A troublous decade expires.

Last week, Bret Stephens penned a column for the NYTimes titled “Decade of Disillusion.”

He wrote: “... this decade has been marked by the intense hostility of the young toward truisms that once governed our thinking. As they saw it, the liberal international order didn’t uphold the peace — it bled us dry. Capitalism didn’t make the country rich — it made the rich richer. Silicon Valley didn’t innovate technology — it mined our data. The Church didn’t save souls — it raped children. The cops didn’t serve and protect — they profiled and killed. The media didn’t tell the news — they spun it.”

I want to reply, “Not my church, not Mt. Auburn Presbyterian. And I know good cops who serve and protect. And what about NPR?”

But I find it difficult to take issue with his other assertions. In fact, I can add a few more disillusions of my own. Sarah, the mother of a 12-year-old named David, one of my brightest students, told me that the annual fee required of all Boy Scouts has, in the last year, nearly tripled — to $60! -- because the BSA is being bankrupted by law suits arising from accusations of sexual assaults by adult leaders. Another effect is that all troops undertake a mandatory and explicit training program called “Youth Protection" to ensure that boys and leaders recognize and report sex abuse.

The Youth Protection program is obviously essential, healthy and compassionate. Still, this news about my beloved BSA is disillusioning for an Eagle Scout and one-time Scoutmaster such as myself.

My Scoutmaster, Frank Culp, was as fine a man as I have known. What would he have thought about this? He would have deplored the wrongdoing and I think he would have agreed with the necessity of the Youth Protection training. Of course there was sex abuse in his time, too. If the issue had been put before him in the abstract, he probably would have told himself that there are always “a few bad apples” and let it go at that. He never had to deal with the widespread awakening to such horrors that characterizes our time. He died in 1971 with many illusions intact.

Come to think of it, for Mr. Culp ‘impeachment’ was something that only one president had ever brought upon himself. Andrew Johnson’s impeachment would have seemed a very long time ago to Mr. Culp. Another rare case of “a bad apple.” In the years since he went to his reward, we Scouts who were his charge have seen, in effect, three more impeachments of corrupt presidents.

When corruption, venality and lying seem ubiquitous, when we suffer almost hourly reminders of negativity and hate, we become cold. We must warm ourselves. How? By drawing near to what is good and authentic and true.

Yesterday afternoon I bicycled through the fading wintry light to Terrace Park and back, about ten miles. It was good to be outdoors and to pedal my bike again, letting it carry me yon and hither.

When I returned, Jo was out-and-about, running errands, so I didn’t come inside the house. Instead, I built a campfire in the tiny woods at the rear of our property.

I’ve constructed a little brick fire circle out there, to shelter the fledgling flickers from the wind. I've placed an old park bench next to the fire circle alongside a pile of the slender, dry kindling Mr. Culp termed “squaw wood.” (A sexist and racist phrase? I have to admit it is. The only defense is to say, “Things were different back then; no offense was intended; people didn’t think in those terms; times have changed and, in some ways, for the better.”)

I wish you could join me at my fire circle. We’d sit, talking seldom, and watch the flames flourish as darkness slowly cloaks the tall pines above us and the sky above them. The woodsmoke, the crackling noises, the orange glow, the memories of songs sung and stories told round campfires long since extinguished, these are good things.

Mr. Culp used to tell us: no two campfires are ever alike. The precise lay of the sticks and the way they ignite are unique, every time. And the faces round the fire, too, are never the same. Even if we could reassemble those long lost friends with whom we gathered round the campfires of our youth, they would not be the same. Time has greatly changed us all, nearly beyond recognition.

Mr. Culp's point? Realizing that no two campfires are ever same makes you relish the moment. A teaching like that far outshines the use of a mildly pejorative term like ’squaw wood.'

After a while I let the fire burn down, finally dousing it with a splash from my water bottle. When I stood, the evening star was shining in the western sky, another thing that is good, authentic and true. And bright with certitude.

