Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

In a letter to my mom, dated nearly 75 years ago, my dad describes a long overdue bath.
I may never take hot water for granted again. But good to know when severe water rationing comes our way.

“The Island of Sardinia
November 22, 1943
Must tell you about my newest method for heating water. I took a gallon can last night, and set it on a grate affair, and lit four candles under it, so the flame hit the can. In about ten minutes I had a can of good hot water, so I kept this up until I had shaved, washed my hair and took a complete bath. It surely felt fine too, as I haven’t had a bath since the one at the Navy in North Africa.”
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California Dreamin’
Buried on page two in a long letter from my mother to my father - as he trained half way across the country at an army camp in Riverside County - my mother, who was teaching in Mankato, Minnesota, suggested the following:
March 2, 1943
“Nothing much happened today, except that our temperature dropped to ten below again this morning. I’m so tired of winter, and this one has seemed like such a long, dragged out one. From all that you’ve said about California, I think I’d love it. How about you picking out a nice spot for you and me to live some day?”
They did move to California within a couple of years of my father coming back from the war.
My father often took us on Sunday drives out to that old abandoned army camp - where it kind of all began.
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My dad liked to hitchhike around Southern California when he had a pass and write a short note to my mom when he got his hands on free stationary.  Note his mention of the word ‘davenport’ here.  Growing up I thought davenport was the proper name for any couch.  Friends not from the Midwest never knew what I was talking about when I used the word.

“January 4, 1943

My Own Darling Vi –

Am in the USO here in L.A.  Had a pass for today and with nothing better to do, I came over to L.A.

Do I look like an Italian?  Some Italians picked me up & said I did!

There’s the cutest little sailor sleeping in the davenport alongside me.  He doesn’t even have any beard yet – just peach fuzz!

Just finished four sandwiches & two cups of coffee – I didn’t have any dinner yet.

Think I’ll be on my way back for camp soon.

It’s been a lot of fun just bumming around.

I love you!

Bob”

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A constant lament in much of the correspondence written by my folks to one another during WWII was their struggling through a day without receiving a letter from the other.  I see it thru both their eyes as my mom fought loneliness living and teaching in small Minnesota towns, while my father, as he  trained first in California,  then departed by troop carrier from New York,  spent hot days and cold nights in North Africa,  Sardinia, France, Luxemburg, and Germany.  Letters were their lifeline as noted here in one from my mom early on in their war-torn separation:

“I was afraid I wasn’t going to get a letter from you today, but I found one waiting for me when I came home before supper.  It was an extra nice one, too, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without them.  This is our tenth month wedding anniversary.  A year ago today we were only talking about getting married, and the war, as far as we were concerned, was quite remote.  I wonder what another year will bring us??  I shall keep on hoping that you will come back the same crazy Bob I’ve always loved.  Don’t let anything spoil your sense of humor and your nice grin.”

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March 1943
"I doubt if the letters I write you are of enough value to warrant your keeping them, Bob. Yours are daily reports from the army, but I don't believe mine have anything that need be saved for posterity ."

Seems mom got that one wrong, but in a good way.
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Been reading a letter from my dad, where he's thanking my mom for the cribbage board she'd sent him. My dad was crazy about cribbage, so I went looking for his old set - not the one from the war - but the one I always remember him using. When I opened the box, here was the unopened deck of cards within.
Jeez, one can't seem to escape this Joker ...
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Correspondence from the farm. Frank was my dad's nephew - my cousin. In a separate letter from Frank's mom, she too was pretty excited about finally having running water in the house.
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I am reading a passage in a typed letter my dad sent my mom where he is gripping about military censors.
An unfamiliar, scrawled, hand-written note just below that typed line reads: "Poor censors, they always catch it - the censor."
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Up In Smoke

In a letter from my dad to my mother, written in the fall of 1943, my father describes going to his first Ramadan celebration while in North Africa (he was stationed along the Mediterranean coast in Tunisia). He had befriended a “nice Arab fellow,” according to dad, and was invited to his house after sunset to eat, drink, talk, dance, and smoke “keef” (he meant kief - hashish).

My dad wrote about the “keefers” in several letters, saying they weren’t like the “dope addicts in America – they would just take a few puffs from the pipe, pass it around the room, and become very relaxed.” When the pipe came his way, my dad would always “pass” and say he preferred his own smoke, lighting up an American cigarette – even though he was a non-smoker. He said he was glad he brought several packs with him that night.

Instruments were then brought forth and men (“only men were invited,” he wrote - “there were about twenty present in the small room that night”) began to dance. They talked my father into dancing so he did an impromptu “foxtrot/Indian war dance,” as he put it – to great acclaim, he added.

My dad ended that letter by saying what a great time he had and how impressed he was for being invited and treated like a long lost friend by complete strangers. I contend that it was the keef.

In another letter, dad mentioned how he wanted to get his hands on a keef pipe to bring home.

He later got a German luger, a fancy SS knife, and some old fashioned hand-carved Bavarian tobacco pipes, but I’ll be damned if I ever saw one that smelled of old hashish.

Wish I had. I would have put it back in use.

Anyway, here’s a faint sketch of the keef pipe drawn during that Ramadan celebration 75 years ago. I am guessing that pipe must have been about seven inches long.

That would have fit in his duffle bag quite easily.

Observations From A Chair

Observations From A Chair

By Armie Rest

7-14-18

His office and place of comfort is a 35-year-old Eames chair.

It beats any office or chair he may have ever inhabited before.

It was the first, and now the only original piece of furniture bought for the house in 1983.

Good money was spent on it at the time, but it was a solid investment, as it continues to function well - despite two missing buttons on the ottoman and very well-worn leather throughout.

It's still the most comfortable seat in the house.

The chair has been keeping record as to what’s gone on here over the decades. Here’s a partial rendering of its observations recently uncovered:

Hundreds of books were, and still are being read - some intently - others thrown across the room for lack of plot.

Thousands of photos edited – most deleted, but some shared.

Countless movies viewed. Laughs heard, tears noted.

Illnesses endured.

Sleep overtaking a weary man. Snores occasionally detected.

Arms reaching to the old rug below for a cup of coffee, glass of wine, a cold beer, or a chilled glass of lemonade - half a million times or more. Occasional spills ...

Stories written. Stories scrapped. Stories shared.

Pictures taken of balcony activity.  The man is fond of hummingbirds and squirrels.

Cookies dunked.

Dreams dreamed.

The man rarely gives it up to either family or guests.

The chair's conclusion:  Archie Bunker should have had such a place to rest.

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.