How Mr. Bradbury Tied It All Together: A Christmas Gift

HOW MR. BRADBURY TIED IT ALL TOGETHER: A CHRISTMAS GIFT

BY Noel Laflin

December 14, 2012

 

 

“Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.”

Closing lines of Ray Bradbury’s poem, “Remembrance”

 

It was the week before Christmas and I was in need of a minor miracle. 

As fate would have it, the sought after intervention arrived in my mailbox disguised in the form of a small brown padded envelope.

All other correspondence was tossed aside once I spied my prize.  Feeling the package – there was something hard and rectangular within.  Upon shaking the envelope – something rattled.  I stared at the handwriting – yes, it was indeed addressed to me - with a return in the upper left corner showing it came from Los Angeles.  I grabbed a knife and carefully sliced the packet open.  A tape cassette in a clear plastic case, wrapped in a single sheet of tan colored paper slid out and into my open palm.  There was something printed on the piece of plain paper now turned wrap.  I carefully unfolded the page and stared in quiet wonder. 

An Old English text header proclaimed: Christmas Wishes 1986.    

Below that was printed “from Maggie & Ray Bradbury.”

And directly beneath their names began a poem composed of thirty-two beautifully crafted lines; the first of which began, “My father ties, I do not tie, my Christmas tie.”

There was a hand-written note printed above the title which simply read: “For Noel Laflin.”  This was followed by a wonderful signature: “Ray Bradbury – Dec. ’86.”

I was speechless.

But, what of the tape cassette? 

There was a handwritten title on side one.  It simply said, “Remembrance.”

The minor miracle suddenly lay in the palm of my hand.

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury.

 

The whole thing started with a sign language assignment – the final project for this mid level class.  You see, I had been living with Jeremy – who was deaf (or hearing impaired, if you please) for the past year.  And, although Jeremy and I were communicating just fine, I could not help but feel that I was lacking in the finer skills needed in the art of American Sign Language (ASL).  And thus the evening classes at Santa Ana College. 

Initially, I joined a beginner’s class, only to be told that I was well beyond the basics of finger spelling, etc.  And, so I suddenly found myself transferred to the next level.  I guess Jeremy had led me well so far.  In fact, I was already dreaming in “sign” most nights and knew instinctively that I was progressing nicely.  But, as I said, there was so much more to learn - and like any foreign language, practice was the key.

So, this final project was to sign along to a piece (which could be a story, poem or song) that would be around five minutes in length.  In other words, each of us was to haul in our own tape recording of said story, poem or song and sign it to the class and instructor as it played.

I knew what I wanted to tackle from the get-go.  The piece in mind had been hanging framed upon my bedroom wall for a dozen years: “Remembrance” – by Ray Bradbury. 

A copy of this poem was first given to me by my mother.  In fact, it arrived in a letter she sent to me when I was a kid working at summer camp.  One can still see the crease marks by which it was neatly folded before being placed in the letter.  Mom had carefully clipped the full page poem from a magazine that highlighted this new piece in a fanciful blue border featuring woodcut engravings of leaves, bees, birds and squirrels – images from the poem itself.

 

 I was blown away upon the first reading as I had never known that my favorite author even attempted poetry – not to mention that it was so damn good!  I must have re-read “Remembrance” a dozen times that week – constantly finding new joy with each review.  I memorized the opening and closing paragraphs and can recite them to this day.  In fact there was a time when I could recite the entire poem – but that was a dozen years in the future.

 

Now, I had always been a fan of the man since I’d first had the privilege of escorting him across the Fullerton Junior College campus for a lecture way back in 1972. How I was chosen to lead and chat with the short, stocky legend in thick-as-Coke-bottle-horn-rimmed glasses, I do not know.  All I do know for certain is that I have never forgotten the honor.  A year later, as fate would have it, I very nearly bumped into Mr. Bradbury and his wife at Cal State Fullerton.  (Why were we always meeting on college campuses?)  I was hoping to catch the opening night performance of “Dandelion Wine.”  I was too late, however – the place was sold out.  As my date and I dejectedly headed back to the parking lot, I could see another couple heading directly our way on the narrow pathway.  Even in the dark, his thick glasses gave him away.

“Mr. Bradbury!” I offered in greeting, as we clumsily tried to pass one another on the narrow sidewalk; “Your play is sold out!  I don’t suppose you could sneak us in the back door perhaps?”  It might have been lame, but I was trying to think very quickly on my feet.

“I’m awfully sorry, son – but I don’t think I could pull that off.  Wish I could.  As we are running a little late, I bid you both good night.” 

And with that, the famous author/playwright/poet/screenwriter and his wife continued on.

“Well,” I told my friend, “it was worth a shot.  Nice guy though, huh?”

My date concurred.  Although we had missed the performance, we did get to meet the man privately, albeit briefly, and exchange a pleasant word.  It was, after all, of some consolation and still makes for a fine memory four decades later.

 In between these two unplanned meetings I made it my mission in life to read everything – or so I naively thought at the time - that he had published.  Obviously I had not discovered the poetry as yet.  However, when it came to his fiction, I had given away at least a dozen copies of my personal favorites over Christmas; they included “Dandelion Wine,” “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and various collections of his vast array of short stories to friends and family. 

Now, the problem with the sign language class assignment all these years later, however, was the fact that there were no known recordings of “Remembrance.”  I had either called or visited a half dozen libraries inquiring after the matter.  It simply did not exist.  At this point I could have moved on with a new piece to work with or contact Bradbury’s publisher directly to see if I was overlooking a recorded source of some sort.  As I have always been a sucker for long-shots, I sent off a written request to New York outlining my dilemma.  It was early November.  I waited for some sort of official answer.  Nothing came that month.  December was barreling its way through pretty rapidly as well before the unexpected packet showed up on December 18^th, the very day the assignment was due.  And although a poor back-up plan had already been made – a recording of me reading the poem – I now potentially had the real deal, not to mention a great story at hand.

