What follows is the first installment of perhaps a 4-6 part story that I wrote a bazillion years ago. I've edited it a bit, but have not taken the time to rewrite any major portions. I will post the first two sections today and then look over the next portions in a week or so, or sooner, we'll see.
It's somewhat of a "what I did last summer" story, but it all happened almost 40 years ago. All of the events are true and the dialogues are somewhat accurate...at least in spirit, filtered through the gentle sieve of time and sweet memory.
THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part 1
It was the summer of 1969 and the summer of my fifteenth year. It was the summer during which I never felt so grown-up and realized before it was over that I would never feel so young. It was the summer during which I learned about the true nature of man and the possible nature of God. It was the summer that I saw the face of hate, of fear and of pure love. It was the summer of 1969 during which I and my world changed forever.
Each summer since the age of 12 years, I would embark upon a pilgrimage to Camp Emerson, a boy scout camp nestled in a primeval forest high in the San Jacinto Wilderness. The San Jacinto Mountains are located directly east of Palm Springs, California. This small range is unique to Southern California, for it most closely resembles the magnificent Sierra Nevada Mountains much further north. On the eastern portion of the range is an impenetrable face of jagged, geologically newborn granite. Towards the west, the mountains slope more gently into verdant meadows and valleys that eventually lead to the temperate plains of Riverside and beyond. The mountains exist as a kind of Sierra mountain range in miniature. John Muir once said that the San Jacinto Mountains were Southern California's own "Range of Light". When looking up into the crags and sheer faces of the many granite spires that surrounded the valley, in which the camp was sequestered, the comparisons to Yosemite come quite readily.
Camp Emerson was the only large summer camp for the Riverside County Boy Scout council, and had the proud tradition of being the oldest youth camp in the western states. A bronze plaque on one of the walls of the main assembly room proudly proclaimed this honor, which went largely unnoticed by everyone except the oak tree faced permanent caretaker, preferring the title "ranger", who made his home on the camp grounds. Each of the younger staff members secretly wondered if he was one of the founders of the camp in the early 1920's. On several occasions he had been mistaken for Old Mr. Emerson himself, whose picture rested on the mantle of the cave-like fireplace in the main assembly hall.
Two summers prior I had been hired as a camp counselor. At the age of thirteen, I was to be the youngest staff member ever in recent memory. But now, at the advanced age of fifteen, and a survivor of two summers, I had the distinction of being one of a very special group of veteran staff members. To an eleven year old Boy Scout, away from home for the first time, I appeared to be a hardened, well-tested and experienced mountain man. I knew that this year would be special. This would be a glorious summer.
My best friend, Rick Palmer, was sixteen and was privileged with his own wheels. At camp. God, what debauchery we would engage in I dreamed. Rick had been my roommate the previous year and we found we had many things in common; a dark, twisted sense of humor, a penchant for satirizing the Boy Scout fundamentals and a fondness of perusing the pirated copy of his father's Kama Sutra, the Hindu Book of Love and Sex. I distinctly remember, after trying to imagine that people might actually attain those pretzel-like positions while in bed, that there was a very good possibility his parents had indeed attempted more than a few of them. His parents, although a handsome couple, just could not be pictured writhing in ecstasy and abandon, making gravity-defying love in order to be closer to Shiva.
Parents were never thought of having sex. Regardless of the fact that our presence on this planet depended on it, each of us were certain that the only reason mom and dad screwed was to propagate the species. Sex for pleasure was no doubt reserved only for young childless couples according to our reckoning.
Playboy magazines were forbidden in camp. Despite that seemingly ridiculous rule, crates of them were smuggled in. Hoarding, but dividing the voluminous quantity seemed to be the best tactic in the face of surprise inspections conducted by the adult staff. Hidden copies would often be discovered and the offending scout would suffer the disciplinary action of listening to endless rhetoric relating to the evils of sexual fantasy by older men whose imaginations had left them many years ago. I always wondered what happened to those confiscated magazines. Surely, they were promptly destroyed to prevent further mental contamination.
Second offenses resulted in a phone call to one's parents and this seemed to be a rather effective deterrent. This was especially true if your mother was informed of your fall from grace. It is my belief that moms were mostly concerned with the realization that their sons were somehow no longer the adoring boy-child they knew but were being transformed into pubic-hair sprouting, gas-belching, girl-humping, uncivilized young men. In other words, reflections of the men they married.
Dads on the other hand seemed to understand the fascination that these books of wonders held for us. Questions regarding the exploitation of women had yet to be thought of, but good 'ole pop could be depended upon to remember what it was like to be a young teenaged boy. Our loss of innocence was an event that many fathers awaited anxiously. It was as if this turning point would create an unspoken stronger bond between sons and fathers.
With the caches of contraband safely ferreted away, more pressing duties were placed before us. We had a camp to prepare with very little time in which to complete the transformation. It seemed that it was forbidden that we would leave creek beds untouched, there were bridges to be built. Forget about sleeping on the ground, there were wooden platforms and large tents to erect. There were fire rings to construct and firewood to be gathered into large stacks.
