Bad Food

                                                                  

Bad Food
Noel Laflin
2-17-02

 “Give him Doctor Ross Dog Food and do him a favor,

It’s got more meat and it’s got more flavor,

It’s got more things to make him feel the way he should,

Doctor Ross Dog Food is Dog Gone Good.

Woof!”

(1960’s Radio and TV Jingle)

Ahwahnee Mess Hall Buried Beneath All That Snow

            The captive audience sang for all they were worth.  Clenched fists, clutching knives, forks and spoons, pounded furiously upon the old dining room tables keeping a steady beat to the sarcastic words they belted out.  Dinner was late - again.

            As the troops within the old Ahwahnee mess hall regaled themselves for a second and then third, fourth, as well as fifth rendition of the popular dog food song, two green pickup trucks sped down the dusty dirt road.  They raced across the jutted, rutted path, from the temporary kitchen a quarter mile away, slamming on the brakes and screeching to a sudden halt at the back of the old demolished kitchen.  Men and boys, in formerly white but now greasy, yellowed aprons, quickly jumped out of the vehicles and walked to the rear so as to lend a hand to the lads wedged between the massive cooking pots crammed within the dirty confines of each truck bed. Those delegated to keep the pots in place were wearing a considerable amount of the dinner, which had sloshed over their rims and onto their dingy aprons and boots during the bumpy race downhill.   Tailgates were dropped as the pots were eased to the edge.  Young hands stretched out to take hold of the heavy caldrons in order to lift them off the trucks.

            “Wait just a Goddamn minute!” growled an angry-looking man, cigar clenched between his teeth.  It was Bill - Motorcycle Bill, the cook. 

“Stir the stew first,” he snapped, as he picked up a nasty looking wooden ladle from the bed of the first truck, brushed off some dirt and pine needles, then tossed it to a young kitchen crewmember.

“Got to settle the dust first, boys,” he hissed.  “Then cover those damn pots, will ya!  You bunch of lug heads forgot the lids again.  Food’s gettin’ cold.”  With that he turned away, pulled the old stogie from the corner of his mouth and spit defiantly in the dusty road.

 “Dinner’s served!” he mumbled - stumbling off to his trailer in search of a drink.

            Too much snow was to blame for our bad food and cranky cook that summer.  The winter of 1968-69 was one for the history books, as far as we were concerned.  Rain, rain and more rain down below that season brought relentless amounts of snow, snow and more snow to our mountain.  So much so, that we lost nearly every structure in camp due to collapsed roofs under record amounts of ice and snow by early spring of ’69.  Not only was the kitchen demolished, so were the Scoutmaster’s lounge, trading post, handicraft lodge and every staff cabin in camp.  There was over a million dollars worth of damage, a hefty amount at that time, especially for a non-profit organization such as our local Boy Scout council. 

            The mess hall was spared somehow, as were the pool’s shower rooms and changing areas.  The warehouse and ranger’s private quarters also made it unscathed.  Massive amounts of roof shoveling kept those buildings intact. But as the long winter finally receded into spring and eventual summer, the damage to Ahwahnee was all too apparent.  With the kitchen gone, we were going to have to punt, so to speak, in order to feed the hungry troops, which would be arriving the last week of June. 

            Long before staff week began, volunteers as well as professional contractors descended upon the property to start the repairs on washed out roads, broken water lines and crushed buildings.  By the time we, the staff, arrived in mid June, a temporary kitchen had been installed at the upper parking lot.  There would be no time to tear down and rebuild the former kitchen, attached to the mess hall.  Repairs would go well into the next season.  Thus it was that the idea of trucking down each meal came about. 

            We had no cook that summer either.  Grace and Frank, husband and wife, as well as our cook and ranger team for many years had decided to retire to Fawnskin, near Big Bear Lake.  A new ranger was on his way, we were told.  Although married, this ranger’s wife had made it plain that she did not come as part of the culinary package.  She was in no mood to learn how to cook for two hundred boys and men per meal, and in a makeshift kitchen, at that.  She would handle the business end of things, thank you.  The council turned to a well-known food service out of Orange County, to take on the cooking responsibilities.  Motorcycle Bill was our designated chef. 

            We called him Motorcycle Bill, partly because we never bothered to remember his last name and chiefly because he drove a large motorcycle.  He had a habit of spending his nights off in the back bar at Lloyds, in Running Springs, some five miles away, and weaving the big bike dangerously through the hairpin curves back to camp in the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t think he cared for kids, nor the daunting task of cooking in cramped, under-equipped kitchen quarters and then having to transport the often under-cooked, burnt, cold or hard-as-rock food to a bunch of Boy Scouts taunting him with dog food songs at every meal. 