Having popped the cassette into my own portable tape player, I sat back and nervously waited while the initial static hissed during the first few seconds of play.  Then the audible sound of another cassette player clicked on.  A distinct sound of shuffled papers could be heard – along with the faint chirping of a sparrow drifting through an open window.   And then, the most welcomed voice of all commenced.  Mr. Bradbury began: “Early December, 1986 – “Remembrance.” 

“And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.”

I sat rapture-bound for the next five minutes.  My class was to begin in one hour.  I packed up my treasure and drove to school.  I played the newly arrived gift in the old truck’s cassette player all the way there and for just a bit more while I sat in the parking lot – all the while trying to sort it out.  I finally wiped away an errant tear, smiled and finally laughed with relief while I grabbed the tape and player.  I headed across yet one more college campus with the voice of Mr. Bradbury at my waiting fingertips.  It was a good sign.

There rests upon my old bedroom wall two framed poems.  One is positioned just above the other.  They have been in the same location for twenty-six years now.  They are dear to me.  Both are gifts from ghosts of Christmas past.  And there is a strange, yet wonderful tie that binds them.

 

 

Marilyn Takes a Stand

DENNIS STREET MEMOIRS – MARILYN TAKES A STAND

By Noel Laflin

12-8-12

 

It was Marilyn’s shrill shrieks and expletives that brought both Tom and me out of a deep slumber that warm Saturday morning way back in the summer of 1978.  I thought it to be a vivid dream at first – until I heard the guttural, loud barking of dogs and our roommate’s defiant screams and curses.  Somewhere in all the commotion a cat’s hissing added to the cacophony as well.

Realizing that is was not a dream after all, we both jumped out of bed, each grabbing a pair of ragged shorts and ran down the long hallway and through the kitchen to the attached garage from whence the noise was coming.

And there stood a sight to behold. 

A very naked tanned blonde woman, with a four-foot plank of wood in hand, was swinging it for all she was worth at two giant black Rottweilers pacing the garage floor.  Behind her and perched atop the dryer was her old cat; the ancient feline’s rear end was arched and backed up against the wall like there was no tomorrow.  She hissed and spat defiantly as her human benefactor and champion stood between her and certain dismemberment.

You see, this was not the first time that the rouge Rottweilers had caused trouble.  They had been roaming the streets for weeks, scaring kids and adults alike, tearing into trashcans, leaving giant stinking piles of Rottweiler excrement on front yards as well as breaking into the our neighbor’s back yard and demolishing their rabbit hutch – not to mention all the bunnies within.  The two strays had somehow evaded the dog catcher’s net all summer. 

But now, they had met their match in the form of the slim and very attractive, five-foot-five , naked-as-a-jaybird and very pissed off twenty-two-year old Mensa grad student from UCI – AKA, Marilyn Mitchell – our beloved landlord and roommate.  She too had been awakened from a pleasant summer morning snooze when the four-legged would-be cat murderers had chased the old feline from the front yard into the open garage, lunging, barking and crashing into the dryer repeatedly.  Unlike Tom and me, Marilyn had not taken the time to dress.  Her motherly instincts had taken precedence over modesty.  Mama bear ferocity had taken over completely when she charged out of her room, grabbed the first weapon at hand – which just happened to be that old two-by-four and jumped into the fray.

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” she screamed, taking another swipe at one of the dogs. 

WHACK!

She made contact with the snout of the closest four-legged-fiend trying to lunge past her and nail the petrified kitty - who was by now -  trying to squirm into a giant box of Tide.

The dog howled in pain and made a short retreat.

By then, Tom and I, who were at least semi-clad, jumped into the fray, screaming and waving our arms in the air.  The two Rots could see that the jig was up.  There would be no feline brunch after all.  They both turned tail and beat it down the driveway and trotted off. 

A sweating, but otherwise visibly calm Lady Godiva-like figure walked out onto the driveway and on to the sidewalk, still holding the two-by-four.  She glanced down the street where the four-legged pair had vanished. 

She waved to the Samoan family across the street, which was digging another giant roasting pit in their front yard.  They were preparing for a large family cookout.  It was a regular occurrence – the tantalizing aroma of a roasting suckling pig would soon fill the neighborhood.  The neighbors shyly returned the wave and resumed the dig.

Marilyn then turned and came back into the garage.  She tossed the two-by-four against a wall, reached up on tippy toe, grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden garage door and gently pulled it shut. She  then went to retrieve her old cat from the box of detergent; only the tail was visible. The cat wouldn’t budge from its refuge, so Marilyn just picked up the entire container, with the frightened feline still within, and carried it off to her bedroom.  She turned, before leaving, and nodded in thanks at Tom and me.  It was ten in the morning - just another interesting start to a typical day on Dennis Street.

 

 

 

 

 

Ahwahnee Hit Parade of '68

Ahwahnee Hit Parade of ‘68

By Noel Laflin

August 2004

Greg Richards leading the troops up the old Cherokee trail, July 4, 1968

 

Liberation

“Shout it from the mountain on out to the sea (out to the sea)

No two ways about it, people have to be free

Ask me my opinion, my opinion will be

Nat'ral situation for a man to be free”

The Rascals, “People Got To Be Free,” No. 3 hit from 1968.  

