Pie in the Sky

Pie in the Sky

Noel Laflin

3-30-15

Although our old summer camp and the well-known restaurant down the road both opened for business around the same time, back in the mid-1950’s, one would outlast the other by twenty years.  And, as excruciatingly sad as it was to lose a beloved home-away-from-home, maybe it was best that camp faded first; for had it been the other way around, the thought of Ahwahnee staff men (and women) not ever again partaking in the pure bliss of that first bite of a Lloyd’s burger or indulging in a slice of the greatest strawberry pie on Earth, would have been a far greater crime perhaps.

   

Lloyd Soutar, founder and owner of that famous mountain eatery, died fifteen years ago this month.  In fact, had he lived, he’d be turning one hundred years old come December.  But, for the sixty-five years that he called Running Springs his home, and throughout the half century that he ran the World Famous Lloyd's Restaurant, it could be argued that the man nearly single handedly help put that small mountain community on the collective radar of Southern California.

His mother made those huge strawberry pies by hand in the old days – upwards of sixty-five pies every weekend, or so it’s told.  Lord knows how many more the establishment was selling once word  got out as to just how good they were.

Lines used to form out the door on many a Friday or Saturday night, as Lloyd's was THE  place to dine if you found yourself in the mountains anywhere near Highway 330.  In fact, when that famous road  was officially completed and the Lieutenant  Governor himself was on hand for the festivities, the man overseeing the ceremonies was Lloyd Soutar.

In the early days, Soutar put on a free Christmas feast for the entire town of Running Springs.  Old timers speak of the ice sculptures adorning the tables, everyone’s favorite dishes being served, and the lines that not only went out the door this time, but down the road all the way to the fire station as well.

With such a reputation preceding it, it was only natural that employees and honorees of every mountain retreat in the vicinity, including those of Camp Ahwahnee, knew of Lloyd's and its great grub.  If staff members went missing on any given weeknight, chances were they had snuck out for a burger and slice of strawberry pie.  If someone had transportation and you had a few bucks to spend on a Sunday morning, Lloyd's enticed you with their killer Spanish Omelets and a side of Sheppard’s bread, toasted and slathered in butter.  If one’s folks or girlfriend came for a visit, well, there was only one place to eat, of course.

 

And, so it was in just such a spirit that the camp director, Gene Bergner, his wife, Gladis, and I went out to Lloyd's one final time together back in the late seventies, prior to Ahwahnee’s closing.  It was a fine meal of course – topped off with fresh strawberry pie.

But as we left the old familiar parking lot for the drive back to Ahwahnee, we were faced with the worst fog that any of us had ever encountered.  The thick mass had made its sudden, smothering move on the mountain like an old grey thief in the night.  It robbed us of all sight – including the very road leading us home.

It was so thick, that we could not even see the yellow line on the highway.  Gene had to walk in front of the car waving the fog away with his left arm in order to find the dividing line - all the while keeping his right hand on the hood of the vehicle as I gently eased it down the highway.  Gladis turned in her seat and kept an eye to the foggy road behind us as I tried to watch for headlights coming from ahead.  There were none approaching from either direction fortunately as we slowly – ever so very slowly - inched our way up Highway 330.

 

And, then, just like that – the fog broke.  Stars shined overhead, trees were visible in our headlights, and the road was free and clear.

Gene hopped back into the car, and Gladis smiled as she turned around and looked forward once more.  We all gave a collective sigh of relief and laughed, telling one another that this was one night out that we’d always remember.

As we headed back to familiar territory, I took a final look in the rearview mirror.  Lloyd's was hidden from view, still shrouded by the thick grey clouds swirling about the mountain.

But on the way home the next day, the World Famous Lloyd's Restaurant shone brightly in the early morning sunshine (the once treacherous fog now a thing of bad dreams), beckoning me to pull over and have one more take at a fresh cup of coffee and maybe partake of a Spanish omelet with a side of toasted Sheppard’s bread slathered in rich creamy butter …

I was so full by the time I left, I ordered the strawberry pie to go.

.