What was once a quiet, pristine forest needed to become a bustling, organized and tamed compound readied and prepared as a place to teach young boys in the true ways of the wilderness.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
A Red Cape
I was a sick kid. A relatively minor birth defect went undiagnosed for years until it required major surgery at age 10. But until then, every couple of months I would collapse or become bedridden until the astronomically high fevers, delirium, abdominal pain and severe nausea passed. Books, comics and the gray-blue glow of a tiny screen wrapped in a monstrous wooden cabinet became my frequent companions. It was during these down times that I became a devotee of Superman.
How I wished, with all of my heart and soul to be him. Like so many other tykes, a bath towel tied around my neck served as the beginning and end of my costume, but that was when I was needing to fly or save the world. My younger brother, Jim wore glasses and for that I was a bit jealous because the key costume piece to become Clark Kent required the donning of spectacles. After feigning blindness, my wise mother provided me with lens-less frames. Suddenly my eyesight improved to the point of x-ray vision. But it wasn’t until my 7th year on this planet under the yellow sun did I acquire an honest-to-goodness Superman outfit.
On Halloween of 1961, Mom presented me with the costume of my true identity. A pair of old pajamas dyed blue in the washing machine, a length of red ribbon appliquéd into a rough “S”, an old sheet sewn and properly dyed to serve as a cape and a pair of red socks was all that was needed for me to become the real and only Superman. To me, it was an exact replica of what George Reeves wore on TV and what I saw on the pages of Action Comics. In the back of my mind, the costume was the only missing piece and it was certainly only a matter of time before super powers would manifest inside me.
On Wednesday, November 1, 1961 I rose early from bed and donned my costume again, this time under my school clothes. With perceptible confidence, I strode about the playground, fearing no one and keeping an eye out for others who may require my assistance in their time of need. But nothing much happened and after school, feeling somewhat depressed that a peaceful day had passed; I joined my brother, Jim, for the short walk home. Before we reached our front door I stopped him and drew him aside.
Looking all around, I opened my shirt and showed him that he was safe from harm, because I was wearing the costume. He looked at my S-adorned chest and said, “Terry, why are you wearing that?” For a moment I was surprised that he failed to recognize the significance to what he was bearing witness. But gathering my thoughts, I said in my most sympathetic tone, “I am wearing it…just in case…” with the hope that those words would explain all. He merely shook his head and went inside for our afternoon snack.
At some point, Jim must have failed to keep my secret identity to himself. After the third day of my wearing of the costume, Mom came to my room before I said my bedtime prayers. “Honey, I need to wash your Superman outfit now…we need to save it for next year, okay?” she offered. Reluctantly and embarrassed, I removed the costume from under my cowboy pajamas and handed them over.
“Mom, I really want to be Superman someday,” I explained. She asked if it was because Superman could fly. I shook my head, because I understood that flying was probably not going to be an option any time soon. She asked me why then it was important to be Superman.
“Because he helps people and always does the right thing, and he doesn’t worry about who knows about it.” I explained further, “he often does it in secret…he stops the bad guys, he doesn’t get hurt and then flies away before anyone gives him money or a parade because he knows that he’s done a good job and that’s all he needs.”
I imagined she smiled, because my face was turned towards the floor, again embarrassed at my obviously childish beliefs. She then said something that I wouldn’t comprehend for a few more years, “Sweetheart, you don’t need a cape to do that.”
With a kiss she tucked me in and switched off my Roy Rogers bedside lamp and said what she always said before sleep arrived, “Sweet dreams and may God rest on your pillow.”
That night I dreamed of flying, righting a wrong, stopping bullets and dashing away before the reporters showed up.
How I wished, with all of my heart and soul to be him. Like so many other tykes, a bath towel tied around my neck served as the beginning and end of my costume, but that was when I was needing to fly or save the world. My younger brother, Jim wore glasses and for that I was a bit jealous because the key costume piece to become Clark Kent required the donning of spectacles. After feigning blindness, my wise mother provided me with lens-less frames. Suddenly my eyesight improved to the point of x-ray vision. But it wasn’t until my 7th year on this planet under the yellow sun did I acquire an honest-to-goodness Superman outfit.
On Halloween of 1961, Mom presented me with the costume of my true identity. A pair of old pajamas dyed blue in the washing machine, a length of red ribbon appliquéd into a rough “S”, an old sheet sewn and properly dyed to serve as a cape and a pair of red socks was all that was needed for me to become the real and only Superman. To me, it was an exact replica of what George Reeves wore on TV and what I saw on the pages of Action Comics. In the back of my mind, the costume was the only missing piece and it was certainly only a matter of time before super powers would manifest inside me.