I was not supposed to work the entire summer of 1968.  By some fluke, however, my initial three-week offer of membership on the Ahwahnee staff was lengthened to nine weeks - and with pay at that.  My honorarium would be five dollars a week.  I took the offer and planned my escape.  You see, the year was already proving to be a sad and tumultuous one - what, with the assassinations of both Martin Luther King and then Bobby Kennedy. The lure of a mountain get-away sounded pretty appealing to this recently deflated and yet still idealistic fifteen-year-old.  With more trouble coming later that summer in far away Vietnam, Czechoslovakia, and even Chicago, I felt damn lucky to be away from the daily television barrage of Russian tanks, continued body counts and bloody skirmishes between protesters and the Windy City’s Finest.

Like so many young men trying to establish his own identity at fifteen, I needed to blow off some steam, having felt pent up in school for the past nine months. I had also been recently freed from a heavy leg cast that had greatly limited my movements for thirteen weeks that spring.  I had really just learned how to walk once again when the call came from Jack Moulton, the camp director, offering me full-time work that summer.  No wonder I jumped - limped, was more like it - at the chance.  I packed my bags and had my folks drive me out of the city smog and up the mountain once more.  I was finally going to be a full-fledged Ahwahnee Staff Man.  The only regret I had at the time was leaving behind my first girl friend.  But, she was true to her word and wrote me that summer.  I was almost starting to feel all grown up.It had been two years since I had been to camp, as summer school took precedence over the prior season.  My friend and fellow cohort from the 1966 staff, Scott Mac Donald, kept me up-to-date with Ahwahnee goings-on as he did work camp in 1967 and skipped out on summer school.  It turned out that he missed the acting class and I missed the camp drama.  So, we traded information.  It proved to be a fair swap.  Now, a year later, I was more than happy to make my escape up the magical highway.  Little did I know that I would be seeking such liberation on old Highway 30 for the next nine years.

Hell Week
"I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler

About a workin' all summer just to try to earn a dollar

Every time I call my baby, and ask to get a date

My boss says, "No dice son, you gotta work late"

Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do

But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues”

Blue Cheer, “Summer Time Blues,” Hit No. 84 from 1968

 

Staff week at Ahwahnee amounted to every football jock’s version of hell week, minus the padding.

Our newly assembled group of sixty were assigned quarters, fed three mess hall meals a day and expected to rebuild a winter-ravaged camp within one week.  This involved the preparation of twelve troop campsites, campfire arenas, kitchen & mess hall, warehouse, pool & shower facilities, archery & rifle ranges, nature, camp craft & handicraft lodges, Scoutmaster’s lounge, trading post, doctor & general staff quarters, outhouse (KYBO) placement or replacement, road  & trail repair, assembly area revitalization and anything else needing a quick spit-and-a-promise.

Additionally, we had to learn our individual roles for the summer as well as how we all could function as one cohesive family throughout a nine-week period.  You had new guys learning from the old timers.  Our ages ranged anywhere from thirteen to sixty.  In 1968, there was little ethnic diversity, as most of us tended to be from lily white, middle class Orange County families.  In short, the family thing was not much of a stretch as most of us were in our teens.  Brotherly bonding occurred from day one.

Each area of camp took primary responsibility for their immediate concerns; i.e. the aquatic staff (Jeff Sherwood, Jim Hirsch and an aide) had to get the pool heater functioning, clean out the dead squirrels, mice and what have you from the stale, green swamp of a pool, which had frozen and thawed several times over the winter and spring.  Additionally, they had to get their merit badge and swimmer safety game plan together.  The same routines held true for every division of camp: get your site together and plan your program. 

Where we all had to pull together, however, was in the refurbishing of the twelve campsites.  This involved the rebuilding of the tent platforms campers would call home for the week, as well as the hauling in of heavy tent canvas, tent poles, army surplus metal cots (with busted springs and all) and ancient, dusty, stained mattresses, which had been stored in the shower area all winter.  There were over two hundred tents, cots and mattresses needing relocation.  It was a daunting chore, especially when it came to hauling these bulky items up a steep dusty trail (like Tielroy), as it had no road leading into it. Every site needed rakes, shovels and fifty-gallon drums for trash.  Pine needles then had to be raked out of the immediate vicinity in order to meet U.S. Forestry fire regulations; pathways were in dire need of repair, as were broken water lines, plugged up outhouse outlets, etc.  The physical work was long, hard, dusty and tedious.  Cold showers were then usually in order as the heaters at the pool took some time to repair, let alone fire up that first week.  The food was either plain or somewhat questionable, depending upon the cooks’ disposition, the condition of the kitchen and just how green the mess staff might be.  All in all, it was sort of like being in the army, I suppose.  At least those who had already served in that noble profession kept referring to the similarities.  

After the daytime physical maneuvering of inanimate objects, evenings were then turned over to the senior camp staff who instructed us in everything from first aid classes to song leading and campfire skit preparation. It never seemed to end.  People fell into their bunks dead tired every night, too tired to party.  Daylight would come all too early and the heavy, dusty work would soon resume.  For a few of us, new trails were also on the horizon.

 Trailblazers

"Do you know the way to San Jose?

I've been away so long. I may go wrong and lose my way.

Do you know the way to San Jose? 

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose.”

Dionne Warwick, “Do You Know The Way To San Jose,” No. 79 hit from 1968.

