the large check for the Scout popcorn, I realize that people don’t learn that lesson as kids; they learn it as parents.

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