09/13/2026
Over the last few years, the Boy Scouts became Scouting America.
And Lord have mercy, you would have thought somebody had outlawed campfires.
There was pearl-clutching aplenty.
People argued about changing values, tradition, masculinity, “toxic masculinity,” politics, the left, the right, and what this surely meant for the downfall of small-town America.
Everybody had an opinion.
Fast-forward to a few days ago.
I was walking into Walmart when a young Cub Scout approached me and asked if I wanted to buy some popcorn to help him raise money so he could go camping.
His aunt was nearby, ever watchful, helping with the money and inventory, but he was doing the talking.
So I stopped.
And we talked.
That young man absolutely lit up when he started telling me about camping.
S’mores.
Campfires.
Jokes around the fire.
Running around outside with his buddies and getting to have an adventure.
You know — Scout stuff.
And standing there listening to him, I realized something.
That kid didn’t give a damn about the name change.
He didn’t care about the protests.
He wasn’t worried about toxic masculinity, political ideology, culture wars, or whatever outrage had everybody hammering away at their keyboards.
He just wanted to go camping and eat some damn s’mores.
And maybe some of us grown folks could stand to sit with that for a minute.
Because while we’re busy clutching our pearls over whether Scouting looks exactly like it did when we were kids, there’s an actual kid standing in front of Walmart trying to earn his way to camp.
A kid walking up to strangers.
Looking them in the eye.
Having a conversation.
Working toward a goal.
Learning a little confidence and responsibility along the way.
Sounds suspiciously like Scouting to me.
I’m an old Boy Scout. I have my own memories of what Scouting meant to me, and nobody changing a name decades later can take those away.
But I’m not entitled to make this young man’s experience look exactly like mine before I decide his is worthwhile.
Maybe that’s where a little less pearl-clutching and a little more soul-searching wouldn’t hurt any of us.
Ask yourself what we’re actually trying to preserve.
A name?
A particular moment in history?
Our own nostalgia?
Or the opportunity for another generation of kids to discover some of the same things we did — confidence, friendship, responsibility, independence, adventure, and the undeniable truth that damn near anything tastes better cooked over a campfire.
That young Cub Scout wasn’t asking me to pick a side in anybody’s culture war.
He was asking me to buy some popcorn so he could go camping.
And you absolutely bet your ass I bought the popcorn.
One old Boy Scout helping a new Cub Scout get a little closer to his next adventure.
Different generation.
Different name.
Same campfire.
Now go make those s’mores, young man.
And don’t burn the marshmallow.
Unless that’s how you like it.
Then burn the damn thing.
