Scuffy the Tugboat by Philip Butera

The Golden Book’s Scuffy the Tugboat and its influence on a little boy.

Like most five-year-olds, the little boy didn’t like going to bed, but he knew it was little use to make a fuss. He put on his red flannel pajamas with the cowboy hats and lasso. He didn’t like buttoning the top button, so his white tee shirt showed underneath. The boy had to arrange the pillows just right to keep away any critters or ghosts that may lurk about during the night. The first pillow went against the headboard, next to the wall. This is where the boy would fall asleep. The next pillow went perpendicular to the first, and a third smaller pillow went next to the second so the barrier could be fortified completely.

The boy’s mother came into the bedroom with four golden books in her hand, “Which One,†she asked. The boy looked at the title’s Bambi. He liked Bambi and his friends Thumper and Flower but hated the part where the hunter kills Bambi’s mother for no reason except that she was a deer. The boy was glad his father never went hunting. 

Hopalong Cassidy was one of his favorites. This book was about how Hoppy helped bring a close friendship between a boy whose mom was a teacher and an orphaned Indian boy. Many townsfolk were mean to the Indian boy, but things worked out when Hoppy rode the bad guys out of town who wanted to harm all the Indians. Everyone listened to Hoppy when he said America was for all and we should share. Everybody became friends, smiled, cooked steaks, and ate apple pie. The boy did wonder how come in all the cowboy books, most books they never had macaroni like his family had most nights. 

Pinocchio was the next book. The boy liked the movie better but didn’t understand how boys could become donkeys after playing at an amusement park. He watched his uncles drink smelly stuff in brown bottles every Sunday at his grandmother’s, and after a while, they all laughed. 

The final book was his favorite. His mother had read it to him many times, Scuffy the Tugboat. Scuffy wanted out of the bathtub. One day a little boy and his father take the Tugboat to a nearby brook. Scuffy gets away from them and starts his adventures. Past women washing on the bank, past cows that almost drink him up, past rabbits onshore till finally, it is night, and Scuffy is frightened when he hears an owl’s hoot. The Tugboat continues the following day, sailing past villages. That afternoon the river on which Scuffy was traveling joined another smaller one jammed with logs. He had some close calls, especially when two logs bumped together with Scuffy between them.

Scuffy traveled down fine streams, wide rivers, past big and small towns. Under minor bridges, while above some wide cars, trucks and streetcars could cross simultaneously. He traveled so fast down a river he felt more like a train than a boat. Scuffy loved the sights, sawmills with water wheels, high water tanks, tall buildings with many windows, factories with smokestacks, shops with colorful signs, houses of all sizes. His adventure kept him intrigued about what might still await him.

The Tugboat continued his journey, enjoying his freedom. The scenery changed to pastoral fields and greenery. The water became colder and swifter, coming from the melting snow atop the hills skirting the countryside. He pitched and tossed on the growing larger and heavier waves. Scuffy was frightened, but he had no choice but to persevere. 

The young boy’s mother looked at her only child, who had his first finger on the image of Scuffy. She asked, “Why do you like this book so much?â€Â 

The boy’s eyes became prominent, and a smile grew on his face. “Because Scuffy is brave, like daddy.â€

The mother thought about her son’s comments as she recalled those horrible, lonely days when the world went mad during World War Two, her husband in Navy blue. Away for many years to fight a gruesome conflict.

The boy looked to his mother, asking her to finish the last part about how all the people joined together to fortify the banks with sandbags so that the water would not flood the town.  

The boy was asleep as she finished. Scuffy had flowed through the city and somehow found the original stream where he started his journey. Luckily for him, the boy and his dad were by the shoreline to catch Scuffy and bring him home. Now, all of his travels would be in the bathtub. 

The boy was now a man in his seventies. He sat on a patio chair, looking out at a small lake on a warm sunny day. His eyes still twinkled though his health showed signs of aging. He enjoyed watching the ducks, geese, and birds forage about the shoreline. He smiled to himself. He had lived in beautiful and dying cities. He had walked down clean streets, mean streets, main streets, back alleys, and academic quadrangles. He felt comfortable in dive bars, nightclubs, and concert halls. He wore a uniform during a war like his dad. He had seen many natural and human-made wonders. He had experienced hurricanes, earthquakes, torrential rains, snowstorms, and women’s rage. He had felt both love and heartbreak. Proudly, he had toasted to the best of his friends and laughed with them. 

He sat with a children’s book on his lap. He had found it in a thrift shop the day before. Since he bought it, a full flow of colorful memories swirled about him. The man had continued Scuffy’s adventures. He had traveled far, treasured much, won and lost battles, and experienced what was invaluable. He had lived a “good,†no, that word didn’t sound appropriate. Brave? Doubtful, maybe just inquisitive. Simply said, he had led his life –as both participant and observer.

He reread the book, and he felt pretty sad when he finished. He thought of his parents, how he had left home to go away to college at seventeen, and then continued his journey to many exciting places. What of their pain, their worry, and distress? From another point of view, he realized that Scuffy was careless, selfish, and inconsiderate. 

The old man went into his home. He realized, for him, the definitions of independence and indulgence had merged. He laid down on his bed, closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was with his parents at a once familiar amusement park in Southern Ontario. They were on the carousel, mom, wearing royal blue pedal pushers, white blouse with her collar turned up, oversized sunglasses sitting in the Christmas sleigh that goes around and around never going anywhere, while father in baggy brown pants, pullover dark brown short-sleeve shirt, cigarette smoke trailing his mouth, is standing next to a stationary horse looking blankly at the same scenery over and over. And the boy, elastic waistband dungarees, a bright yellow tee-shirt with white stripes, rides on a wild-eyed, shiny orange tiger with black stripes that turn into flames. The cat’s muscular legs fully extended, thrashing wildly into the unknown. 

 A melancholy smile filled his face. He put his glasses on the nightstand and thought how quickly seventy years had passed and that friends and relatives he loved were now gone. It occurs to him how his parents had sacrificed their dreams for a reality elusive of wonderment and indulgence. Sometimes you need only to say something once like, “I am happy to have lived my life,†because once stated, it is not required anymore.

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