I have in my possession an old grid section (Keller Peak quadrangle) of a topographic map of  the San Bernardino Mountains, dated 1953.  The communities of Arrowbear and Running Springs are  noted, as are various summer camps, including Arrowbear Music Camp, Camp Cedar Crest and the YMCA camp in Little Green Valley.    Interestingly enough there is no Camp Helendade, Wintaka or Ahwahnee shown here.  Where Ahwahnee would someday take its place was Larry’s Boys Camp instead, established sometime in the 40’s and later sold to the Boy Scouts in the mid fifties.  There are hand marked dotted trails surrounding Larry’s Boys Camp, coded as the Red, Blue, Orange, Green, Rainbow and Deep Creek trails.  And as it turned out, this was the most up-to-date map three of us had to lead our way across unfamiliar territory back in late June of  1968. 

Now, legend has it, that when asked if he had ever been lost, Daniel Boone is reported to have replied: “No, not lost, but at times just a mite bewildered.”  Like Boone, Scott, Steve and I were also a mite bewildered for a day or two during that first week of camp.

The commissioner  staff  was assigned the task of remarking two of the hiking trails in camp: the Red Trail and Deep Creek’s Yellow Trail. Scott Mac Donald was volunteered for the job of trailblazer by his boss, Wally Simmons.  I was asked to represent the Grand Canyon Commissioner Area by my commissioner, Bill Herzberg.  It turned out that Steve Sundquist did not have an assistant as yet and so had to volunteer himself.

It’s still unclear to me who was responsible for the marking of the other four trails in camp.  Perhaps it fell to Mike Barnett and his Senior Patrol Leaders.  This seems to make sense as Mike would hike every new batch of kids the entire length of all the trails, connecting one to the other.  And this they did weekly, with full backpacks, covering God-only-knows how many miles in a two-day period.  I guess someone must have known the way.

Now, I know that Steve and I had never hiked either of our assigned paths - and in looking back on those two days it’s doubtful that Scott had much experience with red or yellow trails either; it was evident from the amount of time we spent roaming the woods searching out our way. 

Armed with a backpack of wooden markers (arrow-shaped), a hammer, nails, brushes, and red and yellow paint cans we were told to follow our ancient map, vintage 1953, and remark the trails in advance of the troops, which, would arrive the very next week.  So, we followed the old paths, scouting out old trail markers and when found giving them a new coat of florescent paint (red or yellow).  Each trail was approximately five miles in length.  At the rate we crisscrossed the forest searching out hidden or non-existent markers I believe that we probably doubled the length of each trail.  I am not even sure the paint was dry on most of those old markers by the time we finally emerged from the woods and those first campers tried to follow our wooden directions.  And I never understood why we used florescent red and yellow paint.  That was, not until the next week on July 4^th, the night Greg Richards decided the entire camp would hike the Red Trail at night, so that we could view the fireworks being shot off over Lake Arrowhead.  It turned out that our trail markers held up just fine.  Our Program Director’s timing was rather off, however.

It was a special campfire we put on that Wednesday night, July 4, 1968.  And  it was at the end of it, that Greg proposed  we all follow him up the Red Trail, grab a rock  for a chair and await the splendid fireworks, which would commence at precisely nine that evening.  And like believing children, we followed the man out of the fire arena, crossed the highway and up the steep switchbacks, searching out red florescent markers from many an old tree, stump and painted boulder.

It looked like a scene from an old Frankenstein movie - you know the part where the villagers are approaching the old castle with torches ablaze.  Well, our torches were merely flashlights and it was hardly a castle we were storming - just the top of the mountain, which stood a good eight hundred feet above camp. But it would have the best view in the area of the fireworks, or so Greg said.  And so, we continued up the dark, dusty trail, all two hundred of us.

We all made it to the top with a good twenty minutes to spare before the polytechnics would begin.  So, we waited.  Nine o’clock came and went and we still waited.  Maybe the time had been moved to nine-thirty or ten, Greg advised us and so we waited some more.  Once ten o’clock had come and gone, so were we. There were no fireworks that night.  Turned out, they had been shot off the night before for some unknown reason.  Greg came to breakfast in disguise the next morning and had changed his name to Rudy Begonia.  But at least the trail markers had not led us astray.

Over the course of that summer, along with so many to follow, I would come to know some of the trails in camp very well.  Not a week went by in 1968 that I was not leading one group of kids or another either up the Red Trail or down the Deep Creek Trail.  The Red Trail had the advantage of being all downhill on the return trip, with a pretty view of the surrounding country at the top.  Deep Creek was all downhill to start with and had the advantage of a great swim once we reached the bottom.  The bummer was coming back up the switchbacks.  I bet I have done that hike at least a hundred times over my life, and not regretted it once.  Well, perhaps regretted it a couple of times when I had to endure stumbling amongst the giant boulders and icy water late at night.

Those evening hikes were not planned, but occurred when kids were reported as “lost,” and the staff  went on a search.  I can recall being assigned (or was I stupid enough to volunteer?) to the Yellow Trail on at least two search party expeditions.  I guess my knowledge of the path put me front and center.  Of course, they both commenced sometime around nine or ten in the evening.  I tell you now, it was spooky covering those five miles in the dark, not to mention menacing, as one was jumping from boulder to boulder by way of moonlight or flashlight.  As it turned out, on both occasions, the lost kid was found somewhere close to camp while those of us down in Deep Creek were still calling out his name.  Somewhere around midnight, scratched, bruised and hoarse, we would emerge from the edge of Inspiration Point, having reached the top of the trail, only to be told of the boy’s safe return.  Well, shit-fire, another fun night in the woods, we would tell ourselves.  But it was a good feeling to know that we had tried and hadn’t required a search party of our own.

Today I still dream of hidden trails in Ahwahnee.  Like many dreams the landscape is a bit bizarre and the paths are never quite what they were in reality.  But I instinctively know that I am at Ahwahnee and the trail always seems somewhat familiar.  I guess it’s the stuff dreams are made of - especially when an old Rascals’ song  lulls me off to sleep.