We both had our points of view I guess.  We hated his cooking and he resented all of us as well as the circumstances under which he had to perform his hated task, three times a day.  No wonder we all sang and jeered.  No wonder he drank and cursed. It was mutual hatred, I’m sure.

            But our own staff was filled with its share of oddball characters, as well.

 My first boss that summer, Art, was a junior high schoolteacher by trade and had never been a Scout in his youth.  He too seemed to hate kids, an admirable quality for a Scout counselor, let alone a teacher.  Or, perhaps, he just hated Boy Scouts and fellow staff members.  At any rate, he didn’t make it through that summer as he had a nervous breakdown of sorts midway through the season.  Aside from being a moron, I contend that the food may have had something to do with it, as well.  Perhaps he was just in need of a good meal and a severe thrashing - not necessarily in that order.

A true Scouter (all eccentricities aside) and good friend, replaced him.  Although fourteen years my senior, Jerry Bird had the spirit of an adolescent.  He discovered, for example quite by accident one day, that an old key of his not only unlocked the door of a fellow staff member’s car but started the ignition as well.  All summer long, Jerry would make it a point to move John’s car and never let on that he was the culprit.  Poor man couldn’t figure out either how or why his vehicle was never where he had last parked it.  Half the time it could be found on different levels of the upper parking lot, behind the kitchen, up on staff hill, beside the warehouse or parked far off in the forest all by its lonesome.  John (bless the gentle soul he was) displayed small traits of neuroses as it was, and I am sure this shell game involving his car never helped.  But it was wickedly fun to watch him hunt weekly for his lost vehicle, questioning his own memory repeatedly.  Jerry was OK, in my opinion.  But, in retrospect, I am sure that it was the food that summer which caused him to mess with John’s sanity.

            Then mid way through the season, the new camp ranger, Gene, finally arrived.  Out of some ill-reasoned teenage resentment over losing our old pal, Frank, some of us viewed the new guy with great suspicion.  On the night of his arrival, two buddies and I rolled a large log in to the middle of the main road.  The new caretaker, Gene, and camp director, George, dutifully ran into it with the old Jeep, while taking a brief tour on Gene’s first night in camp.  George came roaring up to the old Scoutmaster’s lounge to report the incident to the “night owl,” a staff member assigned to all-night duty.  The job rotated every night to a different fellow.  He dealt with all kinds of emergencies, whether it be a homesick kid, really sick kid or any late night phone calls coming into camp.  I happened to be the night owl that evening.  I was on my way to take over this potentially boring chore when the inspiration of rolling the log in to the middle of the road gripped my friends and me. 

            “Mr. Night Owl,” George intoned, in his slow Southern accent, (interrupting our card game, as it happened) “I am here to report that there has been great mischief happening within the camp this very night.”

 My two cohorts laid their hands aside, face down on the table.  I caught, out of the corner of my eye, their suppressed grins.

            “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” I said with great seriousness. “What sort of mischief are we speaking of?,” I inquired.

            “The worst sort, son, the worst,” George continued, sounding more like Foghorn Leghorn by the second.  

“It seems that someone thought it funny to place a large tree in the middle of the road,” wheezed George, (he suffered from perpetual asthma) “It’s up by staff hill,” the old boss labored.  “We damn near broke an axel when we hit it.  I say son, I  believe this to be an act of direct sabotage!  This must be investigated.  And that tree must be removed, immediately, before further damage is incurred!” 

George had leaned forward, by now, and had a fierce grip on my shoulder, while panting for breath.  My two friends had lost all intentions of smiling by now.

            “Sir,” I said, “this is terrible.  I can’t begin to think of who might be responsible for this childish prank.  My friends and I, here, would be happy to go immediately and  remove that treacherous obstacle from the road.  We shall go this very moment, if you would be so kind as to man my station for a bit.  Isn’t that right, Scouts?”  I turned to my two co-conspirators.  They nodded with enthused agreement. 

            “We’ll help, sir,” said pal number one.

            “You can count on us, sir, chimed in buddy number two.  “We’d be honored,” he added for emphasis.

            “You three truly exemplify the Scouting Spirit, boys,” George said, a break in his voice.  There was a tear in his eye. 

“Gene,” he sniffed, turning to the man by his side, “It’s staff members like this that make our camp great. You are inheriting some of Ahwahnee’s finest. You see three fine examples of what this country can look forward to, in the near future;  all Eagle Scouts, too, by the way.  You boys make me proud.” 

