It’s camping season, and Cub and Boy Scouts everywhere are heading to the outdoors. But against this Saturday Evening Post image you have a subplot that Norman Rockwell’s canvas would never touch — beginning with the adult leaders.

There are two groups. You have the scouting pros — uniforms that appear West Point-issued, plastered with patches and beads dangling from the belt. A kaleidoscope of colors, icons, images, with lots of red, white and blue. This presentation, combined with additional features (e.g. bad hair, conversion vans, sweat pits) can prompt an uneasy feeling in some moms.

First impressions, however, can be misleading, because one of the patches likely says “trained” and another says Wood Badge — that means your son’s leader has a clue about responding to unexpected emergencies. If you are a helicopter mother, after all, you want a leader who is skilled inCPR, can separate a wall from a funnel cloud, and knows that a tourniquet should not be tied above the shoulders.

Admittedly, some of these leaders need to spend less time at Roundtable and more time at Lifetime Fitness. Still, he’s not your son’s yoga leader, so get over it. Drop off Johnny —you can still make your Pilates class.

And then you have the new school dads. Lightweights who think roughing it means a hotel without a concierge level. These softies would drag along a Laz-y-boy recliner if it would fit in their Lexus. Dads who think the Scout motto “do a good turn” relates to corkscrew techniques. These guys understand Baden Powell is a signature clothing line at Nordstrom’s. These dads have kids in Cub Scouts, a.k.a. ‘Scouting light.’

Boys love campouts and hate the meetings. In pack meetings, the boys run wild and eventually end up in a women’s restroom staring at the Kotex machine.

Picking the campout date means dodging the religious and school holidays, baseball tournaments,RV and Boat Show, dance recitals, BBQ competitions, and finally settling on a Friday night. Everyone commits. The expected number of Scouts and dads: 75.

And then the lone ranger arrives: severe weather! When I was Cubmaster in Leawood this would freak the softies. By Friday morning, the e-mails would roll in: “Johnny’s not feeling well.” “I need to start an addition on the house.” “I pulled a muscle getting out of bed.” “Look, we are going to come out later. Like next month.” “The dog ate the directions.” “I want to come but my wife says it’s too cold out.” “We’ll make the next one.”

By midafternoon the cancellations continue. The ‘confirmed’ list goes from 75 to 12 in about eight hours. I would never cancel the campout. Kids don’t give a darn about cold fronts — what they care about is bringing a pocket knife to make a spear and then playing in the fire. So around 5, I’d drive to the church parking lot with the Keenan boys in tow amid wind gusts and dark clouds. Eventually two, maybe three cars of other dads and Scouts pull in. Guys, like me, with lots of patches. We drive out, set up camp and watch weather patterns worthy of the Weather Channel. Saturday morning we return home, drop all the gear in the entryway and my sons declare to their mom, “It was awesome!”

A month later it’s time for the May campout: “We’ve got a fast-moving cold front, folks!”

My mom graduated from KU with a degree in music education. Her major was piano and she imparted her love of music to her five children. And when dad bought her a baby grand, he placed it in our living room, adjacent to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking our picturesque backyard. Many days I would come home from St. Pat’s to hear her playing away on the Yamaha. She was active in our town’s Parnassus club, and she and dad took frequent trips to Century IIauditorium in Wichita to see touring artists and musicals.

I took piano and voice lessons. We all did. In 1971 my aspirations for a recording contract suffered a setback when I sang a duet in the junior high concert — the Jackson 5’s “I’ll Be There.” I was there. The lyrics, on the other hand, went missing. I was devastated. My brothers? Lottery winners are less gleeful.

The music world was not immune to the cultural upheaval in the late ‘60s. I remember my older sister gaining a fondness for Iron Butterfly’s “In-da-gadda-da-vida.” We understood the title to be ‘In the Garden of Eden.’ Normally Larry wasn’t easily ruffled; Adam and Eve, however, were off limits.

Along the way, there were threads of calm, comfort and normalcy. And in 1968, it came in the form of a song. I recall very distinctly hearing it for the first time in the backseat of my parents Plymouth station wagon. It was “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell. Described as the first existential song of its kind, it peaked on the pop, adult contemporary and country chart at the same time. Forty-two years later it remains a critical and popular choice — ranked as one of top pop songs of all time. Even today when I hear the song, it’s like a time machine.

