Crying
Wolf
Noel
Laflin
9-4-14
Early
Morning - Late October, 1997
When my daughter was quite young, she spent many
mornings napping on the old black leather couch in the living room as I went
about my daily routine.
I could watch the news or crank up the stereo or
clatter about in the kitchen preparing breakfast, perfectly content that she
would sleep through the entire racket – as children are so universally capable
of doing.
On this particular morning I decided to get a jump on
things and begin to decorate for the Halloween party coming up on Saturday night. The battery-operated witch with the blinking
eyes and her hideous motion-detection laughter was placed upon the old Italian
marble piece. Flying bats and streamers
were strung across the dining room. Theme
related candles were set about most everywhere. I even dragged out the heavy extension ladder,
angled it above Krysten’s sleeping form, climbed up and over the open stairwell
in order to hang the crazed-looking scarecrow dummy from the big beam running
across our high pitched ceiling. It had
become a Halloween tradition of sorts, in preparation for parties – this hanging
of the straw man, complete this particular year with a skull mask for a face. And so, I thought nothing of it as I went
about my labor of love in honor of the impending holiday on that crisp, cool
October morning some seventeen years ago.
I forgot to consider fully, however, what kind of
affect the sudden room transformation – especially the life-sized hanging
figure dangling directly above and staring down upon a sleepy four-year-old just
might have …
My daughter still reminds me, on occasion, that this
was probably some kind of child abuse.
Our dummy was actually just a left over Halloween
prop - stuffed with real straw, of course - and dressed in an old flannel shirt
and a pair of tattered Levi’s. He had
giant black clown shoes as foot ware and a cheap mannequin head. Covering the head was the current mask. It was creepy-looking enough, but not as good
as the old wolf mask that used to precede it – although parts of the old wolf
had melted and permanently fused itself to the Styrofoam head. After twenty years of use, however, the old
mask had finally just crumbled to the touch.
I grieved. It had served me well
over time, even if it had nearly gotten me killed and then stranded on one
occasion.
Late
at night - July, 1976
I had taken the nasty-looking, teeth-baring, red-tongue-lolling,
suffocating, rubber wolf mask to summer camp one year.
Remembering how it had scared many a Trick-or-Treater
in its heyday while living at home, I thought it would bring joy to lonely
souls traveling the darkened pathways of Camp Ahwahnee.
Deciding to first test my theory on fellow staffers,
I donned the mask and burst into one of the staff cabins. There were three individuals contained within
said cabin. One screamed, another just
stared dumbfounded, and the third grabbed the closest heavy object at hand and
threw it at me. The claw hammer missed
my head by a hair and lodged itself into the old plywood cabin wall.
Cabin number two presented itself with similar
reactions. The screwdriver thrown my way
also missed, gratefully, and stuck harmlessly in the flimsy door.
I skedaddled.
As I quickly made my way off of staff hill, hiding
behind a giant ponderosa momentarily, I could not help but be rewarded by several
of the un-Scout-like oaths being tossed
about as fellow staffers exchanged
information – none of them quite sure who the masked man was. That was encouraging.
So, I crossed through the woods and spied the next
victims – two young lads tending to the camp’s Citizenship Fire ring.
The area contained a large rock, upon which a bowl-shaped
fire pit had been created with smaller stones.
In the old days, an actual statue of an Indian sat cross-legged on another
pile of stones behind this rock. But
heavy snows and weather in general had done him in overtime. So, the large rock now stood alone as a
rather plain altar upon which the summer’s perpetual fire burned.
The fire was always lit on the first day of the
summer camping season in June and extinguished on its last day in late
August. The flame was to never go
out. To see to that, a different Scout
was chosen each day to be the guardian of the fire for a twenty-four hour
period. It was considered an honor to be
chosen for the watch. In recognition of
his service the boy was awarded his Ahwahnee Citizenship Fire Keeper patch at
the following evening’s flag lowering. He
would then hand off the axe to the next fellow chosen to do the fire tending
honors. I still have my own patch from a
stint done back in 1966.
But I digress and this tale is growing overly long.
As it was nearing midnight, not another soul was
around, other than the two young Scouts huddled about the small fire. Most kids had a friend or two keep them
company through the lonely evening hours.
Camp could be spooky after dark and I was about to prove that to them on
this particular night. They chatted quietly as they occasionally fed fuel to
the flames. I donned the mask one last time and leapt
out into their midst all the while howling and growling.
Pre-adolescent screams ripped through the parade
ground.
A large block of firewood was hastily tossed my way
by lad number one. I ducked.
A hand axe sailed by my head, courtesy of the fire
keeper himself. It bounced harmlessly
off of the tree behind me.
And then they were gone. Just like that, the two vanished.
I removed the mask in order to make myself appear
less frightful and to be heard more clearly as I hollered out that I was sorry.
I was greeted with silence.
The two did not return that night.
And thus, I was suddenly stuck with the chore of
keeping the fire going throughout the rest of the cold, damp night. I grabbed the axe and started chopping
wood.
The two little cretins crept back to relieve me at first
light.
I made them a deal that I would not snitch on them
for abandoning the fire if they in turn did not discuss my role in their having
made said decision to split so hastily.
We shook hands and I departed for a power nap before
the day’s activities got underway. I put
the mask safely away before lying down. My uniform smelled of wood smoke.
Back
to the October Morning - 1997
After my daughter calmed down on that crisp fall morning
seventeen years ago, I tried to cheer her up with cinnamon-sugar toast and the
relating of my near-death by hammer, screwdriver, block of wood and axe - all aimed
directly at my head. I also tried to stress just how lonely the fire-tending
responsibility/ punishment turned out to be - due to my foolishness with the
old mask.
She said that I deserved it – and see what I got for
crying wolf? She then asked for more
toast – with extra, extra cinnamon sugar please.
Her own bed downstairs became suddenly more appealing
to my daughter for a while.
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