Orange Crush

Orange Crush

Noel Laflin

3-29-15

My father became a Den Mother somewhere back in the late fall of 1955 – right around the time my sister was born.

He gladly took over the position of hosting, within our old garage, a squirrely bunch of nine and ten-year-old neighborhood boys – my older brother being one of the squirrels – as my mother suddenly had her hands full with my kid sister and had to resign her volunteering duties for a spell.

Den Fathers were pretty rare back then, but my dad was up for the challenge.  In fact, looking back on it, I am certain that he relished the position.

The first thing he did was to enlist the help of the other fathers.  They joined in as it gave them all an excuse to have a new weekly guy’s group and see what trouble they could generate in tandem with their kids.

Now, I do not have a clear recollection of all that they did that next year – I mean, only being three years old at the time does limit one’s perspective. However, I do remember one afternoon in particular when I, the den’s unofficial pain-in-the-butt kid-brother mascot, was unceremoniously packed into a variety of old rickety orange crates and then jettisoned about the neighborhood via the renegade scooter gang.

You see, homemade orange crate scooters were all the rage in the mid fifties. Just picture the scene in “Back to the Future,” where Marty highjack’s a young boy’s scooter, removes the handle and box, then makes his getaway from Biff and pals on just a board and wheels.  So it was that my dad and his buddies had their boys building their own orange crate scooters at the weekly den meeting in our garage.

 

I vaguely remember all of the sawing, sanding, and painting of boards before they were attached to disembodied sets of old metal roller skate wheels.  Additionally, I have dim recall of the flimsy upended orange crates and wooden handles being secured to the skate boards as well.  Being small and in the way mostly, I was usually shooed about from cub to cub.  

    

But where the really vivid memories come to life, and when I was suddenly in demand, is when my brother and his pals took turns stuffing me into those crates as they took their new contraptions out for a test drive.

Apparently I fit rather well and added the right amount of counter-weight to the front of the scooter.  It was either me or a sack of potatoes I suppose.  But, as I was more of a challenge to run down and actually catch, then say a boring sack of potatoes,  well, you can see the logic in their decision making process.

So there I would find myself – in a splintery, flimsy, airy box - chubby fingers clutching the thin strips of pine wood - screaming for all I was worth for someone to let me out as I watched the houses race by in sickening backward fashion.

Sometimes the rides ended smoothly enough – sometimes in the gutter.  Either way, it was one long afternoon.

When it came time for the next meeting, a short week later, I made sure that I was nowhere to be found.  

And I honestly do believe that it was the very first time that I was missed by that squirrely den of thieves hanging out in our old garage.

Of Moose and Men

Of Moose and Men – A Near Grizzly Tale

Part II in Travels with Bobby

Noel Laflin

3-27-15

Ultimately, our goal was Canada.

But it’s not at all certain whether my young friend, Bobby Handley, and I would have made it there, let alone me be telling you about it today, had it not been for long-ago, lingering light and cold beer.  Without those seemingly unrelated preoccupations, well, suffice to say we could have ended up being squished by a thousand pound bull moose – and  then squished just a little more by the moose’s  three hundred pound calf (give or take a hundred pounds, I’m guessing).  Regardless, one or the other would have been bad enough in my estimation – but both!  Oh, good lord, that would have made for an interesting obituary indeed.  But, it did not happen, happily.  We did see Canada after all.

 

Young Bobby Handley and I were on a two-week road trip throughout much of the West back in the summer of 1977.  Our main objective was to visit my sister, who was working in Yellowstone National Park and then head north to Calgary, travel west to the coast and then drive south through Washington, Oregon and the near length of California.  In route to Yellowstone, we had made camp in both Zion National Park as well as an elk refuge just outside of The Grand Tetons and Snake River region.  Although Zion and Yellowstone were both free of calamity, we were nearly run over in our sleep by a massive logging truck in the Tetons. But, that tale has already been told.
 

So, back to this one: having just completed a memorable two-day visit with my sister, Bobby and I headed north, wanting to spend at least one night in Glacier National Park before crossing the border.  And even though it was nine in the evening when we got that first majestic view of those snow-capped peaks and blue, blue lake below us, the summer light was still incredibly bright.