A song about Wichita — two hours to the southeast of our town — elevated Campbell’s status considerably in our family. For us, Wichita was New York, Chicago and L.A. rolled into one. Wichita had Towne East Mall, was the home to Pizza Hut and another business with an unlimited ad budget — Rusty Eck Motors. Wichita is where Larry and Mona honeymooned. And so, naturally, Glen Campbell was accrediting our view of the world.

Campbell’s career went on to achieve iconic proportions as one of the top-selling artists and entertainers of all time.

Mom passed away in 2002, but her legacy continues as most of her grandchildren still play the piano. Just before this Christmas I saw Glen Campbell perform on late-night television. His voice, his guitar and the song … I froze, listened, watched. He played two songs from his CD “Ghost on the Canvas” and the melodies stuck in my head.

The next day I left home on a mission.The Best Buy display rack of best sellers had the biggest collection of trash anyone could assemble. Other than Adele, none could play an instrument or even sing. I was going to find that CD no matter how long it took, and my determination was rewarded.

I put the CD in my car and listened and haven’t stopped. My third son heard it and redeemed himself. “I like it. It sounds like Johnny Cash.” Since then every family member has become a fan. In December, USA Today music critics picked it as a Top 5 album of the year. Coming on the heels of his farewell tour as he battles Alzheimer’s, one could add this to Campbell’s repertoire: courage.

On Sunday, I watched the Grammys. When Campbell came out and sang “Rhinestone Cowboy” my thoughts shifted to Mom and the baby grand. I cried.

Matt Keenan

The world just eclipsed 7 billion people and the news was greeted with outcry. So is this a great time for a column advocating the wisdom of large families? Probably not. 

Yet, I ran across this book, “Selfish reasons to have more kids: why being a great parent is less work and more fun than you think,” and it inspired me. Written by Bryan Caplan — an economist, of all things — it’s an interesting read that challenges conventional parenting notions across the board, demonstrating with data that having more kids improves the parents’ lives without compromising the children’s.

Large families are the stuff of dysfunctional reality TV, from Kate Plus 8 to Octo-mom and other pop culture train wrecks — even Michelle and Jim Bob, an appealing set of parental role models, no question, but 21 kids? Really? Why can’t the cable channels feature a family that is “normal” by cable standards, of say 10 children, whose names don’t all start with J? Like a contemporary equivalent of my dad’s family — 12 siblings, all raised as successful, happy adults with great spouses, strong marriages and an unbelievable work ethic. They flourished in the face of incredible hardship, fought in world wars and raised crops through the Dust Bowl.

These days many parents stand down with 1.5 kids, a goldendoodle and two cats. Caplan notes that in 1976, 20 percent of women in their 40s had five or more kids. By 2006 that number dropped to 4 percent. Some European countries have so little population growth that it is crashing conventional economic models. A New York Times Magazine article back in 2008 described the Europe’s low-birthrate phenomenon as a “baby bust.” The lowest fertility rates in Europe? Greece, Spain and Italy — which are all dominating the news for other, not entirely unrelated, reasons.

Caplan’s work has moved to the top of my parental must read list. Borrowing from research about twins and adopted children, he turns many parental assumptions on their head. The Times dubbed him the “un-Tiger mom” because he argues that hyper-parenting does little good — from grades to sports.

Guess what? Kids are going to pass, fail or make the basketball team no matter how much you fret, practice or endure drive by drop-offs. Your kid’s getting splinters from riding the pine in football? Let me guess: Dad is blaming Johnny for skipping those personal training sessions at Lifetime.

Pops, get a clue. Your high school letter jacket boasts of choir and debate.

Admittedly, no one will start a house addition once they finish the book. Still, it invites a welcome dialogue on what our culture embraces as “truth.” There are many other examples illustrated in this book that didn’t surprise me but might shock others. As parents we push too much on our kids. They hate piano? Maybe they should quit. They want to play Xbox? Chill. He’s not becoming an ax murderer.

And while you’re at it, Mom, consider recalibrating your thinking on Johnny’s soccer team that plays tournaments in Toledo, Tulsa and Tupelo. After all, he’s 9 but his knees say he’s 20.

