Crying Wolf

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. 

She resumed napping on the old couch once more when the only new feature in the living room turned out to be a Christmas tree.