A campsite was paid for, the old trusty nylon pup tent erected once more and the beer cooler set upon the picnic table – all in practiced, quick fashion.

 

And thus we sat upon that table, Bobby and me, toasting the bright summer northern night, and putting off crawling within our flimsy abode as it was too bright to sleep, you see, and just too darn pretty to call it a night just yet.

Thus it was probably well into the third or fourth beer that we were startled by a loud crashing of tree branches directly behind us.

 

A bull moose, with antlers the size of Canada, emerged from the woods and proceeded to walk directly across our poor pup tent – and I mean to say he walked the entire length of it, crushing it beneath his might hooves.  Bleating plaintively behind him was moose junior, who also took the same route as dad, scampering across our sorry tent.

 

My young friend and I sat transfixed upon our picnic table, which was not more than a foot or two from the formerly erect, but now flat-as-a-pancake tent, as the pair passed - soon drifting into the next section of the forest, crashing away at every branch and bush in their path.

Without so much as saying a word to one another – once the coast was clear and free of moose – we located and then lifted the entrance of our mangled tent, withdrew our sleeping bags and placed one atop and one beneath the sturdy wooden picnic table.

 

We then withdrew more cans of beer and despite the lingering twilight, decided to call it a night after all and took to our makeshift anti-moose-mincemeat, hard-as-a-picnic-table bunker beds.

About three the next morning we were awakened by the sniffing and snorting of a rather large bear pawing at the flat-as-a-pancake tent.

Words were uttered this time by both young Bobby and me (short, guttural, and to the point type language), as we grabbed our sleeping bags and dived into the car, which was parked but feet away, gratefully.

Ultimately, we arrived in Canada much sooner than expected.

And we stayed in motels after that.

Swingin' Gym

Swingin’ Gym

Noel Laflin

3-22-15

It was the hypnotic rhythm of the two boys in the flying cage swinging up-and-over, up-and-over, again and again that caught the man's attention as he drove past the small carnival. The faded banners and rickety miniature roller coaster, along with a multitude of other fun-challenged equipment - all having seen better days - magically appeared overnight in the open field outside of town - much like an unforeseen rising of mushrooms following a summer storm.

"Damn!" the man whispered aloud, "That's a Swingin' Gym ... I haven't seen one of these in fifty years!"

Without giving it a second thought, he made a hasty U-turn and pulled alongside the ditch separating him and the two caged boys dizzily circling round and round, arms and legs gracefully extended, hands tightly gripping opposing metal bars, leaning in tandem, in perfect harmony, as they propelled their flying machine, shouting out the count at the top of their lungs as the squeaky, rusty, rotating contraption rose and fell, rose and fell: "Ninety-nine, one hundred ... one hundred-and one!"

And still they flew, two lads lost and gleefully locked in seemingly perpetual motion as a crowd gathered close, joining in the count.

The carnie ride operator grinned and winked at the man behind the wheel of the car and stayed his hand, which a second before had been flirting with the ride's ancient braking mechanism. 

So the boys joyfully continued on with their loop-de-loops, laughing and counting higher all the while.

The man in the car also smiled as he turned around and pulled away,  recalling fondly a forgotten evening at a carnival much like this - a night when he and his best friend gathered a similar crowd around a rickety flying metal cage, as they too chanted the count and moved in perfect harmony: "Ninety-nine, one hundred ... one hundred-and one!"

When he glanced in the rearview mirror for one last look down memory lane, all he saw was an empty field.

 

Scrubbing the Memory

Scrubbing the Memory
Part I in Travels with Bobby

Noel Laflin

3-20-15

(Photo: 'Snake River, Wyoming' by Raymond Gehman)

We woke that early July morning to what we thought was thunder – and maybe an earthquake thrown in for good measure.

It was neither of those natural phenomena – but rather, the rumbling of a heavily laden logging truck speeding directly down the hard-packed dirt road upon which my companion and I were sleeping.

Suffice to say, we had the presence of mind to quickly roll off the road – encased in our sleeping bags – and into the forest just moments before the massive truck passed by.