           



Running With Eagles

RUNNING WITH EAGLES

By Noel Laflin

July 2004

Topo Map of this sector - vintage 1966

On the night of the raid we prepared by emptying our pockets of all personal items and applying ground charcoal to our faces.  As we did so, my mind wandered back to the campfire earlier in the evening; Jeff Sherwood had fumbled my name and introduced me to the entire camp as Neal Nauflin. A fellow newbie to the group and friend from school, Scott MacDonald, was still howling about that one.  He would henceforth refer to me as Nauflin, for the rest of our lives. So much for my first day on the Ahwahnee staff  - along my newly acquired name.  It was the summer of 1966 – I was thirteen years old.

Now, I don’t believe this was actually intended to be a so-called panty raid, even if the intended target was the staff quarters of the neighboring Camp Fire Girls’ camp.  And the fact that no one actually came back with so much as a sock, let alone a pair of underwear definitely put it out of league with the usual fraternity prank.  But for my pal, Scott, and me it was simply the thrill of being allowed to run wild with the older guys that appealed to our most basic youthful instincts.

At a predetermined late night hour, staff men gathered around the cabin of Dennis Banowitz, our quiet, soft-spoken rifle range instructor.  He appeared to be the ringleader.   His plan was this: we were going to creep into the woods above the Staff Hill and make our way up to the nearby water tower.  From here we would cross the  highway in pairs, avoiding detection from any stray late night traffic.   After crossing safely we would reenter the forest and go right, toward Camp Wintaka. It would not be far from this point.  We would follow the signs within the camp itself to their staff quarters and once inside look for things to “borrow” and bring back as proof of having been there.

We were admonished to wear dark clothes only and carry no identification in case of capture.  Ahwahnee’s name was not to be said aloud, nor was the name of any other staff member.  And if caught, we were duty bound to try and escape.  In retrospect it all sounded pretty corny.  At the time, Scott and I, along with everyone else took it dead seriously.  I remember wondering if my mom had labeled  the inside of any of my clothes.

Once properly attired and inspected, we were off creeping through the woods toward the water tower and highway.  Scott and I stayed together and eventually hitched on to one of the older guys who seemed to know where he was going, as we certainly did not. Our trio did not rush things, but cautiously made our way along, ducking at the sound of anything remotely suspicious. The other guys were well ahead of us.  Finally, all points were safely reached when we suddenly found ourselves within the property limits of Wintaka itself; the well lit sign facing the road was proof enough.  We stayed in the shadows of the trees trying to determine our next move.

It was about then that we heard all of the commotion and saw many of our fellow staff members come barreling back our way.  Lights were flickering on within the camp, voices were raised and there was the sound of a truck and the glare of headlights heading our way.  I guess we had been detected.  We did not stick around to determine the truth to this; the three of us  hightailed it back for camp for all we were worth.  By then the forest was alive with dark clad figures scurrying for cover and trying to make it across the road and back to Ahwahnee property.

When we finally gathered back on Staff Hill, it was a carnival atmosphere.  People excitedly talked about how Wintaka had come to life when a little too much noise was detected as our folks were attempting to pry off everything in sight. The guy in the truck was the ranger apparently and he must have sounded the alarm.  That’s when pandemonium set in and everyone made a run for the woods.

Guys were now proudly displaying their loot.  It was mostly in the form of wooden signs “borrowed” from the girl’s camp.  In fact, it looked as though our ambush team had taken down or uprooted half of the postings in Wintaka.  The group photo later showed our gang displaying their plunder, some which read, “Staff Quarters,” “Pool Area,” “Kitchen,” “Camp Store,” and of course the most exotic of all “Rest Rooms.”  I believe someone had even uprooted a STOP sign.

By morning, however, the gig was up.  I guess the Wintaka ranger had figured out in quick order just who the culprits were and had contacted the Ahwahnee brass.  A deal was brokered;  just return the signs, pronto.

Dennis came clean as one of the instigators and accepted responsibility for the gathering  and return of the loot.  It filled the back of the Wintaka ranger’s pickup.  Dennis thought for sure that he’d be fired and sent down the hill because of the stunt and mentally began to prepare himself for such.  I believe that all staff members’ ‘nights off’ were cancelled for the rest of us that week as well.  Meanwhile, the camp leadership kept poor Dennis in limbo for the next three days, telling him that they were reviewing their options as to his punishment.

Finally, on Thursday night, the entire camp staff was told to report to a remote campfire ring for a mandatory meeting.  We were all a little nervous, Dennis especially, as he was specifically told to dress sharp and be on time.  He truly believed he was to be drummed out of camp that night.

When Dennis entered the campfire area, decked out in his cleanest uniform (complete with merit badge sash even)  there were lit torches at the entrance and a fire already burning in the rock lined ring.  Staff were respectfully seated on the old terraced logs  along with camp officials and big wigs (professional Scouters) from the council office.  Dennis’ parents and even his girlfriend were in attendance.   Oh, this looked bad, he told us all later; not only was his dismissal to be public, his parents and girlfriend were there to drive him home.

The meeting was gravely called to order by one of the top council brass and it was then announced that we were all gathered to witness the bestowing of Scouting’s highest award on one of our very own.  It was Dennis’ Eagle Court of Honor.

Dennis looked baffled, surprised, proud and relieved simultaneously.

The roust was complete.  The ceremony had been in the works for weeks, unbeknownst to the nerve-wracked Dennis.  Management figured that they would just string the poor guy along, following the Wintaka stunt, while they had the chance; punishment enough they figured.

