Woodcraft Rangers and the Great Spirit

The Goodwin brothersWhen growing up in suburban Los Angeles during the 1950s, it would have made some sense for my twin brother and me to join Cub Scouts. But our parents were concerned about uniforms and other signs of regimentation. Additionally, Teddy and I could not wait until we turned 8 or 9 to enlist. Our Reform congregation did not sponsor a Cub pack or a Scout troop, and we were not aware of local or national Jewish youth organizations. Thus, Woodcraft Rangers made a lot of sense.  

Dad was almost always toiling in his law office, so in 1955, when we were only 7, Mom volunteered to become the after-school leader of our grade school’s first Woodcraft tribe.  Although Teddy and I had begun Saturday morning religious school at Wilshire Boulevard Temple in kindergarten, we were probably unaware of Israel’s Twelve Tribes.

We named our tribe King Snake, and Mom made a cloth replica, wrapped around a stick, for us to parade aloft.  There were 15 to 20 boys, perhaps half the sons of Jewish professionals and businessmen, who met once a week, often in a city park, for a range of playful and wholesome activities.  These usually began with a council meeting around an unlit but symbolic campfire.

Founded in 1902 in Cos Cob, Connecticut, by Ernest Thompson Seton (1860-1946), a Canadian naturalist, illustrator and author of children’s books, Woodcraft was more than a way for mischievous youngsters to blow off steam. Inspired by Indian lore, it sought to transmit practical skills and lofty values while often invoking the power of the Great Spirit.

As a child or young adult I never remember hearing the word halacha, but Woodcraft had its 12 “laws,” perhaps resembling the 12 steps of any self-help organization. We recited these weekly after the first chief called a council meeting to order and asked the fire keeper to strike the ceremonial flame. I remember many laws, including, for example: “Understand and respect your body; be the friend of all harmless wildlife; be kind, be helpful and be joyful.” After extinguishing the fire at the close of each council meeting, we recited the “Omaha Tribal Prayer,” beseeching Wakonda, the Great Spirit, to “guide our footsteps here again.”

I especially liked council meetings because we often decorated the ground with Navajo-inspired sand paintings. Obtaining charcoal from our outdoor barbecue was no big deal, but Seton’s Woodcraft handbook, “The Birch Bark Roll,” instructed us to gather, grind and sprinkle many other kinds of natural materials.  We suburban kids had no clue where to find them, however.  Instead, we used detergents, other household products and, at least occasionally, flour, cornmeal, sugar and salt. Ants and other critters were always grateful.  

Between meetings, Rangers were expected to earn brightly colored “coups.” These felt feathers, the equivalent of merit badges, were sewn on “honor bands.” Such orange sashes were worn diagonally across one’s chest and beneath an orange neckerchief, which was secured by a handmade decoration.

Woodcraft operated three summer camps, which were also used occasionally for weekend outings. Teddy and I had attended a day camp for several summers before departing, in August 1956 (at nearly 8 years of age), for our first week at Woodcraft’s Lake Arrowhead Camp, east of Los Angeles.  (I have letters to and from home verifying the date.) This was probably the first time that the two of us had seen mountains, touched pinecones or slept out-of-doors.  (Eventually, our younger sister, Betty, would sleep in our backyard with the Camp Fire Girls, which Mom also led.)  

By our suburban standards, Arrowhead was a rugged experience, which included not only lots of swimming, hiking, trailblazing and archery, but cold showers. New culinary experiences included meat loaf, chipped beef, shepherd’s pie and “bug juice.” There were of course nightly council meetings, which featured truly frightening stories about wild animals as well as lost campers and vengeful ghosts.  But Teddy and I much enjoyed Arrowhead and returned the following summer.

I am not quite sure how our parents expressed it, but they wanted us to meet kids from different backgrounds at camp and at Woodcraft’s citywide gatherings.  (At one such “pow-wow,” we met a true Indian, Iron Eyes Cody, whom we recognized from TV.)

Teddy and I participated in Woodcraft through grade school and kept up with many of those friends. After our summers at Arrowhead, we went on to other summer camps. Between our junior and senior years of high school, moreover, I became a counselor at its Stanley Ranch Camp, north of Los Angeles, and returned the following summer.

Never having become athletic, I taught a Jewish subject, arts and crafts.  But I did like “setting an example” for younger kids and making friendships far beyond my boarding school chums.  Even while a graduate student, I helped out occasionally at the Lake Arrowhead camp. As political liberals and as liberal Jews, we thought that this was one way of practicing tikkun olam. 

Meanwhile, our mother became ever more devoted to Woodcraft. In 1962 she became the first woman (and Jew) elected to its board; eight years later she became its first woman (and Jewish) president. In 1974 (under the Second Sun of the Hunger Moon), Mom received an extraordinary honor – an Indian name, “Hohiyo” – which, fortunately, nobody ever called her.  Ironically, she had never received a Hebrew name. Mom stayed active on the Woodcraft board for a half-century, and on June 17 we three Goodwin children and our spouses gathered in Los Angeles when the Rangers honored her memory.

Perhaps she heard Teddy and me recite: “Lo-lo-mi, lo-lo-mi; may the Great Spirit guide our footsteps here again.”

GEORGE GOODWIN, a member of Temple Beth-El, has edited “The Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes” for more than 10 years.