The star made me remember a piece I wrote many years ago, “Night Thoughts,” and it occurred to me that music, too, is another very good and authentic thing to which we can draw near and find solace and strength and a kind of warmth.

When our daughter, Shenandoah, was a 7th-grader at Cincinnati's celebrated School for the Creative and Performing Arts, her choir director, Laurie Wyant, led the SCPA Children's Choir in a superb performance of my “Night Thoughts.” The tempo Laurie chose was satisfyingly brisk and I love how clearly the child choristers articulate Robert Louis Stevenson’s text and how they convey the spirit of his words! I can still pick out our Shen’s young voice among the throng.

To hear that performance, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

I'd love to know what you think about this music; feel free to reply if you're inclined. But please don't feel that you are expected to reply. I'm just glad to share my work.

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

When corruption, venality and lying seem ubiquitous, when we suffer almost hourly reminders of negativity and hate, we become cold. We must warm ourselves. How? By drawing near to what is good and authentic and true.

Last night, dismayed by TV news, I stepped outside for a breath of air. I admired the daffodils and then sat on the bench next to a little ‘fire circle’ of bricks which I built in the tiny glen at the rear of our property.

I fashioned a teepee of kindling, put a match to it and soon had a cheery blaze to warm me.

The growing darkness slowly cloaked the tall pines above me and the sky above the pines. The woodsmoke, the little crackling noises, the warmth, the orange glow, the memories of songs sung and stories told round campfires long since extinguished, these are good things, authentic and true.

When I was a Boy Scout, our Scoutmaster, Frank Culp, used to tell us: no two campfires are ever alike. The precise lay of the sticks and the way they ignite are unique, every time. And the faces round the fire, too, are never the same. Even if we could reassemble those long lost friends with whom we gathered round the campfires of our youth, they would not be the same. Nor would we. As time passes, we change, nearly beyond recognition.

Mr. Culp's point? Realizing that each campfire is unique, you relish the moment.

After a while I let the fire burn down and then doused it with a splash from the bucket of water I keep handy at the fire circle. When I stood, the evening star was shining in the western sky, another thing that is good, authentic and true. The brightness of certitude. “God is good,” I said to myself.

The stars made me remember a piece I wrote many years ago, “Night Thoughts,” and it occurred to me that music is yet another good and authentic thing we can access for solace and strength and a certain kind of warmth.

When our daughter, Shenandoah, was a 7th-grader at Cincinnati's celebrated School for the Creative and Performing Arts, her choir director, Laurie Wyant, led the SCPA Children's Choir in a superb performance of my “Night Thoughts.” The tempo Laurie chose was satisfyingly brisk and I love how she got the students to clearly articulate the words and convey the spirit of Robert Louis Stevenson’s text. When I hear the recording, I can still pick out our Shen’s bright young voice among the throng.

Here is the text:

Did you ever look up at the stars?
Often and often.
And did you ever wonder what they are?
They are worlds like ours, some of them less, many a million times greater. And some of the least sparkles that you see are not only worlds, they’re whole clusters of worlds turning about each other in the midst of space.
We do not know what there may be in any of them, perhaps the answer to all our difficulties or the cure of all our sufferings, and yet we can never reach them.
Not all the skill of the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of these our neighbors, nor would the life of the most aged man suffice for such a journey. And when a great battle has been lost of a dear friend is dead, when we are downcast or in high spirits, there they are unweariedly shining over head.
We may stand down here, a whole army of us together and shout until we break our hearts and not a whisper reaches them. We may climb the highest mountain and be no nearer unto them.
All we can do is to stand down here in the garden and take off our hats and let the star-shine light upon our heads. That is all we shall ever have to do with the stars.
-- from “Will o’ the Mill” by Robert Louis Stevenson

To hear that performance, click on the link above.

There's also a link to a PDF of the score.