#1974 – DARIN MICHAEL SHAW

So clear. I can still see their tattered covers—one torn almost completely off the book, age-stained masking tape all that held it together, and the other badly water damaged, its pages swollen and discolored. But inside?

Old Boy Scout Manuals my big brothers had used back in the day. They contained cool stuff: How to start a fire from scratch; How to tie cool knots; How to splint a broken bone; and my personal favorite—How to treat a poisonous snake bite.

I’d pretty much memorized them.

Mom suggested that maybe I’d like to join the Boy Scouts like my brothers before me. Hell yeah! But at 7, I wasn’t old enough yet. I’d have to start out as a Cub Scout, and then when I was older I could become a full-fledged Boy Scout. “It’s similar,” she promised. “It’s all about honor, integrity and courage.” Whatever. But then she said Cub Scouts get to wear uniforms and can earn colorful badges for skills you learn for everyone to see—Sign me up, Mom!

I brought my brothers’ books with me to our first Cub Scout meeting. Wanted all the kids to know where I was headed: If any of you guys ever get bit by a viper … I’ll save your ass!

Met our den mother, Mrs. Lane. I was confused. A den mother? A mom? I expected a dad. Scout stuff, like hiking, camping … something. Nobody is going to get bit by any snakes while a mom is looking after us!

Mrs. Lane had “an exciting project” for us. A chance to earn a badge. “We’re baking sugar cookies,” she announced. The skills we’d learn? Measuring flour, sugar, mixing in eggs and oil, greasing a cookie sheet. “Okay boys, everyone put on our aprons!” I was so grateful Greg Griffin wasn’t here to see this—he’d have called Cub Scouts sissy shit for sure. Girl scouts make cookies. They even call young girl scouts Brownies.

When our cookies were just about to go in the oven, Mrs. Lane announced our next activity: “We will be making holiday cards.” She pointed to a table in the corner, a stack of old magazines, a pile of construction paper … and a box of safety scissors. Sissy scissors? We used those when we were in pre-school! Are you kidding me?

Youngest in a large family, I’d gotten to do a lot of dangerous things already in my 7 years of life. At home I used the sharp scissors. Knives. Garden sheers. Saws. Hell, my old man was teaching me to cut the grass and edge the sidewalks—using machines with spinning blades! You could lose a finger … or a limb, even. But I’d have your back—page 134, How to tourniquet a bleeding wound.

Cleaning up the cookie mess, I licked a spatula. Mrs. Lane freaked. No baking badge for me! And then it happened; my brain thought it and my mouth declared it … out loud: “Cub Scouts is SISSY SHIT!” Mrs. Lane called my mom to come pick me up.

My career in the Cub Scouts ended the same day it began. Sure, I wanted to be a boy of honor and integrity and courage. But I also wanted to be a boy of adventure, tying knots, helping accident victims and … sucking poison out of snakebite wounds!

What fun it has been, looking back and recalling the musical encounters of my earlier years. This fourth entry in the ‘most influential albums I listened to growing up’ series takes me way back—I was maybe six or seven years old. In no particular order, here’s—

Post four of ten: Diamond Girl by Seals and Crofts

This album makes my list for more reasons than its tunes. For me, it’s connected to a larger collection of memories surrounding a hero of mine—my big brother Dave.

There is a season in every child’s life that is so very frustrating. It’s that window of time when you know you’re capable of doing something on your own, but no one trusts you to do it by yourself. With the old vinyl records in my house, this was especially true. No one wanted to risk allowing the kid to scratch their records, so the oft heard refrain was DON’T TOUCH!

My oldest brother Dave broke ranks. He wanted to share his love of music with me—his fourteen-years-younger little brother. Dave took the time to teach me how to treat vinyl records, how to pick them up, hold them, put them on the turntable, apply the needle to them, and put them away when I was done.

And, here’s the most memorable part for me: After the lesson, Dave allowed me to play his records on his record player any time I wanted. Daredevil or hero? Yes!

Which brings me to Seals and Crofts. Among Dave’s many records was one with two hairy-faced men standing under weird green lamps with some scary looking gold ball with a face on it between them. I’m not sure what all that was, but to a little kid it was intriguing. I chose that as my first album of choice to play.

Musically, I loved the way these guys blended their voices. I also remember this album as my first experience of other stringed instruments beyond a guitar—they had mandolins and violins and maybe even a banjo or two in there. And of course, my true artistic love: story.

One song in particular caught my fancy. I’ll give you a verse:

Dust on my saddle, mud on my boots;
Couple of empty saddle bags except for two old suits;
I’m tired and I’m hungry, worried as can be,
Last night I saw a poster and they’re still after me.

[Note: Just gave you that verse from memory and I haven’t heard that song in more than forty years. I’m impressed even if you’re not.]

As a kid, that did it. I wanted to know this lonely cowboy/outlaw. I wanted to join him on the run. This may be the song that turned me into the western buff I became—it is true, I love every television western series ever made. In fact, if you’re ever on Millionaire and a question comes up about old TV westerns, make me your phone-a-friend. I’ll win you the cash, baby!

I’m sure, also, that the song served as a reminder to me of one of my favorite western characters in all the world, Big Al. Who of course sang, “Blood on my saddle …” A story for another time.

I do recall Dave telling me (and probably after he’d heard Dust on My Saddle for the fortieth time in a row), “You know, there are some other great songs on that record.” Hint, hint.

He took the time to play the rest of the record with me, pointing out the title track, Diamond Girl. I eventually came to appreciate the entire tracklist. We May Never Pass This Way Again became another favorite of mine, for all of its talk about dreams and their worth.

Here I am some forty-five years later. These tunes take me back. And they point me forward. Story does that. I’m grateful for this album and the recollections of my childhood which are connected to it, for their influence on my writing life … and my real life.