I remember the first time I put on a Scouting uniform. My mother hadn't even ironed on the patches yet, but as a young Cub Scout, the shirt had the unmistakable power of making me stand a little bit taller. One day a week I took a different bus after school, one that would drop me off near our den mother's home in Charlottesville, Va. I loved to sprint the two long blocks to the divine Doneitta Quillon's house to meet my fellow young rabble-rousers. Doneitta put up with so much, was so patient and long-suffering, she could have taught the prophet Job a thing or two.