My mom, who passed away in 2002, was disinclined to give me advice. When she would visit us, she was too busy pulling the kids away from the light socket and moving the hair dryer away from the full bathtub. Yet, occasionally she would share her opinion about chasing four kids under the age of 6. There was one suggestion she mentioned more than once: “Good parents like you and Lori should have more children.”

Today, with two in college a third out, and just one at home, there is no doubt. As in most things, Mom was right.

At age 52, from time to time a thought enters my head — “I’m old.”

Sometimes it pops up in the form of a question; other times, a declarative pronouncement. With our oldest at age 22 and our youngest at 16, I’m a tweener — too young for a son or daughter’s wedding, too old to deny I need meds promising urgent relief.

So I debate the proposition without reaching a definite answer.

And while I kick that question back and forth, evidence continues to accumulate. We had our first college graduation this spring, and yes, the son’s diploma hit me; but it was also seeing my dad fatigue walking across campus from one event to another. He’s 81 but for someone who still works 6 days a week? His age has never been relevant.

Other moments struck me. When I attempted to complete my first running event, the Amy Thompson 8k in Loose Park, the question was conjoined with more salty words, finished with an exclamation point. Along the route, half the free world passed me by. Days later I learned the running times of many of those who ran by me. Seven men in their 70s smoked my time, including an 80-year-old who beat me by nine minutes. Old? Hardly.

Back to School night at the middle school with kid #4 is another moment of age reflection. You half expect some twenty-something mom to whisper my way, “Uh, grandparent’s day is in the spring.”

But nothing begs this question like what happened last weekend at KU during the fraternity’s annual “Dad’s Weekend.” For some, Dad’s Weekend is like a Hot Tub Time Machine — a time to hide the AARP card, lose the gray roots and party like its 1999, trading Jell-O shots with Buffy and Muffy in the Boom Boom room, then posting it all on Facebook while the liver gasps for air.

So there I was — Saturday night at the Wagon Wheel with my 21-year-old junior. A friend of the family was having a birthday party there and purchased a “birthday keg.” With a hotel room at the Oread, I thought,“Why not?”

You know those ads that play during pro football games when the geezer inconveniences everyone while he has to go? His name is Keenan. Doubtful the Wheel has changed much since I was there 30 years ago; this much I’m sure about — the men’s room hasn’t. And, in case you’ve never been there, phone booths come larger. Let’s say I had time to study the ceiling, walls, tile floor. What did I see? A kaleidoscope of names, accomplishments and bragging that bore no relationship to reality. College — those were the days.

Still, I was having fun, and seeing some familiar faces. The music was loud, which meant that, for once, I wasn’t the only one yelling “What?”

But about midnight, something happened. It was like someone attached a 20-pound weight to my eyelids. I needed a Five Hour Energy, an external defibrillator, No-Doz, leg cramps — something, well, urgently. Forget tap beer. My fantasy became a pillow, cotton sheets and a bathroom I could use without some dude with a bad aim at my elbow. So when my son was ready to move to other bars — places I call fake ID land — I waved the flag. What I yelled at him brought a nod. “I’m old.”

The next morning I was sharing at pew at St. Johns the Evangelist on Kentucky Street for the 10:30 service with two head-bobbing sons in tow. Afterward we had a world-class breakfast at Milton’s on Mass Street. The coffee and conversation flowed.

Growing old? Me? Not a chance.

Matt Keenan COMMENTARY
Our family has a cat. She’s been living with us for 11 years but we don’t know each other. She’s more than anti-social. She’s anti-people, anti-dog, cat, life.

I say “she;” we assume it’s a female. If it’s a male he’s got some serious issues in addition to the ones unrelated to his sex. Once I asked the vet how to confirm gender. The technique required me doing things she doesn’t like — being touched.

Her name is Sunshine. Apparently Stormy was taken. You’d think she would be more appreciative, since she was a rescue cat, given to us by a friend of a friend. I’m still trying to figure out who declared, “This is a great idea.”

We don’t know her birthday or age. But that’s not the bad news — it’s that she shows zero signs of aging despite spending hours laying in the sunlight and roaming around all night outside, searching for her personality. At this pace she is going to challenge the world’s oldest cat, who is 39. Meanwhile, Bernie, our wheaten terrier, seems ready for a nursing home at age 11. What gives?

Our kids say Sunshine has never been the same since I had the vet declaw her. There was no choice once she scratched my wife’s most valued possession: Tory Burch shoes. She was lucky she didn’t end up pushing a broom at Wayside Waifs.

