Mrs. Rector, our Cub Scout Den Mother, had no idea that her darling little boy Ronnie was prime material for the Ten Most Wanted Criminals poster. But he was. In fact, he and a couple of our fellow Cubs, Alex Kozar and Jimmy Jenkins, were potentials for that list as well. All three boys were beefy, good-looking jocks who today are probably corporate lawyers and/or politicians and/or IRS agents and/or convicted felons in prison.
But back in 1953 they were my personal intimidators. The Gang of Three was bent on making my eight-year-old life a nightmare. Was it because I was perfect? Truly, I was the boy who knew how to bake a batch of oatmeal cookies, darn my own socks, and be the darling of all our teachers — given the fact that I always did my schoolwork, got straight A’s and had perfect “conduct.” Perfect conduct meant I never talked in class when I wasn’t supposed to, was never rude, always volunteered to lead the Pledge of Allegiance, delighted in cleaning the chalk board, and gladly raised my hand to do whatever else was needed.
These were all things the Gang of Three did not do. Of course they didn’t! They knew that they were real boys, just the way their fathers knew they were real men. Real boys and real men 60 years ago exempted themselves from participation in such fineries of life. To these Cub Scouts, I was merely a girl. An inferior being. Something to tease. To beat up. To cast off.
Yes, these boys, these God-fearing, patriotic Cub Scouts, were out to get me. Still, I never let them hurt me physically. For one thing, I grew up faster than they did. The summer I was eleven, I had a growth spurt that added six inches to my height, making me an inch taller than my 5’7” father. My shoulders measured a mannish 42 inches. Not only that, but I was also a very strong runner, with legs of steel. All that jump roping with the girls had made me exceptionally strong in those regions. Whenever I felt that Ronnie, Jimmy, and Alex were coming to beat me up, I started running. They never caught me.
But psychologically they caught me big time. For instance, there was that snake on the fence.
“I put it there,” announced Ronnie to me, with the other boys smiling as he told the story. “I found it in the woods and cut it with my Cub Scout knife. It ain’t dead, though. Not yet. I like to watch it suffer.”
He looked at me as if he were trying to make me his next victim. I looked at the snake and started to cry. I just felt so sorry for it! And probably afraid for myself as well.
“What you cryin’ for?” Ronnie asked me.
“He’s just a girl, Ronnie,” said Jimmy. “All girls cry.”
“Yeah,” agreed Alex. “Just a girl.”
“The snake won’t die until sunset, you know,” Ronnie told me.
I said nothing. The tears were flowing too fast for me to get any words out. But I was curious about what Ronnie had just told me.
We went into Ronnie’s house for our den meeting with Mrs. Rector. When it was over, I left for home, running full tilt before the other boys could stop me and bother me again. But for just an instant, I slowed down and took a look at the snake on the fence. It was still writhing. I felt sick in my stomach.
After dinner, right before sunset, I went back to Ronnie’s house to look at the snake and saw that it was, indeed, dead. I presumed that Ronnie had been right. That he, a real man, knew something about life and death that I didn’t; that he had some special strength that would allow him to kill anything he wanted. That I was not in the same category as him or Jimmy or Alex or the other guys in our den, or their fathers, or my brother or my father or my uncles. That I was different and therefore, I was an outcast. I decided that the best I could do was to stop crying, start swaggering, and start playing real sports the way real boys and men did.
The fact that my voice had dropped a couple octaves shortly after this experience helped to solidify my decision to lie about who I really was inside. That is until I officially came out as a gay man when I turned fifty years old!
And yet, on that long-ago day, I just hoped the snake was somehow not really dead; that it had only appeared to be so when I saw it. I hoped it had wriggled off that fence still alive and slithered away to safety; that it found a place to hide — just like I wanted to that day but didn’t know how.
NOTE: Don Beaudreau is currently writing two novels, one three-act play, and constantly revising his obituary at the age of 81 as life gets more interesting with each passing day.
Discover trusted local services and hidden gems with our easy-to-use online directory.
- Growing Up Gay - February 28, 2026
- I Am In Love With A Ghost Or Two! - October 30, 2025
- Halloween At Lakeside - September 28, 2025