And with that, he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

 “Go, men,” cried George.  “Your new ranger and I will man the fort in your absence.  God bless you, boys!”

            We skedaddled before we lost it.

We replaced the errant log to its rightful place, composed ourselves and then returned to resume our duties and relieve the boss.  I thought George was going to recommend us for a medal or something by the way he carried on.  They eventually left to continue the night tour.  On their way out, I remembered to welcome Gene to our humble mountain and to reassure George that we wouldn’t rest until we had tracked down the culprits who were responsible for the crime.  George patted me once more as he left, mumbling something about great Scout spirit and dabbing at his eyes one last time.  We all breathed a collective sigh of relief upon their departure and soon returned to our card game.

 Later that night, alone and left to my own devices, I made a notation in the night owl’s log regarding the incident.  I ended the entry with a personal observation: “Bad food drove the misguided youth(s) temporarily insane, no doubt.  Their poor nutritional status has most likely turned them into lying, hypocritical bastards, in need of both counseling and a decent meal - not necessarily in that order.”

            Meanwhile, the mess hall food took on new names and features as summer progressed. 

Nasty looking, over boiled, bloated and split hot dogs, served at each Tuesday’s lunch, were quickly nicknamed ‘donkey-dongs’.  

Cold, flat, unbreakable breakfast pancakes were tossed about like Frisbees.

 Rock-hard raviolis, lined up on dinner table ledges and flicked by agile middle fingers, scored three-point field goals across the room. 

‘Mystery meat’ was a standard dish served several times a week.

 It so got to the point that I was volunteering for supervision of the Cooking Merit Badge class more and more frequently.  If I was going to eat bad food, it was going to be on my own terms - burnt or raw. 

The camp trading post did record sales that summer, as hungry campers and staff supplemented each unfulfilling meal with candy bars, Twinkies and beef jerky.  Letters home pleaded with the folks for home made cookies and canned hams.  Requests by the staff for additional ‘nights off’ were at an all time high, as we found any excuse to eat out of camp, in a real restaurant.  Scoutmasters made secret food runs into Running Springs or accompanied befriended staff members for a good burger and strawberry pie at Lloyds.  Many wished that the one and only pizza place in Green Valley Lake made deliveries.  Overall, we were becoming a lean, mean and deviously hungry crew.  Even Doctor Ross Dog Food was sounding pretty dog gone good. And we weren’t woofing by any stretch of the imagination.

It was in this ravenous frame of mind that we all begrudgingly marched into the mess hall one cold summer morning and found no breakfast at all.  We waited, as usual, and still no sign of the nasty green pickup trucks or their crew made their way down the dusty hill.  Inquiries were made and it was soon learned that breakfast was indeed being prepared.  However, it would be very late and very simple this day. 

            There was great confusion at the makeshift kitchen that morning.  It seemed  there was no cook to command the troops.  You see,  Motorcycle Bill was dead.  He never saw the massive semi-truck heading directly for him around a blind curve between Running Springs and camp.  Bill was pretty tanked up, it was determined, and most likely never felt a thing when struck, as he was, about two AM that morning on his way back from the bar. A moment of silence was held in his honor.  Out of further respect, no dog food song was sung that day.  We got by with milk and cold cereal, actually a decent meal, by recent comparison.

Arrangements were hastily made for his replacement from the food-servicing agency down below. 

As much as we had detested the man’s attitude and cooking, none of us had ever wished him this sad ending, however.   And so it was that we decided to immortalize the former cook by telling the legend of Motorcycle Bill and his ultimate demise. 

When future campfires began to burn low and the kids were ready to shuffle off to their respective slumbers, one of us would casually warn them to be on the alert for the sound of a heavy-duty chopper coming down the distant highway.  It would happen in the wee hours of the night, we would whisper.  One would then listen for the sound of a rumbling semi-truck, coming from the opposite direction.  Soon a screech of brakes, accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream and crash would be heard.  Dead silence would  follow.  Then the thump, thump, thumping of the chopper would be felt once more, as it cut off through the woods in their general direction. 

A ghostly figure might be seen riding that big old bike through the trees, lit stogie in the corner of his mouth, cursing as he cruised through  camp, last seen heading toward the mess hall.  

Motorcycle Bill took on new and greater dimensions ever after.  His culinary skills might have been awful but his fateful end scared the bejesus out of many a new camper.

 Motorcycle Bill was finally OK in my opinion - even if it was the drink and not the food that got him in the end.