And did I mention she snores? Saws logs all day long next to my pillow.

Her demeanor can’t be typical for most cats. I saw the trailer for the movie “Puss in Boots” and laughed hysterically — but my mood changed quickly when Sunshine darted out off the bed, leaving a trail of fur.

Seven years ago, we thought Sunshine had finally found a better deal in some drainage ditch somewhere. We had moved from our house to a rental three blocks away. She came with us, and then disappeared for a week, then two. Corks were popping every evening. As I dared to conceal my glee, the kids asked lots of questions. This was back when they believed me.

“Where is Sunshine?” they asked with huge, expressive eyes.

“She’s fine! Chasing mice outside, of course.”

“But it’s winter and she might freeze to death!”

“What do you want for Christmas? Find something in this catalog.”

And then we had a message on our answering machine. The new owners of our old house were calling. “Do you have a tabby cat? There’s a cat at our door and we started to feed it. It’s living with us.”

Their subsequent calls would be met with instructions: “Don’t pick up. It’s a telemarketer!”

Eventually there was a reunion and for about three minutes Sunshine acted like she cared.

Still, if you see a cat at your door resembling our Sunshine, invite her in. Years will go by and you’ll never see her. You can even pick a new name. I’d suggest Pat.

It’s high school football season once again.

Ah, yes, the return of fall foliage, brisk north winds, shorter days and fog.

No, not what Mother Nature sends us — Axe. The stuff teenagers use to fumigate bathrooms, hallways and entire schools while the rest of us gasp for air.

And without question, the most important event is not the cross-town rivalry on the gridiron. It’s homecoming. Boys finding elaborate, and in some cases outrageous, schemes to ask out their dates. Girls hoping the hot-air balloon hovering over their subdivision is little Johnny’s way of saying, “Go with me!”

And if you are wondering why your neighborhood suddenly has a proliferation of black limos circling around looking for a residence, relax. The Eagles are not doing a backyard gig. It’s dance season.

This tradition is a rare generational thread that still bears some vague resemblance to the good ol’ days, when boys had regular names like Hank, Joe or Tom, wore suits from J.C. Penney and drove their parents’ Dodge Dart. Their dates’ dresses showed modesty reflective of the time. Moms and dads sent them on their way without fretting about a phone call after midnight.

The common fiber is the corsage, Mother Nature’s contribution to the night that is absolutely timeless. So how are the flowers doing these days? Not well.

“The boys generally don’t know what to order,” says Emily Fyten of Flowers by Emily in Leawood. “Most of the time, though, the mom orders the corsage for them and they normally have more of an idea of what they want. Sometimes the moms will bring in the boys to pick something out, but they really don’t seem like they want to be here.”

Shocker.

One website suggested that “boys need to consider their date’s attire before ordering.” Yeah, and your son should also check the fuel level, the polish on his shoes and lay off whatever gel is plastered in his hair. That same site suggested to boys, “to make certain you have the perfect match for your attire, bring in the gown itself, a fabric swatch or a photo. This will allow your florist to match the flowers, ribbons and colors to your clothing.” Who does this? Just give me the boy’s name. I have a daughter he needs to meet.

Boys don’t know a peony from a pencil. An orchid is an instrument in a band. Crocus is something you attach to sunglasses to keep them on your neck. Harmonizing color, accessorizing and making it all come together? Is there an app for that? Dream on.

Nature’s finest leave the protective climate of Emily’s world and get tossed in the back seat, surrounded by Chipotle wrappers, McDonald’s cups and blowing air craving Freon. And did I mention Axe?

“We did have one guy that put his corsage in the freezer instead of the refrigerator” Emily said. “The mom said it looked decent enough to use, but a little weird.” You think he noticed?

So what about the mom who plans ahead, is assured her son’s date’s dress is white and then sees the girl show up in something coal black. “She switched with a friend at the last minute,” our son Robert explained to his mom who was, well, kind of reddish.

But all this is window dressing compared to the real drama. That’s when the slacker dude intersects with his date — with flower and stick pin in hand. Kids who haven’t tied their shoes in 15 years are asked to display the finger dexterity of a concert pianist. Paging St. Jude.

