Ahwahnee Memories

Ahwahnee Memories

Noel Laflin

June, 2018

I count myself fortunate to have first seen Camp Ahwahnee through the eyes of a child.  The memories are distant, as I was only seven years old at the time, but visions of tall pines, crystal clear blue skies, fresh mountain air, dusty dirt roads, tents on platforms, and older boys, including my brother, in green Scout uniforms and colorful neckerchiefs lugging large backpacks up steep trails will always remain.  Old family black and white photos noting the occasion are dated August, 1959.

Nine summers later I would find myself trudging up a steep trail with my own backpack, and soon claiming my own tent platform as home for the week.

The experiences of those first days in camp, despite the initial wave of homesickness, were enough to keep me coming back for the remainder of my teenage years and well into my early twenties.  I found myself hopelessly enchanted with the mountain and all of its mysteries.

I idolized older staff members and marveled at their ability to entertain two hundred others with a rousing song, a hilarious skit, or a really good campfire story. I so wanted to be like them.

My mentors included the likes of Greg Richards, Fred LaVelle, Bruce Moore, Alan Adler, Bill Herzberg, Jeff Sherwood, Jim Hirsch, Jack Moulton, the Trent brothers, and many others.

In time, Gene Bergner found his way to camp and inspired both young and old alike with a seemingly boundless source of energy and commitment to Scouting ideals.  His trust and friendship would become a cornerstone of my life.

Other friendships formed during my nine years on the Ahwahnee staff have proven to be the ties that bind.  Many of us are still in touch forty and fifty years later.  Our ranks may now be composed of retired teachers, ministers, firemen, career military, law enforcement, tradesmen, labor organizers, writers, landscape designers, salesmen, etc., but the spirit of young men from half a century ago is never far away.

 

And although the pay was lousy and the days long, there was no other place we longed to be each summer.

In my opinion, we were beautifully isolated from the world beneath, bathed in sunshine, crisp mountain air and the fragrant aroma of pine and fir.  We were more than a mile above our boring lives 'down below,' as we came to call anywhere but here.

  

Whether one stayed for the day, week or summer, Ahwahnee could enchant one’s soul.  It drew me back, year after year for a decade of summers and many winter weekends, when a snowy carpet transformed the landscape.  It still haunts my dreams these many years later.  Why do you think I need to write these words now, if not for its continued spiritual pull?  There are many a day and night when my entire being craves to return to this special place, the land of my youth, where star-filled heavens seemed to touch a boy’s outstretched hand and the water which flowed from deep within our mountain tasted sweeter than any wine on earth. 

The Letter

The Letter

Noel Laflin

6-14-18

My old friend, Joanie, called me this morning to tell me about a handwritten letter she had just uncovered. I had written it to her forty-one years ago this summer.

As she read it aloud, the time frame and circumstances hauntingly came into focus.

It was a long letter filled with encouragement and thanks. I was a young Scout Executive at the time, hitting every goal in sight - consequently, thriving on the professional adrenaline rush of success.

But I was smart enough to know, even back then, that most of that success was due to Joanie. She was a relentless recruiter, fundraiser, cheerleader when I despaired, and personal confidant. When I left the profession feeling down and out, she never wavered in her friendship.

I am glad that Joanie Gribble and I have remained close throughout the years and that she, like me, saves old letters.

But I am even more pleased to know that the younger me was kind enough to thank and praise her accomplishments so effusively in real time.

I have often wondered if I really had.

That old letter helped put the question to rest.

Thank you, dear friend.

Gratitude

Gratitude

Noel Laflin

6-13-18

We startled one another well enough, I reckon, when the young hawk, cloaked in twilight's last glimmer, leapt from the gutter and flew to the fence. We were no more than ten feet from each other when I surprised him, and him, me.

"Jesus!" I whispered.

A whoosh of flapping wings was his only reply.

The flight was not graceful as he carried a load in his razor sharp talons - it would prove to be his dinner.

The fence the raptor briefly rested upon borders a patch of green belt where I frequently sit beneath shady trees waiting for an up-until-recently elusive pin-tail whydah, and its mate, to fly down to a well-stocked feeder. They are easily recognized by both their song and and shiny red beaks.

But fast approaching nighttime had turned the idyllic spot into something darker, and suddenly less inviting.

The young Cooper's hawk eyed me with a steely gaze as I crept up closer to get a better look at both he and its prey.

There was something red resting on the fence.

"Oh no," I panicked; "He's grabbed that cocky whydah!"

I snapped a shaky photo on my cell phone. The flash got the hunter's attention. He rose awkwardly and sailed off, a dark silhouette flying low with it's load.

Returning home, I downloaded the blurry image from my phone and viewed it on a larger screen, zooming in on the red I had glimpsed just minutes before.

"That's no beak," I sighed with relief, grateful to Mother Nature that she had spared the bird of whom I'd recently become so fond.

But the bloodied rabbit in the blurry image probably would not have shared my gratitude.

Olallieberry Pie

Olallieberry Pie

Noel Laflin

6-3-18

It’s early June and we are already anticipating the arrival of fresh olallieberry pie any day now.