It was the first Eagle Court of Honor that I had ever attended and to this day, one of the best kept surprises that I have ever witnessed.  And like all Courts of Honor, there was cake and punch afterward. 

More Stories

MORE STORIES

July 6, 2004

Gene, Gladis and Rebecca - 1972 

My old friend Gene Bergner wants more stories about camp.  He hasn’t come right out and asked that of me - but I sense it nonetheless.  In a recent packet of old camp photos, patches and humorous emails he had also enclosed a short hand-written note:

“Dear Noeleo,

 No, I’m not mad at you – just lazy.  I keep reading your stories over and over.  I find something new every time.  Many thanks. If we don’t call, Happy Father’s Day.  I hope some of the enclosed will make your day.  Phone or email when time permits.                                                                                        

 Love,

Gene”

Although the Father’s Day note was a nice touch, what really struck me was the fact that he had been reading the pieces.  You see, I had written close to thirty short remembrances over the past few years. They covered a mixed assortment of experiences in my life - many of them dealt with Camp Ahwahnee and my years there on staff, where I first met Gene and Gladis Bergner way back in 1969.  Gene particularly loved the tale that dealt with, among the other strange events that took place that summer, our meeting for the first time.  It’s entitled, “Bad Food.”  And, it was a hoot to write.  I was especially happy that it brought joy to my old friend and former boss.

The actual story was, however, that Gene started out as just our  ranger that first summer but was rapidly promoted to camp director by the next season.  As he was a man of immense talent, the local Scout council saw fit that he should run Ahwahnee for the succeeding ten years.  His wife, Gladis, stepped in as the camp’s business manager. They were an awesome team. I worked at camp for nine summers myself in various staff positions.  Consequently we had grown very close during all that time  - and our partings from Ahwahnee, as well as from one another years later, were pretty emotional.  I had come to look upon the Bergners as another set of parents.  In fact, they and my own folks grew close over the years as well.  I was one lucky kid indeed.

At any rate, by the time I had graduated from college I realized that I had to get on with my life, which meant getting a real job – thus ending my idyllic summers in the mountains.  Four years later, Gene and Gladis lost their home at Ahwahnee as well when the Scout council decided to sell the property – a mistake beyond all reckoning in the estimation of all of us who had come to love the place.

So, some thirty-odd years after our initial meeting I began to write little ditties about camp and a few of the characters that inhabited our piece of the mountain.  I eventually sent them on to Gene and Gladis.  After that, a more frequent correspondence took place between us once more.  It was almost like the old days.  We were all just a bit older – my two friends in particular, especially since they were approaching their mid-eighties.  But you would never have guessed their true age based upon their upbeat letters and phone calls.

Now, I have a theory that the camp tales have worked their way into Gene’s heart and perhaps rekindled some old memories. Actually, I have a strong feeling that those camp days are never far from Gene’s thoughts, thus hardly in need of rekindling anything, as a blaze of memories burn within his mind, no doubt.   I am certain of this as that same fire has been heating up my soul for the past three and a half decades.  I can only imagine just how brightly it burns in the man who lived upon that sacred, haunted land we called Ahwahnee.  Gene and Gladis watched a dozen seasons change there, year after year.  They greeted thousands of young men and adults during that time and inspired many of us to return to camp again and again just for the pleasure of their company and to share in the joy of the land. 

         

So, whether I really ‘sense’ that my good pal Gene actually does want more stories or whether I just need an excuse to exorcise some more old Ahwahnee spirits from my soul … well, I don’t really know - nor do I care exactly.

Some of my experiences will precede yours by a summer or two, old friend, but then we’ll eventually meet!  I had to move on with the close of the Bicentennial camp season but you continued on at Ahwahnee for a bit longer, continuing the tales from there.  So, throw a few more logs on the old campfire, boss.  May it brightly burn in both of our collective memories.

August 8, 2007

Epilogue:

Gladis Bergner died in February of 2005.

Gene Bergner was never quite the same after losing Glad, his bride of 60 years.

He died of stomach cancer in December of 2005.  He never complained.  In fact, he never let on to me that he was so gravely ill – not even when we last spoke on his eighty-fifth birthday, just three months prior to his passing.  Fortunately, Gene was now in the gentle care of his daughter, Claudia, and her husband Rich. 

I had mentioned to my old friend, in that last phone call, that when my time was up, I wanted my ashes to be spread along Inspiration Point – up at old Ahwahnee  of course.  Gene thought that was a fine idea.  His somewhat melancholy mood suddenly lightened as we said our goodbyes.

When Claudia called to inform me of his passing, she said that her dad had changed his mind about wanting his ashes spread out at sea, as originally had been planned.  In fact, he told her that he now wanted his ashes spread off of Inspiration Point – and to talk to me about seeing to it.  I fessed-up that I was to blame for the change in venue no doubt.  Claudia and family thought it was a good idea nonetheless.  And so, we started to plan for a spring reunion at camp.

Gene’s ashes were spread along Chapel in the Pines, which is just feet from Inspiration Point in May of 2006.   It was a simple ceremony.  There were just eight of us that day: Claudia, Rich, Gene’s two grandchildren, his sister, Jeff Vaughn, Fred La Velle and me.  We spent three hours at the point telling one another our favorite stories about Gene and Gladis.  I theorized that the rain and snow of seasons to come would roll some of Gene’s ashes down the steep hill and eventually bring him to Deep Creek way below.  From there that melodic waterway would find its way to points far beyond. Gene always was a traveling man.  We were fortunate to have both he and Glad looking out for us on that old mountain for the dozen years that they called Ahwahnee home.  Now, at least part of him was home once more.

