The Rolling
Nickel
by Don Drewniak
We hark back
to late 1954 subsequent to my father having
completed the building of our new home on Birch
Street in Fall River, Massachusetts.
I biked to my old neighborhood on a rare warm
afternoon following Thanksgiving. One of my
friends, Charlie, who was a year older than me,
was sitting on his second floor porch. I waved,
prompting him to wave back and tell me he was
coming down.
We sat on porch steps and talked about the usual
stuff that eleven and twelve-year-old boys talk
about. Eventually, he asked, “Why don’t
you join the Boy Scouts?”
“Nah, I’ve got better things to do than
go to a bunch of meetings wearing a uniform.”
“This is different. Do remember Johnny King?”
“Yep.”
“His Dad is forming a new troop and I’m
switching over.”
“So what?”
“Well, there’s a lot more than meetings.”
“Like what?”
“Learning all kinds of good stuff.”
“Like what?”
“You can get merit badges in all kinds of
stuff like fishing, electricity, radio, hiking,
astronomy, archery and a bunch of other things.”
In jest, I asked, “How about girls?”
“Well, not a merit badge, but maybe
something better. There’s a camp on the
Westport River that Boy Scouts can use in the
summer. Johnny’s dad has reserved one of the
campsites for two weeks next summer.”
“There are going to be Girl Scouts there?”
“Not there, but across the river there’s
a Girl Scout camp.”
“You gonna swim there?”
“No, but can you swim a hundred feet?”
“Yep”
“If you can pass the hundred-foot test and
make Second Class scout, which is easy, you’ll
be able to use a canoe.”
“They let boys go over there?”
“Well, no, but Johnny says he has a plan to
get us there.”
Even though I knew Johnny, who was fourteen, was
smart like Einstein, I couldn’t imagine how
that could be done unless you canoed over at
midnight
I would have told him no except for Hurricane
Carol. It had wiped out my Uncle Al and Aunt
Jenny’s trailer along with the cabanas and
most of the other trailers. There would be no
more summer stays at South Shore Beach. So I
became a Boy Scout, made Second Class and went to
camp the next July for a two week stay.
Twenty-three of us arrived, including Scoutmaster
King and two assistant scoutmasters. There were
two Star scouts (including Johnny King), three
First Class (including Charlie), nine Second
Class and six who were Tenderfoot scouts.
There were three large tents. One went to the
three scoutmasters. The other two tents had eight
cots in each. I made the cut for one of the big
tents. The remaining four scouts split two pup
tents and had to use sleeping bags resting on the
ground. In addition, there was a wooden building
with three open sides used for cooking and dining,
a two-story fire-watch tower, three outhouses and
several million ticks.
Once all the tents were in place, we headed to
the beach where hot dogs were being cooked on an
iron grille set atop a stone fireplace. With the
hot dogs (donated by a Fall River meat market)
were tins of Made-Rite potato chips (donated by
the owner, Tony Salvo) and Coca-Cola donated by a
local Coca-Cola bottling company.
We hit the water after the useless one hour, post
lunch waiting period.
A twelve-year-old, short, chubby kid named Manny
forgot to bring a bathing suit. In addition, he
brought just one pair of pants (dungarees) and
one pair of undershorts. He was standing on the
lone dock when four of the older kids grabbed him.
They divided holding his wrists and ankles. After
swinging him back and forth a few times, they
heaved him, fully clothed, off the side of the
dock into the river. He couldn’t swim, but
wasn’t in any danger because the water was
shallow.
Manny waddled out of the water wet from head to
foot, and had to endure the laughter of nineteen
idiot scouts. He proceeded to wrap a towel around
his waist and drop his pants and shorts. He put
the shorts on the edge of the grille. By that
time, only faintly glowing red chunks of coal
were left from the lunchtime fire. Next, he
grabbed the pants by the two leg bottoms and
began to fan them over the grille.
Smoke started to rise three or four minutes later
from the pants and then came a small flame from
the seat of his pants.
One of the scoutmasters grabbed the pants,
slammed them into the sand and stomped on the
flames. Meanwhile, the shorts caught fire and
were demolished,
Pandemonium broke loose. Even one of the
assistant scoutmasters couldn’t stop himself
from laughing. There was a circular hole about
eight inches in diameter in the seat of Manny’s
pants. He trudged off to his pup tent, emerging
later with the sleeves of a jacket tied around
his waist and the rest of it covering his
otherwise exposed backside.
******
Church service
was mandatory the next morning. Off we went in
two pickup trucks and a ’51 Plymouth four-door
sedan. I rode in the bed of one of the trucks.
The church was a small, white-painted wooden
structure located somewhere in Westport. All of
the seats were folding wooden chairs indicating
that the interior was used for other functions.
The scoutmasters and the scouts occupied the last
two rows. As luck would have it, I had a prime
view of the feature event. I was sitting on a
center aisle seat in the first of the two
designated scout rows.
Prior to entering the church, all the scouts were
given either a dime or two nickels to be used for
a donation.
During a brief moment of prayer about halfway
through the service, there was the sound of a
nickel hitting the floor. Moments later it rolled
by me and under a chair one row in front of me on
the opposite side of the aisle.
What happened next is something impossible to
forget, not only for me, but I’m sure for
all who witnessed it. Manny crawled by me on all
fours in search of the nickel.
He had no choice but to wear the long pants as it
was the only one he brought with him. We were not
allowed to wear short pants in the church.
Somehow he managed to have the part of the jacket
that should have been covering his bare bottom
flapped over on his back.
I had to close my lips as tightly as possible and
cover them with my hands to prevent laughing out
loud.
Not knowing where the nickel landed, he continued
forward. Laughter and whispers, as well as a few
gasps, rippled through the church as he crossed
into the seating area occupied by the regular
parishioners. With each knee forward, the
laughter grew louder. Those sitting away from the
center aisle started to stand to see the show.
Apparently oblivious to his audience, Manny
continued on, passing another two or three rows
until he was intercepted by the scoutmasters.
That was the last I ever saw of Manny. When we
returned to the camp, his belongings were gone.
The scoutmasters refused to talk about it. Two
main theories emerged about his whereabouts over
the course of the next few days: (1) His parents
were asked to come and take him home; or (2) the
scoutmasters dropped him into the middle of the
Westport River.
Part 2 - The Rolling Eye
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