friends who know me to be of weak character might be interested to learn I was once nearly saved from it. In the winter of 1962 I underwent initiation into the Boy Scouts. But it seems to be true that character is fate, and the flawed one will follow its flaws away from correction, away from strengthening. After my first Scout camping trip, which took place in the Philippine jungle during our Christmas vacation period, I soon quit going to the weekly meetings and never even bought a uniform.

This failure had a lot to do with the physical experience itself. December in the Philippine Islands is appreciably cooler than some other months, but it's still the tropics — not just a welter of heat and steam, but a real cauldron of organic strife. The soil is dark and red and wet, every square inch a complicated battleground of insects, reptiles and funguses, and any living thing that lies still — or, let's say, "camps out" — on the ground there can expect to be devoured.

What was I doing in the Philippines? My Dad was with the Embassy, and we moved several times during my childhood. Every move meant a chance to reinvent myelf. My style of adjustment was to arrive in a new universe, lay low while striking up a few acquaintances and then start distinguishing myself with bad behavior. Advancing age alone would soon elevate me from Cutup to Hoodlum, and it was only my eventual discovery of the Beatnik category that saved me from the penitentiary. In the interim I made a try at Beachboy, but was frustrated by my lack of a surfboard and my failure to locate any surf. As to what attracted me, this Christmas vacation, to the Boy Scouts of America, I'm still baffled.

Next: Slaughtering pork with sledge hammers, one hog at a time