One Man's Trash . . .

A Cub Scout uniform goes to college

I 'M NOT BRAGGING, BUT I OWN NOTHING OF SENTIMENTAL VALUE. Okay, I'm bragging. Quick story: One Sunday afternoon, my father phoned me to meet him at a storage facility where, in a grand gesture, he proudly presented me with a box of keepsakes he'd preserved from my childhood. I graciously piled the memories into my Isuzu Rodeo and then drove half a mile away and heaved them all* into a dumpster behind a Mobil Mart.

I have become a master at discarding possessions, and, as of two weeks ago, I was down to two items: my birth certificate and Cub Scout uniform. The only reason I'd held on to the Troop 99 outfit was because I thought it would one day bring me big laughs at a small party. I envisioned a scene not unlike the one in the John Cheever short story where the former college football player tries to recapture his glory days by hurdling over furniture at a cocktail party. In my scenario, I would suddenly announce at a festivity that I am still so boyish and trim that I can fit into my Cub Scout uniform and then attempt to do so, prompting raucous laughter as I flap around on the kitchen floor like a novice magician strangling in his own straitjacket.

But when I recently came across the shirt again, I knew it was time to let go. The extremely minuscule size of it made even a comic adventure impossible. It looked like a Cub Scout onesie. Plus -- and we can talk about this some other time -- I see no parties in my future. Still, it was so regal-looking that I didn't want to just chuck it. I told people at work about my dilemma, and one associate suggested we hang it up on the office wall, Hard Rock Cafe-style, add a fallacious placard -- "This is the uniform Terry wore at the 1971 Webelo Jamboree, where he tented with then 7-year-old Jon Bon Jovi" -- and we've got our first major exhibit.

I was tempted enough to bring the uniform into work, but quickly shoved it into a drawer. It suddenly didn't appear quite so princely as it had on the closet floor. Under the fluorescent lights, it was a bit grimy, and, frankly, I was embarrassed that, after all those years of service, I had only a single medal.

Then a college-age intern spotted the uniform and screeched. "Oh, my God, is that what I think it is? In Manhattan, you have to pay like $30 for one."

"It's yours," I immediately said.

"I can have this?!"

"Sure, if you can fit into it."

She slinked into it quicker than you can say, "Scouts honor," and when she put her sunglasses on, it was as if Holly Golightly had suddenly joined Troop 99. Now, I'm not one easily brought to joy, but as I watched her drive off in her mother's Hummer, giving my Cub Scout uniform a new lease on life, I'd never been so ecstatic or felt so free. And to think it could have ended up trapped in a glass case above the water cooler.

Still available: one birth certificate.

(* Except an acoustic guitar, which I held on to 25 minutes longer so I could El Kabong it against an olive tree at a park near my house. I've always wanted to do that.)

T.M. Shine is the author of Fathers Aren't Supposed to Die: Five Brothers Reunite to Say Good-bye and Timeline. He can be reached at tmshine@msn.com.