Hard-bitten Chairman Was a Softie
In a few tough weeks, Dad learned how the cookie crumbles.
As a Girl Scout troop leader in a farming community of north central Alabama, I was hard-pressed to find a cookie chairman. All the troop moms had legitimate excuses. Their days were jam-packed from dawn to dusk. I was repeatedly told, “I am so sorry I can’t help.”
Desperate, I did what any red-blooded American woman would do. I recruited my husband. As a sales rep, Richard had a flexible schedule. “Piece of cake,” he quipped, as he accepted my offer.
I hid a knowing smile. As a former cookie chairman, I knew the challenges the job presented.
When a truckload of cookies filled our living room and spilled over into our daughters’ adjoining bedroom, Richard was undaunted. He had managed a mega lumber and building store in Atlanta, Georgia. Organizing a few dozen cases of Thin Mints, Shortbreads, Peanut Butter Sandwiches and cream-filled cookies was as easy as falling off a log, he said.
Richard created a meticulous inventory along with a flow chart, which included each Scout’s name and address and the number of cookie boxes that left our living room. He was whistling a happy tune by the end of the day.
Everything went smoothly. Each parent was confident her Scout could sell a certain quota and return for more. As news spread that
Girl Scout Cookies were for sale, the boxes gradually left our house, giving us some breathing room once again.
“We have only six boxes of cream-filled and two peanut butters left,” Richard gloated one night. “We’ll have those sold by Friday.”
I heard our Brownie working the phone. “We’re out of the Thin Mints, but wouldn’t you like some delicious peanut butter cookies with your milk?”
Inspired by her younger sister’s confidence, our Junior Scout closed out the remaining boxes before the sun had set.
Now came the hard part for Richard: collecting the money due from all the girls and turning it in to the council by the deadline. Calls started coming in and I could hear my cookie chairman’s masculine business voice melt in sympathy, “I am so sorry, Mrs. Smith, that your dog ate all the cookies and you have no money to pay for them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Jones, I do understand how a box of shortbreads can disappear without a trace.”
Before it was over, we had paid for at least
12 boxes eaten by family pets, baby brothers or homeless veterans.
In later years, the National Council tightened the rules to force parents to assume fiscal responsibility for all boxes checked out by their Scouts—even if the pet goat devoured the cookies, box and all.
Come to think of it, our goat did eat the last box of peanut butters.
OH, MRS. JONES, I DO UNDERSTAND HOW A BOX OF SHORTBREADS CAN DISAPPEAR
WITHOUT A TRACE.