When we left camp we drove into Running Springs where we had lunch, all the while telling more stories of  Gene of course.  From there we parted company – Claudia and clan back to Northern California while Jeff made the drive back to Nevada.  Fred  and I headed home to Orange County. 

I had not been in the San Bernardino Mountains for twelve years.

 

It was the most beautiful late spring day – a perfect prelude for summer.


Chapel in the Pines, May 2006

Bumps In The Road

  BUMPS IN THE ROAD

By Noel Laflin

Thanksgiving Day – November 22, 2012

For Bob and Susi

     When we hit that big old bump in the road, I awoke but my brother did not.  This proved fortuitous for me and my bear – but not so much for Bobby, who was stretched out in the back of our old car -  sound asleep.  I noticed my father’s eyes briefly checking the rear view mirror as he drove on.

     Now, as I was only five or so at the time it’s difficult to remember where we were exactly.  The landscape was arid and desert-like.  It could have been Arizona, Nevada or Utah.  And, after having traveled thousands of miles across the West and all the way up into the Dakotas  and back south again – well, who the hell knows where we were exactly.

     You see, we were returning from the annual summer family trek to my folks’ ancestral home of Minnesota - and all points in-between.  And although a popular TV and radio jingle at the time proclaimed that one should “See the USA in a Chevrolet!” – my dad preferred to tour by Ford – a blue 1955 four-door Ford Country Sedan to be precise – which went out the dealership door for $2,156,  back in the year.

     With the burlap canvas water bag strapped to the front bumper and the luggage rack fully loaded above, we were set to roll out of the old homestead on Flower Street given any July and cross the great Mohave Desert with all the windows down – as this was our only air conditioning  in the 1950’s.   We frequently left Anaheim around two in the morning – just to get a jump on the heat awaiting us at Needles and beyond.  And, I am still not sure to this day, whether that old water bag was meant for human or Ford radiator consumption.  All I know is that dad never left for any point east without it. 

     And east we headed.  I have vague visions of a highway cutting straight through ancient lava flows in New Mexico.  It amazed me as a youngster to look out either side window of the old Ford and see nothing but unbroken black volcanic walls flowing by mile after mile.  It was wickedly claustrophobic.  I peppered my father with endless questions about dinosaurs and ancient jungles buried deep beneath our road.

     It was along old Interstate 40 that the wind god of New Mexico once set free a card table that was left unsecured within the luggage rack atop the old Ford.  Maybe the minor deity that blew - so very near the city of Gallup - just wanted to see if the flimsy table could really fly if given the chance.  And fly it did (like a farm house from Kansas), into a desert thunderstorm.  A slight bump in the road provided that table the initial lift needed in order to make its escape from gravity.  My sister says that she still scans the sides of old Interstate 40 whenever she and her husband pass through Gallup, now some four-to-five decades hence.  Susi has yet to find that table – but then again, the Land of Oz can be elusive.

     Prior to that there had been the sharp and unexpected intake of breath as we stood on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon for the very first time.  It would be equally intoxicating to take in the opposite view on the North Rim years later – to camp in the shade of ancient pines and marvel at the effect the high country wind had on a billion golden leaves – aspens they were – quaking, shaking and singing a warm summer song in the highland meadows of the Kaibab Plateau.

     And then, once past our immediate neighboring states, dad would cut north and head to Colorado – Lamar to be exact – so that we might stay a night or two with my godparents, Freda and Rudy Paulsen, and their son Henry.

     Now, one summer, I clearly remember how my folks had stripped all of the oranges from the multiple trees on our lot in Anaheim and nearly wore out the old electric juicer just so that they could deliver a couple of gallons of fresh squeezed OJ to my godparents.  You see, this was always the first serious stop along the trek.  A stay over at the old Paulsen family farm was a must each year.  Despite the traditional O-Dark-Thirty early departure and the multiple layers of crushed ice trying to keep the juice cool, the Western July heat did it in somewhere between the Painted Desert and Monument Valley.  It seems that it fermented somewhere along the way.  We basically had orange liquor by the time we reached the southeastern corner of Colorado and the one hundred-year-old farmhouse surrounded by endless acres of corn.  My godparents were grateful for the gift nonetheless.  They had once tended to Anaheim orange groves themselves back in the day - thus, they appreciated the effort and so toasted our safe arrival - even if we had nothing more to show than a cooler filled with tepid water and a gallon or two of golden pulp gone hard.

     That old farm house was both ancient and spooky.  It could keep a young boy like myself long awake with its constant creaking and moaning and bumps in the night.  I slept in the parlor on an old leather couch which sat near an even older roll top wooden desk.   The comings and goings of adults was intermixed with the ghosts of my imagination much of the evening. 

     But come daylight it was a different world altogether.   These good people had a big white pig named Susie the Sow (the swine’s nom de plume disturbed my sister to no end - but always kept me in giggles) and an old white mare named Babe. I once slid off of the horse while valiantly trying to hold on to my brother’s waist.  I landed in soft mud and pig shit and was thus unharmed.  The mud was next to the swimming hole which was crudely exotic to city folk like us.

      I thought, at the time, that the Paulsen’s had the most wonderful playground on earth.   But, they were also farmers and people close to the earth who consumed what they raised.   This early observation was not lost on me as we gorged ourselves on some very succulent and thickly sliced fresh bacon one summer visit – only to discover soon after that Susie the Sow was no longer roaming the old homestead.  I threw up that meal in the back seat of the old Ford not more than an hour later as we headed down the bumpy, dusty back roads of Colorado.

