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    

    

    

Taking The Fall

TAKING THE FALL

Noel Laflin

November 8, 2012



Looking back on it now, it was the fear that a 'widowmaker' of gargantuan size was the reason for taking down the massive ponderosa pine that stood majestically near the edge of Inspiration Point up until the summer of 1969.

Now, Jim Lockyer, our Nature Director that summer, was not in favor of this decision.   Whether he figured that the heavy branch did not pose a credible threat of breaking off someday and killing someone, or was more gravely concerned about the potential damage the giant's fall would cause to surrounding younger stands of trees – well, I can’t be certain.  What did I know after all?  I was only sixteen and very keen on getting in on the action.  But, even after all of these years, I remember just how pissed he was once we got our hands on the double-edged axes and two-man saws.  He retired to his cabin in disgust.  And, I still recall just how badly I felt for our quiet man of nature – as he truly was a well-liked, soft spoken and gentle soul.  But, raging teenage testosterone prevailed and I soon found myself with an axe in my hands and a determination in my heart to be a latter day logger.

And, so it began.  Word quickly spread of the event in progress.  By the time I arrived on the scene, there were two or three young men simultaneously swinging axes into the base of the tree.  Several others knelt on the ground sharpening more double-headed axes with files and wet stones.  There were more boys lined up eagerly awaiting their turn to put in a swing or two. It appeared that this was going to be a daunting task as our behemoth ponderosa was at least five feet in diameter.  I ducked as flying pieces of the thick bark would break away willy-nilly.  Guys were removing their staff shirts as sweat stains began to outline their backs.  The afternoon was growing warm.

We stayed all day.  I remember how Jim Hirsch and Jeff Sherwood, two older staff men by whose side I chopped, nearly abandoned their duties at the pool.  There was no one interested in swimming anyway as most of camp had gravitated to the Point.

In all, we were a sorry looking lot sporting hand blisters the size of silver dollars by the time we broke for dinner.  My own palms looked no different – nor did those of any one else by evening.  But the dying light of the long summer day finally came to a close and we called it a night.  We were half-way through the trunk.

Day two found us back on the scene – hands raw, bleeding and crudely bandaged.  By this time, much of regular camp life had come to a halt as older kids and adult leaders helped relieve the staff by either grabbing hold of an axe, two-man saw or file.  The rest of the spectators grabbed a piece of shade somewhere and watched for signs of a tree in tilt.  Guide ropes were rigged to higher points of the ponderosa and attached to the bumper of the old camp truck.  Both iron and wooden wedges were constantly being pounded into the gaping wound created by the relentless hacking and sawing.  They would be moved about as new contact points were started or expanded. We were three quarters of the way through the base of the tree. 

I can’t be certain, but I believe we did not stop for lunch.  The end was in sight and no one wanted to miss the finale. And, sure enough, it soon came.

It started with the faintest of small cracks within the remaining lifeline of the tree’s base.  Boys with axes in half-swing held back like hitters at the plate checking their swing.  There was dead silence all around.  A hundred pairs of ears strained to listen more intently.  A small breeze rustled pine needles high above – or was it a slight shudder shimmering its way to the top of the mighty tree?  People did not stop to debate the question.  We did instead, what any rational being would do at that point, dropped the axes, files, and two-man saws and ran like hell.

More sharp crackling at the base of the tree filled the air as the giant began to sway.  Men and boys scrambled in what they hoped would be the opposite direction.  The remaining core suddenly snapped – giving off a sound similar to that of a giant broken baseball bat.  We stood in frozen amazement as the graceful beauty crashed to the earth, causing those of us standing to rise a bit in the air and nearly fall ourselves as the shock waves shook the Point and beyond.  The sound was deafening.

The remaining stump and jagged broken core oozed and glistened with sap for years to come.  Large hunks of bark – looking more like giant pieces of an alien jigsaw puzzle - littered the ground for summers to be.  Massive branches and limbs from the upper regions of the tree, including the widowmaker, snapped off upon impact. They were chopped up over time and provided fuel for the campfire ring at Inspiration Point for the next decade.  People stood upon the fallen giant and had their picture taken well beyond the closing of Ahwahnee some dozen years later.

Now Jim Lockyer had pointed out that should the tree fall toward the Point, a small grove of white fir trees stood to be demolished.  Well, he was right on that score.  The entire grove was smashed in the fall.  The massive ponderosa and its limbs wiped out a couple of dozen of the young firs as it hit and bounced upon the earth, causing complete ruin in its path.

Our Nature Director did not speak to us for days.

The rest of us nursed our blisters, some the size of silver dollars, for days to come as well.