Fund Raising in 1976 (Prompt #1)

Fund Raising in 1976

By James Lisk

Of all the things I dreaded as a kid, fund-raising by selling overpriced trinkets was one of the worst. Every year, groups ranging from the school, the YMCA, the band, and the Boy Scouts had fund raisers that expected the kids involved to sell a minimum amount of something. If my family wouldn’t buy the minimum, then, uhg, I had to go door-to-door and ask the neighbors. With three younger brothers each also trying to peddle something, like the same thing for the same group, I often had to go door to door.

The “don’t talk to strangers” safety motto was indoctrinated into me, and I thought most of our neighbors were strange. Some were old with bad hearing, some had mean barking dogs, others had bigger mean kids, and one or two had previously told me to “get outa my yard.”

The band sold Texas Manor fruitcake every fall. As fruitcake went, I grew accustomed to it, but we still gave a lot of fruit cake to aunts and uncles at Christmas. In my class, a girl named Alicia would always get the prize for selling the most; her mom took the order form to work. I had no sympathy from my mom on this; her kindergarten students were the wrong market demographic. No, she was selling World Book Encyclopedias and sometimes Tupperware, and sometimes both to the parents of those kids. To her, learning to sell was a life skill I needed to master.

In 1976, I was twelve years old and America was celebrating “The Bicentennial”, the two-hundredth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Every store had patriotic merchandise like red, white and blue hats, t-shirts, coffee mugs and shoelaces. I think one of my brothers was selling Bicentennial pencils for a school club. Fair warning here, 2026 marks the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary.

And in 1976, my Boy Scout Troop, Troop 567, was selling Bicentennial themed brass medallions and key chains to help cover our expenses for the district hike-o-ree to the Guilford Courthouse Revolutionary War Battle Field. While excited about the upcoming two-day event, which included a live musket and canon demonstrations, and battle reenactors; I dreaded selling those trinkets. You might eat fruit cake, but to me, these medallions were useless. I’d earned the coin collecting merit badge, so I knew the difference between a real collectible coin and a cheap gimmick medallion. The key chain was usable, if you snapped the heavy medallion off.

I took my stash of medallions and key chains to church and tried to sell them there. “Sorry, but I already bought one from Derrick,” was repeated three times and I gave up. Derrick was one of my best friends and also in scouts. His mother played the church organ, so he’d arrived early and sold all of his medallions to folks as soon as they walked in.  I think the story of Jesus driving the money changers out of the temple was taught that day.

The next night, Monday, was the Boy Scout meeting. I’d sold two key chains. One to my mom and one to myself, using money pulled out of my coin collection. Dad didn’t want one. I reported my total to Mr. Thomas, the Scout Master, “Only two? Derrick has sold his twelve, and we’ve given him twelve more. You must not be trying very hard. Have you gone door to door?”

“No,” I replied, wondering why I’d joined the Boy Scouts.

“How about your grandparents or relatives?”

“We haven’t been to see them this week.” Seems every other Scout had relatives next door, but ours were an hour’s drive away.

“How about at church?”

“I tried. Nobody wanted any.”

“Teachers?”

“Do you know how many kids are trying to sell stuff to the teachers?” Derrick had gotten to the band director too.

“Well, you need to use some salesmanship. Tell them that these historic medallions are solid brass and they are specially made to commemorate the Bicennential. And years from now, they can remember the celebrations and be proud of our country when they look at it. I’m sure your neighbors will buy some, just wear your uniform so they see you’re official.”

Later that week, after school, I put on my Scout uniform and trudged around the neighborhood, walking house to house on the long gravel roads. Many folks weren’t home, or were hiding from the Boy Scout selling trinkets. The mother fixing dinner with the crying baby didn’t want one. The old man with the barking dogs didn’t want one. My friends on bikes said that their mom wasn’t home, which might have been true. One fellow with groggy eyes opened his door, wearing pajama bottoms and a grubby t-shirt. I’d waken him from his sleep before working the night shift. “Sure, I’ll buy one,” he said. The same guy had bought fruit cake from me in the fall.

My sales total reached three. The next week at Boy Scouts, Mr. Thomas encouraged me, “Keep trying! You’ve got to sell at least twelve, so only nine more to go.” I was able to sell the others, mostly to my grand-parents who said they’d make nice gifts. Dad broke down and bought the last one, so I did sell the minimum.

And no, after I sold my minimum, when Mr. Thomas asked, I didn’t want to try and sell any more.

The hike-o-ree that June was quite the experience. The police insisted on rerouting the hiking route at the last minute to avoid busy streets, obviously without concern for the distance we had to walk. The promised short hike turned into a sort of death march in the sweltering heat with our overloaded back-packs. Being my first backpacking trip, I had packed two of most everything I needed, just in case. On the second day, the concept of packing light was making more sense. 

Several volunteers drove cars and picked up the boys that weren’t going to make it. After about four hours hiking, I asked for a ride. Apparently, I didn’t look tired enough and the driver shouted “you can make it.” Another hour later, my troop was ahead and out of sight, and my legs and feet were sore, my boots seemed to have transformed into lead and my shirt was drenched in sweat. My canteen was empty and my throat was parched.

“Come on get in, you’re the last one,” the driver said with a twinge of pitty in his voice.

But it was only a half a mile further, if I’d made it this far, I could finish this.

“No,” I said, “I can make it.” Trudging on, I was the last Boy Scout to enter the Battle Ground. I found my troop and dropped my backpack in the pile and collapsed on the ground.

“Where have you been?” Derrick asked me, “you missed the musket demonstration.” 

I did get to see the cannon demonstration and get some water before piling into the back of a pickup truck and riding home.

The next Scout Meeting, Mr. Thomas handed out the awards for completing the hike. We each got a red and white ribbon with a bronze Bicentennial medallion.