Confessions of a Twelve-Year-Old Boy Scout

A Lesson in Good Intentions and Unintended Consequences

My mother, Lois, grew up in Erwin, Tennessee, in Unicoi County. Erwin sits beside the Cherokee National Forest and is just a short walk from both the Appalachian Trail and the Nolichucky River. My mother’s maiden name was Erwin, and she came from a large family. When the Erwin clan gathered for a reunion, my grandparents’ little house would fill with aunts, uncles, and more cousins than anyone could possibly count.

Before the story gets out of hand, I should probably mention one small detail. Because my grandfather was an engineer on the Clinchfield Railroad, all of us grandchildren knew him simply as “Choo Choo Daddy.” He also happened to serve as an assistant sheriff. Trust me. You’ll want to remember that.

I was about twelve years old when this particular family reunion took place. The Erwin relatives arrived in force. They were wonderful, salt-of-the-earth mountain people who seemed very different from the suburban North Carolina world where I had grown up.

It was one of those beautiful fall afternoons in the Southern Appalachians that you never forget. My grandparents’ modest home was overflowing with people. Every available surface held fried chicken, homemade biscuits, casseroles, banana pudding, or some other family recipes that probably added five years to your life simply by making you happy. The children had complete freedom to roam, which naturally meant we spent most of the afternoon searching for secret hiding places where we could spy on our unsuspecting relatives.

There was, however, one small problem that seemed to require immediate attention. Nearly every adult in the house was happily puffing away on Camels or Lucky Strikes. Before long, a visible haze had settled over every room. Now, I grew up in a household of healthcare providers, and from a very young age I had been thoroughly educated about the dangers of cigarettes, snuff, and chewing tobacco. Apparently, that particular public health campaign had not yet crossed the mountains into Unicoi County. 

Being an eager Boy Scout who was always looking for an opportunity to do a good deed, I decided to solve the problem myself. The obvious solution, at least to a twelve-year-old Boy Scout, was to find an aerosol air freshener and generously freshen every room in the house. Lavender would have been especially nice.

I searched cabinet after cabinet but came up empty. Surely someone owned a can of Lysol. Finally, I wandered into my grandfather’s bedroom and spotted exactly what I was looking for. Sitting on his nightstand was an unlabeled aerosol can. It struck me as a little odd that there wasn’t a label on it, but I assumed it had simply worn off over time. Besides, what else could an aerosol can possibly contain except something wonderfully fragrant?

I gave the can a vigorous shake and began moving systematically from room to room, generously spraying every corner of the house. I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Surely everyone would appreciate my thoughtfulness.

Within seconds, however, something unexpected happened. People began rubbing their eyes. Then came the coughing. Then the shouting. Adults grabbed children. Children grabbed one another. The entire family stampeded toward the front yard in what can only be described as an evacuation of biblical proportions.

What in God’s name was happening?

I honestly had no idea. In Unicoi County, that wasn’t just an expression. It was an honest theological question. Whatever was happening certainly hadn’t been covered in the Boy Scout Handbook. Besides, if you’d asked anyone in town, they probably would have assumed I meant the Baptist version of God. At twelve years old, I wasn’t about to argue theology. I was just trying to breathe.

By now I was beginning to experience the same mysterious symptoms. My eyes burned. Tears streamed down my face. My nose was running as if it had somewhere more important to be. Within moments I found myself standing beneath the old crabapple tree in the front yard beside my Uncle R.T., short for Raymond Tilson.

R.T. was my favorite relative on my mother’s side of the family. Childhood polio had limited his mobility, which meant he often stayed close by while everyone else bustled around. For a curious twelve-year-old boy, that made him wonderfully accessible. He was quiet, kind, patient, and genuinely interested in whatever interested me.

The two of us simply stood there watching the chaos unfold. After what felt like a very long silence, R.T. looked over at me and quietly asked, “Are you responsible for that?”

“I think so,” I answered. He nodded thoughtfully before saying, “I think that was your grandfather’s pepper spray from his days at the sheriff’s office.”

Well. That certainly explained a few things.

After another long silence, R.T. offered one final piece of wisdom. “It’s probably better to apologize now than later.” That has proven to be remarkably good advice, whether you’re accidentally pepper-spraying half your family or navigating life in general. He didn’t yell. He didn’t shame me. He didn’t launch into a lecture about judgment or common sense. He was simply present.

We all make mistakes. We all occasionally discharge something into the atmosphere that affects everyone around us. The real test of character isn’t whether we get everything right. It’s whether we’re willing to admit we’ve caused harm, say we’re sorry, and try to make things right.

Besides, I can report that the Erwin family eventually recovered. The banana pudding survived. So did the fried chicken. And remarkably, they even invited me back to future reunions. Looking back, I suspect my grandfather eventually found a much better place to store his pepper spray.

Every time I see police officers or ICE agents using pepper spray to disperse protesters or teen takeovers, I think back to that family reunion in East Tennessee. But even more than that, I remember my Uncle R.T.’s quiet wisdom. “It’s probably better to apologize now than later.”

It strikes me that our public life could use a little more of that humble willingness to admit when we’ve caused harm, and a little less determination to pretend we haven’t. Then again, maybe we should all spend a little less time reaching for the pepper spray and a little more time passing the banana pudding.