     And so the next leg of the trip commenced – once a lonely gas station’s washroom sink was located and the old blanket into which I had recently emptied my guts had been refreshed once more.  The state line was just a hop, skip and a jump away.  An old army buddy of my father had settled not far from there following the war and raised his kids in the warm Kansas countryside.  We were welcomed travelers with these good people each trip as well.  I have fond memories of the Martins of Kansas. 

     From here it was straight north, as we were now most definitely Minnesota-bound.

     Ah, Minnesota - the beckoning land of ten thousand lakes – the place where 1950’s mid-summer eve twilight lingered way past this California child’s normal bedtime. 

     Oh, Minnesota – once the home of beloved grandparents, aunts and uncles (now all long-gone, but still home to countless cousins from both sides of the family).

     Yes, Minnesota - the birthplace of both my father and brother and where my mother was raised from early childhood. 

     Dear, Minnesota - where family awaited us, year after year – our only family in fact West of the Mississippi River. 

     Upon arrival we’d soon split our time between my dad’s kin in St. Paul and Lake City as well as my mother’s family in Detroit Lakes and St Cloud.  We were spoiled rotten by a favorite spinster aunt and doted upon by our ancient Norwegian grandmother.  There were late twilight city excursions to Como Park as well as overnight stays with my mom’s older brother and his family at the Golden Pond-like summer cottage on Big Floyd Lake.  And did I mention that there were cousins galore?

     My mother’s nephews, Bo and Davey, were modern day Huck Finns.  And, as they were both closer in age to my brother than they were to me, the three of them tried their best to ditch Noel at a moment’s notice.  But, I doggedly tagged behind; following them along abandoned railroad tracks as they searched for discarded half-smoked cigarettes still worth lighting or dodging the fire crackers and cherry bombs they would casually toss my way from the newly lit butts. The only reason they endured my shadowing them at all was my constant threat of blackmail regarding said tobacco indulgence and pyrotechnics.  We survived an uneasy truce.  But, I idolized those guys; boys who did pretty much what they wanted with very little parental supervision.  Their mother, my aunt, had died of leukemia when they were both young.  Their father, Ralph, was a gentle man who just let them be boys – kind of the way we hear that Lincoln let Willie and Tad have free reign in the White House.  But my cousins had no fancy mansion to terrorize – only the old home their father had built – being a carpenter by trade.  Thus, if they wanted to keep a skull of a long-dead dog on the bed stand, or nearly blow up the kitchen with a forgotten pressure cooker on the stove or escape the old two-storey house via their bedroom window and walk away on twelve-foot stilts – well, they were allowed.  Yeah, they were definitely my heroes.

     And speaking of heroes, the comic books my brother lugged along on each trip proved to be invaluable barter with all of the many cousins and friends met upon the way.  You see, whatever may have been hot in one state may not have made its way quite as yet to another state and vice-versa.  Thus, California editions of Superman and Disney comics traded well with copies of Crypt Horror in Colorado, Flash in Kansas or Captain America in Minnesota.

     So, we were welcomed wherever and whenever we went - with the possible exception of the time my sister brought a case of California-borne measles to our grandparents’ doorstep in St. Paul on one memorable trip.  But other than that, I think we were good.

     Thus it was homeward bound on that July day back in 1957, as my brother lay sleeping in the back of our ’55 Ford wagon that we hit the aforementioned “big old bump in the road.”

      Now, you know that when you lay the back bench seat down in a station wagon there’s tons of room for two brothers to sprawl about during long road trips like ours, especially when all of the major stuff – minus one card table – is in the luggage rack above.  And sprawl about we did - with open sleeping bags, pillows, comic books, a favorite teddy bear of mine and of course, the obligatory boys’ pee bucket – which at this particular point and time was quite full.  Wisely looking back on the situation, it probably should have been emptied on the stop prior.  But, I digress.

     So, to set the scene, my dad is driving of course.  My mother, riding shotgun as always, is holding Susi in her arms (there were no such things as either seat belts or child safety seats back then).  Bobby is lying atop his sleeping bag, snoozing in the warm afternoon sun.  I am pretending to read a comic book.  Actually, as I had not learned to read as yet, am just looking at the pictures and making up my own dialog.

     And then, WHAM, we hit the damn bump.  Whatever it was, it was significant in size.  At that point, the pee bucket (which my father believed was the best thing to carry on any long trip when you had two young sons in the back of the car) tipped over.  The lid also popped off.  Uh-oh.

     Now, as my brother was fast asleep and my folks’ attention was face forward – other than the quick flick of my father’s eyes in the rear view mirror - no one but yours truly saw the impending disaster flowing our way.  And so, with the agility of any quick-thinking five-year-old I jumped atop the back wheel well, held on for dear life while simultaneously yelling for all I was worth:

     “Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!  The pee bucket spilled!  The pee bucket spilled!”

     It was then that I saw that my teddy bear, which lay next to my sleeping brother, was in the path of the yellow peril heading its way.   That rapidly creeping flow was also headed straight for Bobby.  I had to think fast.  It was either wake my brother or save the bear. 

     Now, I liked my brother well enough but I loved that bear.  So it was that the critical decision was made.  With one valiant sweep of the hand – and not a second too soon – teddy was safely cradled in my arms – and my brother was awash in – well, you get the picture.

     A laundromat was eventually located.  It was going to take more than a lonely wayside gas station’s washroom sink to clean up that mess.

     Teddy and I were placed in the front seat – between my father and mother, with my little sister still asleep in mom's arms – for the duration of the trip.  My dad said it was for our own safety.  Big brothers could stay pissed off – both literally and figuratively - for some time.

     It was just another bump in the road.

Author - bottom row, second from left - next to Bob