It was a close call.

But to our wonderment, once the heebie-jeebies had subsided, we stared down upon a most beautiful scene.

Now, Bobby Handley and I had no idea where we had actually made camp – let alone nearly died.  In fact, one could hardly even call it ‘making camp’, as we had just turned off of a very dark and lonesome highway but a few hours earlier and onto this dirt road out of pure frustration and blind driving fatigue.

We had left Salt Lake City the day before, hoping to make it all the way to Yellowstone by nightfall.  Somehow, we had miscalculated the drive - and although we now found ourselves somewhere in Wyoming – we knew that we were far short of our goal of Old Faithful.

As every campsite from Idaho eastward was full, we pushed on into the wee hours of the morning until we could drive no more.  The dirt road looked inviting.  I took a hard right and climbed a fair way up until I felt it safe to pull the car into a small clearing beneath the trees.  We threw our sleeping bags onto what looked to be the flattest piece of land and quickly crashed.  That flattest piece of land turned out to be a logging road unfortunately.

So, where were we exactly – you know, the two kids who had just missed being squished to death?

I’ll give you a hint.  Have you ever seen that iconic Ansel Adams print featuring the Grand Tetons and the Snake River?  Well, that’s where we were.

Picture the early morning sun shining off of snowcapped peaks – a peaceful, winding river curving gracefully beneath those mountains – and massive green meadows extending in every direction – without a soul in sight, other than the occasional deer or moose grazing peacefully below.

That was our view.  Near-death by large truck was but a small price to pay for such an ethereal scene

I so wish that either one of those two dumb kids had the presence of mind to have snapped a photo or two.  But then again, neither one of them even owned a camera – so the moment is lost but to memory alone.

However, the lady who cuts my hair, kind Nancy is her name, is fond, as am I, of the numerous Ansel Adams prints adorning the walls of the salon.  It's one of the reasons I keep returning month after month - just to gaze upon these representations of serenity, in black and white, not to mention the fine skills of my hairdresser.

And every time she gently pushes the back of my head into the sink - in preparation for a great shampoo and scalp massage - the last thing I see before closing my eyes to ward off stray stings of soap, is a stunning black and white image of where I once blindly made camp by mistake.

Ghost Writing the Hundredth Tale

Ghost Writing the Hundredth Tale

Noel Laflin

3-15-15

Sometimes a story comes about - sometimes not.

The ghosts hanging around this old place in Orange, the city of my birth and residence for the past three decades, don’t give a hoot either way really as they are only here in an advisory capacity – or so they claim.

But with their help, ninety-nine tales of Scouts, rangers, camps and kids have seen new life. The boys of Flower Street meet up and launch their kites and rockets by day and sneak off in search of local haints residing within the old Anaheim Cemetery by night. Mr. Lincoln is lost, and then found multiple times (the ghosts claim mock innocence of course). Mules, monkeys, snakes, raccoons and even red-tailed roosters have also all found a long-forgotten voice thanks to spirited sprites. Other worldly,  word-laden canvases have overflowed with cavernous canyons, roaring rapids, cascading cataracts, winding waterfalls, cunning crocodiles, stunning shows of shooting stars and massive meteorites menacing Earth. Friends, family, teachers, lovers, strangers and long dead pets have all made their debut with a maddeningly hallowed arrangement and rearrangement of an elusive word or two often whispered from beyond.

And so these survivors – the stories - jumped to life and strutted about - as other misaligned misses and messes recognized their shortcomings and slunk away - promising to reappear more fully formed another day – much like some of the shady specters themselves.  

But this piece today, brought to life on the very Ides of March itself, is staying put and staking its brief claim to fame as the hundredth Ahwahnee Campfire Tale - or remembrance - or whatever you prefer to call these sequencing of words.  Again, the ghosts are not particular when it comes to labels.

Regardless of the term, however, no one is less surprised by noting this minor milestone than the author himself – as he knows he has had eidolon help much of the way.

