When I was far from fully formed, I fear I favored a judgmental stance on the world in general and the behavior of my peers   I took a hard right wrong turn in Sunday School or something, felt I understood more than I did, and measured life in very serious terms of right and wrong.   Like Atlas, I carried the world on my shoulders and woe be it to anyone who did not follow the rules.  That was tough work for a sixth grader. 

Gerald P. Rodeen  was only vaguely on my scope then – somewhat, I thought, like a head cold or a bad winter flu.  You knew it was out there going around. You hoped not to catch it. 

A part of Boy Scouts played well into my personality then – or into this stern judgmental part.  It had rules, codes, and it allowed me to judge others.  This was noticed by some factions of Troop 32, who shared my sense of righteousness.  They  considered themselves a good judge of judgers.   

It was around this time too that I moved from the East Side of Paxton to the West Side and was somewhat betwixt and between social groups and gangs of guys to hang out.  Again, Rodeen was around – as were an offbeat bunch of colleagues known loosely as the West Side Gang.  

We’d play ball every once in awhile.  They seemed a pretty mongrel pack.  Some of them would bring stolen cigarettes to the games, and others obtained Beechwood chewing tobacco.  They fought with each other – real wrestling matches and punches thrown.  Bloody noses weren’t uncommon.  And then they’d forget about it and play another inning, until it was too dark to see on the field that existed then, at the corner of State and Cherry.  They all swore like pirates. 

Oddly, that seemed like fun. 

My  religious sponsors noticed I was hanging out with the wrong company and sought to intervene. They were eighth graders and saw the big picture.   They had a “five year plan” for Troop 32 and they had decided that I should  one day be troop leader because I was a righteous and serious child -- as serious as they were.   If I stuck with the plan, I was in.  It all sounded good to me. Well, they said, it would get better at the annual Camp Fredericks Jamboree Campout. 

There we faced the usual challenges.  Nothing is more exciting than the prospect of a campout.   Nothing is sadder than the reality of a sixth grader on the second day  staring at raw bacon in a steel pan resting on a cold and smoldering fire, rocking back and forth shrouded in a wet blanket.  

Rules of course were the way around that.  I lead Wolf Patrol – a company of seven or eight kids of about my age or younger.  I was a firm disciplinarian and bossed them around if they were not squared off on anything from the way they wore their kerchief to how they fixed their bunks and policed our campsite. 

Rodeen ran Flaming Arrow Patrol – a loose proxy for the West End Gang.  Marv Archer, Larry Niccum, Mike Maron, Sam Robinson and four or five others formed the core.  

The big event of the camp was an award for conservation improvement.  Each patrol picked a project.  Mine was to have Wolf Patrol build a descending stair case, shored up with sticks and pegs, so that erosion was stopped. 

My stair case led to a small creek and it is there that Rodeen and Flaming Arrow Patrol set out to build a bridge.  

My team worked under my precise direction – and the first few steps were indeed solid and well done.  But the sun, homesickness, real sickness from eating raw bacon -- all these took a tally on my crew, as did my dictatorial style. 

Meanwhile, the Flaming Arrow Patrol was cussing, spitting, throwing each other in the water, splashing anyone who came near them – and building a bridge that I marvel at still. 

They had given it some thought and picked four big logs that they could imbed for several feet into the bank – so they were not just propped up; they were solid.  Then they created a bottom base with other logs – and then packed the top and middle with hundreds of pounds of mud, with other sticks inside – somewhat like organic rebar.  

They threw mud balls at everyone who came by – and not just a few in my direction. They had their usual number of fights and the air above them was blue from words that would make sailors cock their hats back in wonder.  But they were working as a team and no matter what happened, they all came back together just as if they were on the ball field in a pick up game.  

This made me think. 

My patrons came by – the troop elders – and stopped to talk.  Only one or two of my patrol were still working – and essentially I was scrambling to finish the last third of the project in a sort of slap-dash way. 

“They’ve done a good job on that bridge,” I said. to my patrons. 

“Don’t worry,” my patrons said. “You’re going to win.” 

“Guys,” I said, “that is a very good bridge.”

Rodeen came by and looked at my effort at the stairs, hawked a huge lugey up, spit it twenty yards off to his left and said, “Nice try, motherfucker. Looks nice. Up top.” 

At the fireside Circle of Honor that night, of course, my Wolf Patrol project won the prize for conservation.  

There were a lot of coughs and sneezes from the Flaming Arrow section of the camp some of them sounding vaguely like “bullshit” and “asshole” when I accepted the prize.   

As we walked back to our tents, Jerry walked along side me and said in a matter of fact and casual manner.  

“Look, you know we did the best project and I don’t care who got the prize because I know who did the best job.”

“You’re right,” I said.  “That was absolutely unfair.  It was wrong.”

“Well, fuck, why are you hanging out with those guys then?” Rodeen said. 

“I’m not,” I said.  “That wasn’t right.”

“Well hang out with us then,” Rodie said.  “You don’t have to put up with that shit. Hang out with me. ”

And I did. For the next 50 years. 

I assimilated slowly into the West Side Gang then – and began sampling a Huck Finn sort of life that included real life:  cursing, chewing tobacco, minor vandalism and all.  

I think Rodie saw in me a smart guy who instantly understood his values.  He gave me a sense of life and play that loosened up my stiffness and unlimbered my sense of humor.   

Rodie had an unshakeable integrity about what was right and wrong.  I gave to him a broader sense of value and moral structure – along with a lot of laughs and insights into structures and politics. And in moderated form, my seriousness, and Rodie’s sense of mischievousness balanced well. It kept me alive and Jerry out of jail.  

Most times. 

Jerry and I made a great team whether it was pushing the envelope on Student Council or planning the Junior Prom.  Our personalities and skills fit like a glove.

We set our own standards, and they were not for the most part conventional standards.  We wanted to do great things, produce great change.  And together we did in our high school years. 

 Even when we were apart, for decades, those formative years, that template for action and standards and a sense of right and wrong, always were present for me and for Jerry too I think.  We both did do great things in life, we drove great change for good causes and the common good.  We had great fun doing it and we knew that each of us had contributed to the other’s success through the groundings and friendships of our formative years. 

He is present still for me.  Every time I sit down to tackle a project, every time I approach a problem, there is a piece of Jerry there.  I suspect it is the same for many others who knew him and loved him.  

So you may have left, buddy, but you are not gone, not gone at all, young man.