Happily these days those train wrecks are rare, since most dresses are the size of a postage stamp. That means it’s a wrist corsage, which still presents some challenges. Which wrist? Which way? Which date? The ladies typically reciprocate with a boutonniere, which is flawlessly added to the lapel.

The next morning you attempt a download with your son. “How was it? Did you have fun? Did your date have fun?” Grunts. Groans. Snores.

So moms deconstruct the clothes pile. In the mix you find something shriveled, flattened by a semi and baked in an oven — something that just hours earlier was elegantly formed by angels and crafted by careful, nurturing hands.

You study it. If only it could speak, but its appearance suggests the last thing it witnessed no mom would want to hear.

Red rose with baby’s breath, we hardly knew ye.

If you are a parent of a teenager, at some point you will hear your college son or daughter speak these words: “Uh, dad, can you look at my lease for the rental house? I need to sign it.”

Cardiac fibrillations may follow. But chillax, parents. What follows is a quick tutorial of the landmines included in every college party house lease. These are actual clauses from the lease governing the house for Keenan college boy #1, with interpretation as necessary.

•“Lessee [your kid] deposits with Lessor [landlord] a deposit of $500.00 per tenant. The deposit shall be returned…provided the following conditions are met: the entire Premises including furniture, appliances, fixtures, ceilings and floors having been cleaned.”

Memo to parents: say goodbye to five C-notes.

•“All debris, rubbish and discard must be removed from Lessor’s premises.”

Boys: Empty kegs are considered debris.

•“Lessee agrees that Lessee shall not keep any roomers, lodgers or boarders, or carry on any trade, profession, business, school, course of instruction or entertainment on the Premises.”

Translation: no home-brewed wine or beer; no filming “home movies”

Guests need to leave at some point; that includes Molly, who is just a “friend.”

“Entertainment” is defined broadly. Use your imagination. Yes, it’s covered.

•“Lessee shall not make or permit any use of Premises, which, directly or indirectly, is forbidden by public law, ordinance, or government regulation, nor any use which is dangerous to life, limb or property, nor which will be offensive or obnoxious to any residents of the neighborhood.”

AKA “meth clause.” It’s standard these days, started by Missouri landlords.

•“Lessee shall not operate or permit to be operated sound equipment, musical instrument, or television in any manner, which might disturb other residents of the neighborhood.”

Lose the speakers that double as weight supporting beams.

•“Lessee shall not keep any dog, cat or other pet in the building without Lessor’s prior written consent.”

Ditch the ex-girlfriend’s cat, “Twinkle.”

•“Lessee shall not erect any structure on the property on which the Premises is located and shall not enter upon the roof of any building upon the Premises.”

Keep party dudes off the roof, even if they just want to “look at the stars.”

•“Lessor shall be responsible for landscaping the premises including all lawn mowing and shrub pruning and flower bed maintenance.”

There is a name for this in landlord tenant law: impossibility of performance. The words “flower bed maintenance” are not in their vocab.

•“Lessee is and shall be liable for any injury or damage caused by their acts and/or omissions which is done to the leased Premises, and other occupant thereof, or to other persons whom Lessee permits to be in or about the leased Premises.”

Parents: This is why you buy insurance.

•“Lessor shall have the right from time to time to place upon the building or land upon which the Premises are a part, a mortgage or mortgages, given to any financial institution, to which this Lease shall be subordinated.”

Your landlord is a slumlord. Call me shocked.

•“Lessor may assign this lease at any time as collateral or otherwise without Lessee’s consent.”

Whichever bank takes this lease as collateral is about to have a new owner: the FDIC.

•“Vehicles must be parked on the street, must have a current license plate and must be operative. Vehicles may not be parked on the grass.”

Dude!

•“Lessee must use a heat source provided by management.”

OMG!! Dude!!

•“Lessee may not install or use a waterbed or bed filled with other fluid without the prior written permission of Lessor.”

You weren’t born in the 70s; your bed shouldn’t have been, either.

•“No damage to property beyond ordinary wear and tear resulting from careful usage.”

Careful usage? Wow.

•“Lessee agrees that visits by police to the Premises for improper behavior or citations or complaints of any kind by any governmental authority which in any way regards the tenants’ use or permitted use of the premises are grounds for termination of the Lease and/or eviction by Lessor. Lessee agrees to vacate Premises within ten (10) days of such notice.”

This clause requires no explanation. I’d suggest a “plan B” living arrangement just in case.