Houston, April 16, 2016
He stood there all alone, motionless, beside the still waters, his form silhouetted against the dusky midsummer sky. After a last long, hot, sultry day full of camping, hiking, and a hundred other things a boy wanted to do in the great outdoors, the day was finally done. The canoes were put on the racks, dinner was already eaten, and the troop messkits were hanging out to dry.
A gentle breeze blew across the placid water of Bayou Liberty, shooing away the pesky mosquitoes and as it did, cooled all who were there - and many present that night. There was a crude amphitheater close to the bayou's shore. Between it and the water's edge, was a flagpole, flanked by two more Scouts. Atop the pole was the flag, fluttering in the wind.
Moss hung from the trees as if someone had intentionally hung tinsel, giving an eerie aspect to an ever-darkening day.
Some hundred Boy Scouts sat on the log seats, laughing, joking, shoving, and singing songs. The whole place was noisy and filled with the voices of kids just being kids.
There was lots to be said, as strangers had become friends, and this was the last night of camp.
A scoutmaster soon appeared and raised his right hand in the Scout sign, and within mere seconds, everyone there rose, and all hands were raised in that very same salute. All became quiet and still.
Darkness began to settle over the woods all around, and the lone scout was now illuminated by the orange brilliance of the roaring campfire. The command "To!" was shouted, and all hands were lowered. Not a further word was spoken.
The lone scout stood straight and tall, quickly put a bugle to his lips, and began to play.
The haunting notes of a century-old bugle call, "Taps", issued forth, and was played as well as anyone could have played it.
Not a boy so much as moved, laughed, or spoke. Not then, for that moment, the flag was lowered slowly as the call echoed over the bayou and off of the tall trees on the other side. The sound was surreal.
This campground was located on ancestral land, and before that, it belonged to those who walked this earth before us. Under that soil their bodies still lie, and along the bayou's murky, muddy shores their ghosts have been said to still walk. Even the ghost of Marie Laveau, the Créole witch from old New Orleans, they say, lays in wait to seize and carry off any wayward boys who were foolish to disrespect this sacred land.
But even Marie Laveau held her peace tonight, as every boy there walked away from their weeks at the camp with new love and respect for the land, and for those whose moccasined footprints have long ago faded into the silt of the cypress swamp.
The bugle call was over; the flag had been lowered and carefully folded into a tight triangle and retired. The once roaring campfire that earlier formed the backdrop for so many skits, stunts, and song now flickered lower - it's embers rising ever upward into the inky night to join a million stars.
Day was done.⚜