It’s a short-lived event in these parts as the only place around here serving fresh ones is Polly’s Pies – and they may only carry them for a week or two at best, depending on how plentiful the harvest up in the Pacific Northwest will be.

I was introduced to this variety of berry many years ago when I was wining and dining a group of nurses from a busy OBGYN practice.

When desert time rolled around they all clamored for this strange sounding berry pie. It seems they had already called ahead to make sure they had some and to reserve a few.

I had never heard of it.

“Oh, honey,” one nurse warned, “you’re gonna like this.”

And she was right.

As my father loved to go to the Polly’s location outside of Leisure World – primarily for the cinnamon rolls – I made sure that he too became a fan of the olallieberry pie when mid-June rolled around.

I can still picture my dad grabbing hold of chairs, booths, and the occasional bald head to help steady himself as he made his way to our table in the back.

“We’ll have olallieberry pie and coffee, please,” he informed the waitress.

“Two slices coming right up,” she replied, ready to turn heel and place the order.

“No,” my father gently corrected, “make that two plates, two forks, and one whole pie please.”

He was so sugared up by the time we left that he only grabbed two bald heads to steady himself on the way out.

From then on I made sure to stop by various Polly’s throughout the county each mid-June and pick up a few pies for both the nurses as well as my dad.

Although now long retired - and being minus of both nurses and a father who once steadied himself with the help of unsuspecting restaurant patrons  - I still stop by local Polly’s each June to grab one or two for David and me.

One year I missed out altogether and never forgave myself.

Consequently, I just had David call to see when the berries are expected.

Mid-June, we were told.

We’ll be calling another location tomorrow just to make sure.

And probably the day after that as well.

Change in Direction

Change in Direction

Noel Laflin

6-2-18

The funeral procession, led by a white hearse, which was followed by a black limousine, and then many cars – with headlights blazing - slowly traveled south down Hewes Street. Two motorcycle escorts zoomed by a moment later on their way to the upcoming intersection in order to block opposing traffic. That next intersection would be Fairhaven, the street bearing the same name as the local cemetery – their final destination I assumed.

I was sitting on a hillside in the park across the street from our home, under the shade of a small sycamore and on the phone with a friend when the procession passed me by. Blackbirds and crows sitting on the fence, in tall trees, and on telephone wires, took a sudden break from chasing one another across the pond as they too eyed the caravan. I could not help but notice that at least they were dressed appropriately enough for the occasion.

Still deep into conversation five minutes later, the very same funeral procession passed by once more, this time in the opposite direction. There they were, two harried motorcycle escorts followed by the same white hearse, black limo, multiple cars with headlights blazing – coming back up Hewes Street, this time heading north – now most likely on course for Holy Cross Cemetery, way out in the rolling foothills, out by Old Irvine Park.

I could not help but wonder about the change in direction.

Did the escorts have the wrong cemetery in mind?

Perhaps it was an error on the part of the mortuary driver.

Or maybe the deceased just had a sudden change of heart, and thought the open foothills to be a better resting spot.

Either way, the blackbirds and crows kept mum on the subject and went back to chasing one another across the pond once the last car had passed.

Clocks and Guests

Clocks and Guests

Noel Laflin

5-24-18

It’s a noisy house at the top of the hour here when four of our clocks strike their various notes.

My father’s hand built grandmother's clock chimes in at the top of the stairs, deep and melodic, first with the Westminster Chimes, followed by resonating bongs to note the hour. The sound reverberates throughout the house - even downstairs. I am reminded of dad every time, and on each quarter hour as well. I love hearing midnight strike most of all as I am drifting off to sleep.

Four little gold men then rise on their pedestals and proceed to strike their hammers on twinkling white bells. This clock can be found in the dining room. Their striking of the hour is then followed by one of six classical tunes. Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ is my favorite. When I have been drinking, I sing out loud to ‘Deutschland, Deutschland.’ Why that tune was placed in the repertoire, I am not sure. But there it is at four and ten each day and night. Usually it just reminds me that I’m out of beer.

The downstairs cuckoo clock has been going strong for over twenty years now. As I bought it used, I have no idea how long it has really been in play. It annoys some overnight guests, however, and out of kindness I will stop the pendulum upon request. I do miss the noting of the early morning hour when thus disengaged, not to mention the whirlwind renditions of either 'Laura's Theme' or 'Edelweiss.' But guests eventually do leave.

And lastly, there is the animal clock in the guest bedroom. I don’t disengage this clock as I like to surprise overnight sleepers with its wild elephant trumpet leading off at six each morning.

As I noted, guests do eventually leave – some, sooner than others.

Shake and Guess

Shake and Guess

Noel Laflin

5-20-18

My father always used to carry one of these for his change.

When we were young, and dad was in a generous mood, he'd shake the purse and ask my sister and me to guess the amount. 

If we were within three cents either way of the correct amount we got to split the winnings.

It was always under a buck.

But with practice you learned to listen for the distinct sound of a half dollar clunking around in there, which always spurned us on to guess high.

And sometimes we even nailed it to the penny.

Was a pretty big deal back then, and still a fond memory shared by both Susi and myself.