But since the middle-aged man in the mirror views EVERY day as an absolute extended gift of time - well, he is just happy to report that the original lonely first tale now has ninety-nine siblings - black sheep, every one. But by no means are any of them bastards, as he plainly knows who their phantom fathers really are.

If you ask him – the author, that is - he might tell you that the writing was begun because he had a fear of forgetting too much. The unearthing of so many memories rapidly became an addictive type of therapy, however. As word then spread throughout the haunted family tree that tales were being told, all sorts of misty, brain-addled spooks quickly knocked upon his door, offering their own vast store of memories - all free of charge of course.  And like poor relations, they took up permanent residence. 

So, by painstakingly placing one word after another - often times due to the whispering of a persistent, pesky spirit - a beginning, which sometimes becomes the end, and vice versa - is sometimes brought to light.

  

And, sometimes not.

But when it’s a keeper, the shades of his past all cheer.

Red Tone Rocket

Red Tone Rocket

Noel Laflin

3-9-15

There was only one gift that I secretly prayed would find its way to me back in 1963 - and it did – a brand new Red Tone Rocket. 

I had spotted the high-flying temptation perched atop the frozen food aisle in a neighborhood supermarket earlier that summer.

“Anyone from age 8 to 88 can launch this sensational missile that reaches altitudes of 500 feet!” the side panel of the box boasted. I must have read that oversized print out loud to my folks on numerous occasions, hoping against hope that they took the hint.

But as my father reluctantly pointed out, for the umpteenth time, it cost ten dollars. I felt that the beautiful eighteen-inch shiny red plastic cylinder, capped with the magnificent white rubber nosecone might have been as much a pipedream as President Kennedy’s plan to put men on the moon.  It simply seemed out of reach.

But there it was beneath the tree come Christmas morning.

Maybe there was hope for man reaching the moon someday too.

My pals and I must have launched that rocket a thousand times over the next decade – before it flew no more.  But my father knew that he’d scored a homerun with that gift.

And if my count is anywhere near correct, well, that ten dollar investment averaged out to be just a penny a flight in the long run. 

I’m pretty certain that pleased my father too.

Scheherazade Summer

Scheherazade Summer

Noel Laflin

March 2, 2015

(Scheherazade illustration - from "The Reader's Digest" edition)

Princess Scheherazade, fabled storyteller of Tales from the Arabian Nights, kept her head because she knew a good story or two; actually she knew a thousand and one good tales, which was very fortunate for her and soul-enriching for me.

I never really knew much about this legendary figure, let alone Rimsky-Korsakov’s classical interpretation of Scheherazade, until the summer of 1976 – at a now abandoned Scout camp high in the San Bernardino Mountains.  And although I started my last Ahwahnee camping season as ignorant as a Siberian peasant when it came to the classics, I soon became a fan.  Consequently, I will be forever grateful to a great friend, a powerful storyteller himself, for that melodious baptism into the world of joyful, sorrowful, whimsical, powerful, and oft times achingly beautiful minor key rhapsodies of Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin,  and Tchaikovsky – but to name a few.

And when I find that many of the memories of a by-gone summer of nearly forty years past have nearly slipped beyond recall, certain tunes from long-dead Russian composers can resurrect a remembrance or two.  Just give me the first few melodic bars of Russian Easter Festival Overture, Prince Igor or Scheherazade (via vinyl or disk) and I am mysteriously – nay, rather clairvoyantly channeled into the past faster than you can say ‘Open Sesame!'

Visions of saber-wielding Cossacks streaming down Ukrainian steeps and beautifully veiled Persian storytellers bewitching be-sodden sultans, all dance about a blazing campfire of the mind. They slowly waltz off together, lulled by the magical, musical pull of pine and fir – by the beckoning of a long-lost summer camp situated high in the mountains of both memory and youth.

So, thank you, Fred La Velle – friend of nearly fifty years - for the introduction to a few musical greats of long ago.  As you have a birthday next week, I am presently scanning my composers list for the likes of some of those famous dead Russians - lining them up, putting in the ear buds, and cranking up the volume in your honor – accomplishing this tale of a feat faster than the Glinka of an eye …