It’s often tempting to write via narrative where I tell readers what to think based on what I think. That, along with use of big words, is a temptation I’ll try to avoid by giving a simple account and let you draw whatever conclusion makes sense to you.

Easy for me to lionize Ingman, a person I worked with years ago. As Ranger, he was indeed one to look up to, which I did. Spending time each day in the Ranger’s red pickup, his left arm was as farmer-tan as any.

A nice man, slow to anger, tireless at his complex work as Ranger of a large camp. More than 20 miles of private road strikes me as being on the large side.

At an operation on that scale there will invariably be some boys (our clients mostly 11, 12 and 13 year olds) who got homesick or weren’t faring well in the pecking order. Word would come of a boy seen tramping away from camp.

Ingman would come get me, and in time, without much fuss, I learned why I was there and what part to play, basically a bookend.

Driven by Ingman, the red pickup traveled at a sedate speed, maybe twice or so of walking. No hurry. No panic. Slow and easy.

Eventually we’d see a boy up ahead duck into the brush. No hurry. Come up alongside. Stop.
“Need a ride?”

Was a boy alone, footsore and thirsty going to say no? He’d get in. Ingman one bookend. I was the other. Slow and steady we’d drive to the end of camp road where it met another gravel way where Ingman then explained how many miles left or right before reaching another sort-of-nowhere road.

Got the picture? Nothing harsh said to the runaway. His reasons and he were accepted for what they were. But caught as the boy was between two steely bookends, he was at the time where he needed to be and where we wanted him.

In his thoughtful (kind of John Wayne-ish) way, Ingman would say (which he meant to the depth of his being) he was sad the boy wasn’t having a good time and wanted to leave. If he did we could go back and call his home (NEVER get that far because instant boy hears mom and vice versa it’s OVER) or maybe we’d drive to the old lodge for a sit and talk.

Either way, the pickup turned around and went back the way we’d come, along the way Ingman pointing out things in nature and about the camp. When you live on the camp and love it that’s, mighty important. So we’re back, skipping the phone call for a break at the lodge, a place off limits to all but a few, and therefore of particular interest to the ever-nosy natures of 12-year-old boys.

At the lodge, where water was hand pumped until it flowed cold and refreshing, casual talk revealed the boy’s complaint. Usually a combo of not fitting in and loneliness. (In those cases where a kid was being bullied and tormented there’d be all Ingman Hell to pay – but more of that later. I once saw C Sliwa of NYC operate similarly. I think him distantly related to some family friends.)

Now I hope you’re alert to what’s happening. Homesick runaway is being built up. Ingman takes boy home, where wife Mimi finds some cookies, etc.

When returned to his group any anger from the groups is cut off by Ingman saying “We had a little adventure. Saw the lodge together. Mimi gave us cookies. This boy’s a friend.”

Four little sentences. Count them. They presented a lonely boy as someone of special interest. He rode with the Ranger. Got to see the lodge. Had cookies. He now had a second chance. Up to him to take it, though Ingman helped.

“Boy here told me you’re a pretty good group, so tell you what. First time your schedule opens I got a job for you. (Property that large, there was always some project.) Tell me when and I’ll come get you.”

The outcast returned uplifted with things to tell that none of the others could match. Then the work projects arrives with fanfare and a special ride to the project followed by lemonade and snacks from the commissary.

Now the entire group is elevated and is being responsible. Always work? Nope. Some things are stubborn and deep. Kids or adults can hang onto resentment and pain if they want to. Can’t stop them. Maybe you know someone.

The main thing in this account is, I think, an approach geared appropriately. It’s the man. Ingman. (Nice coincidence in his name.) In writing I was once taught “The style is the man.” Or, you write (speak, act, etc.) according to who and what you are.

Very basic, same as being unable to come back from a place you’ve never been or teach what you don’t know.

If Ingman encountered a boy being treated badly, then the hammer fell. The dressing down falling on the ill-doers was short and clear. New ones were ripped wholesale. Then it was over. Time for renewal.

Ingman, who never as I had attended university, set things in motion. Saying the ill-treated boy wanted to treat his group to something, had suggested bringing the fire engine around. Yes, we had our own, a WWII 6X6 with all the bells and whistles.

How did that go over? Pretty darn well. No committee chewed over behavior issues. No prescriptions were sought.

The way of a man like Ingman or (have to say) my own father was brief and to the point. Turn about, face the situation, get on with what’s needed. Not as sympathetic or group-conscience oriented as is popular. But, there it was.

Some readers will wonder, “What’s this?”

Well, might it be a little hint of what we’re missing?

The forever fixers among us don’t like independent action, especially the kind that operates outside orthodoxy. Their way is better. They know so. They say so. Must be true then, eh?

Well, for thought, maybe there are other ways, and maybe a nudge in a direction can work better than forever building runways.