Ransom
for Teddy
Noel
Laflin
9-22-14
It was generally assumed that camp staff scoundrels
made off with the old black and white teddy bear when the program director was
not looking that Sunday afternoon in late August long ago. Most agreed that it was a dastardly kidnapping
indeed – a first in Camp Ahwahnee’s long and honored history. And, it was such a shame as it was the
closing week for an otherwise outstanding camping season.
A crude hand-written note was left behind on the
young man’s upper bunk in place of the bear.
It threatened that the frayed, stuffed old critter, which stood no more
than a foot high, would never see the light of day unless a ransom was
raised. And there was a deadline as well. The young camp counselor squinted in the
darkness of the dim cabin light and read the note several times before he
eventually slumped to the edge of the bed, note still in hand. Had you been there you would had heard him
sigh.
In the sunlit forest, not too far away, a battered
old shoe box, carefully wrapped in thick plastic bags, lay recently buried beneath
a stately Jeffrey pine tree. Scattered
pine needles disguised the shallow grave.
The spot was marked with a discarded film canister pushed half way down
into the dark rich earth.
Much later that night, a shadowy figure crept into the
camp’s deserted dark room. An hour hence the mystery man emerged, turned off the photo enlarger and killed the safety light. He locked up behind him while carrying something in
hand. The loner was last seen headed for the darkened assembly area.
So the high jinks were now on. Despite the darker nature of the prank, the
goal of the teddy-kidnapping was to raise funds for the children’s charity that
the camp staff backed each year. And, as
was assumed by most of the staff, it was a most creative way to mess with their
boss, the program director - the very guy responsible for the introduction of said charity several years before. They generally collected about fourteen
dollars a month – typically spare change dropped into the old Folgers coffee
can in the trading post. It was enough to
keep that poor girl in India off the streets, fed, clothed, and in school. She wrote thank you letters to her Camp
Ahwahnee benefactors each year. She also enclosed photos of herself, school and
meager belongings. The young girl had a
sweet smile.
The ransom note was read at the general assembly of
the troops gathered in front of the flag pole that Monday morning. It stated that unless one hundred and forty
dollars was raised by Saturday morning - enough to keep the poor girl in India fed, clothed, and schooled until the next summer camp session commenced - the bear was toast. A black and white eight-by-ten photo of the
old black and white panda bear, shown stuffed in a shoe box, had been
mysteriously taped to the flag pole. Kids
and staff gathered about to study the evidence in the early morning light. No one knew who had placed the photo there.
The old Folgers coffee can, recently liberated from the
trading post, was passed about. A tinkling
of coins could be heard in offering. By
the end of the meal a tally was announced.
Fourteen dollars and sixty-five cents had been collected. Words of condolence were whispered to the
bear’s owner as he walked out of the dining hall shaking his head and looking crestfallen
– yet brave. It was bandied about that
he’d had that bear all his life. It had been a gift from Santa long, long ago, or so it was rumored. He always
brought it to camp as a touchstone to his youth. 'The poor man,' many sighed, going about their chores that last week in camp.
On Tuesday morning more photos of the bear, now shown
with a tattered Scout neckerchief loosely tied about his black button eyes,
were found tacked to various camp buildings.
By Tuesday night the grand tally for the ransom had reached twenty-nine dollars
and ninety-six cents.
Come Wednesday, photos of a bear in miniature
handcuffs could be found tacked to the pool fence. The collection grew to sixty-five dollars by
the end of the evening meal.
Thursday morning broke with campers and staff finding
new photos of the bear’s head shrouded in a tiny black hood, handcuffed, blindfolded
and still stuffed in an old shoe box. Funds
collected for the charity/ransom reached one hundred and four dollars.
Friday morning bore witness to final eight-by-ten
black and whites plastered about camp and staff hill. The image was simply that of a shoe box, with
cover now loosely in place, lowered into a hole in the ground. A black and white bear paw stuck out from
beneath the box’s lid. As it was a
close-up, no incriminating details of where said burial were available. The clinking, chinking, plunking of coins
rattled about in the old coffee tin once more. Some of the change hitting bottom were
muffled by the cushioning of paper money.
By meal’s end, a new tally was announced. The ransom funds had grown to a total of one
hundred and twenty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.
At the Saturday morning assembly, Scouts and staff
gathered for their last meal together. The
old coffee can made the rounds of the crowded mess hall one last time.
Members of the trading post staff dumped the latest contents
on a hastily cleared table in order to do the tallying. Amongst the pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and occasional
one-dollar bills, they discovered a tiny sealed envelope addressed to the program director. They passed
the envelope his way while they scribbled down some numbers and quickly did the
math on an old napkin. When finished, it too was then
passed along to the program director. He
looked at the napkin, smiled, and climbed atop the table. There was dead silence in the place.
He announced that the most recent passing of the can
had netted an additional twenty dollars and seventeen cents. The goal had been surpassed. The charity fund was solvent for the next ten
months.
Loud cheering reverberated throughout the old tin
hall.
Silence was quickly called for once again, as the
young man straddling the table opened the envelope addressed to him. He scanned its message and read it
aloud. It congratulated the campers and
staff for having successfully raised the money needed in order to secure the
bear’s whereabouts and release from captivity.
Attached was a crudely drawn map.
It also noted that there was a shovel leaning against the outside wall of the mess hall. The note suggested that it be grabbed on the
way out.
With map, shovel, and sixty kids in tow, the program
director bounded across the parade grounds, went down the old dirt road and finally
delved into a secluded patch of sunlit woods.
He did some glancing of the map and pacing about until the toe of his
boot tripped over a half-buried plastic film canister.
He grabbed the shovel and carefully dug into
the recently turned earth. The blade
struck something not too far below the surface.
The young man tossed the shovel and gently brushed dirt and pine needles
aside. He brought forth an old shoe box
wrapped in plastic.
Loud cheering sent a covey of quail flying across the
creek.
Later that night, after the place had emptied, one
could find the camp’s program director addressing a letter. He placed a recently purchased money order
and a quickly scribbled note within. Before
sealing the envelope, the young man took the note out and opened it for one
last read through. He turned to the bear
sitting on the bunk bed beside him and read aloud.
“Please find the enclosed check for one hundred and
fifty dollars and sixteen cents. Our
next donation will occur in July,
1977. You would not believe to what lengths I had to
go in order to secure these funds. But
it was worth it. The old trusted friend
sitting beside me is a bear of few words, but he sends his regards and best
wishes. And, he looks none the less for
wear despite being buried alive for a week in the woods.”
He replaced the note back in the envelope along with a folded over eight-by-ten black
and white photo of an old teddy bear sitting jauntily atop a shoe box. You would swear that bear was smiling. The young man sighed.
A stamp was put in place and a return address hastily
written in the upper left corner. The
handwriting bore an uncanny resemblance to that found on a tiny envelope mysteriously placed
in an old coffee can earlier that day - not to mention a crudely penned ransom note.