On Wednesday, November 1, 1961 I rose early from bed and donned my costume again, this time under my school clothes. With perceptible confidence, I strode about the playground, fearing no one and keeping an eye out for others who may require my assistance in their time of need. But nothing much happened and after school, feeling somewhat depressed that a peaceful day had passed; I joined my brother, Jim, for the short walk home. Before we reached our front door I stopped him and drew him aside.
Looking all around, I opened my shirt and showed him that he was safe from harm, because I was wearing the costume. He looked at my S-adorned chest and said, “Terry, why are you wearing that?” For a moment I was surprised that he failed to recognize the significance to what he was bearing witness. But gathering my thoughts, I said in my most sympathetic tone, “I am wearing it…just in case…” with the hope that those words would explain all. He merely shook his head and went inside for our afternoon snack.
At some point, Jim must have failed to keep my secret identity to himself. After the third day of my wearing of the costume, Mom came to my room before I said my bedtime prayers. “Honey, I need to wash your Superman outfit now…we need to save it for next year, okay?” she offered. Reluctantly and embarrassed, I removed the costume from under my cowboy pajamas and handed them over.
“Mom, I really want to be Superman someday,” I explained. She asked if it was because Superman could fly. I shook my head, because I understood that flying was probably not going to be an option any time soon. She asked me why then it was important to be Superman.
“Because he helps people and always does the right thing, and he doesn’t worry about who knows about it.” I explained further, “he often does it in secret…he stops the bad guys, he doesn’t get hurt and then flies away before anyone gives him money or a parade because he knows that he’s done a good job and that’s all he needs.”
I imagined she smiled, because my face was turned towards the floor, again embarrassed at my obviously childish beliefs. She then said something that I wouldn’t comprehend for a few more years, “Sweetheart, you don’t need a cape to do that.”
With a kiss she tucked me in and switched off my Roy Rogers bedside lamp and said what she always said before sleep arrived, “Sweet dreams and may God rest on your pillow.”
That night I dreamed of flying, righting a wrong, stopping bullets and dashing away before the reporters showed up.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Holocaust Memories
My wife's father, Henry (Henrich) lost his first family, a wife and son, at Dachau. Although not officially classified as a death camp, per se, the few stories he told of it certainly do not diminish the horrors there. His identification tattoo is visible in many snap shots made of him when Susan, my wife, was a young woman.
An innkeeper by trade, he owned and operated a relatively successful roadside inn and restaurant near the Czech, German and Polish borders before the war. After the invasion of Poland, Nazis forced Henry and his family, like so many others, to the Warsaw Ghetto. He recalled that many of life's basic necessities were in short supply in the ghetto and that cloth, fresh produce, meat, shoes and butter were just a few of the things that were held to be very precious and incredibly hard to obtain.
At some point in time, a pair of good shoes was traded with a German guard for a large block of butter. For some reason or another, the shoes were not needed by any of his family members and the butter would not only be appreciated, savored but divided up and used to trade for other things as well. Bartering was the primary method of goods exchange since cash was virtually useless in the ghetto.
When the family brought the delicacy home, they quickly discovered that what appeared to be a solid block was actually a small pasteboard box covered with a thin layer of butter. They were devastated at the deception and had no recourse but to accept the cruel trick and carry on. He bitterly recalled this specific instance because it was then, I believe, that he abandoned all hope and his faith. It seemed that he had lost everything at that point and could not envision any chance of survival. Ironically, he was one of only a few of his family (brothers, cousins, etc.) that did survive the war.
After being liberated by Allied forces, he met Susan's mother, Hilda, who had lost her husband in the war. Her husband was a German soldier, killed in battle on the Russian front, well before the end of the war. She had a young son, Peter, who recalls a few details about meeting American soldiers, some of them from a black regiment. He had never seen a person of color before that time and innocently thought that the dark color was some sort of military camouflage which could be washed or rubbed off. The African-American soldiers politely obliged the child's curiosity until they demonstrated the color's permanence and he realized his misunderstanding. He recalls being delighted as this discovery as he thought being dark would be an advantage for hiding in the night from the German enemy.
Another of Peter's interesting memories was of the time the Americans gave him a chocolate bar which through sign language and the GI's pigeon-German he came to understand was a special treat. Since he had never seen a wrapped candy bar before he began to eat the bar, wrapper and all. The Americans gently teased him and laughed which greatly embarrassed him. His feelings of shame are still vividly recalled.
Hilda converted to Judaism (she was raised a Lutheran) and married Henry who raised Peter as his own. In 1953, they were able to immigrate to Cleveland, where Susan was conceived and born.
Susan recalls being raised in a home that contained an amalgam of cultures, Jewish and Christian, German and Mid-West American, sometimes celebrating holidays for both faiths and eating foods from both parts of the world. Her maternal grandmother, solid German stock fresh from the old country, helped to raise her when she was an infant. This naturally resulted in the infant Susan speaking German before learning English some time later.
Even today, we celebrate a secular Christmas (from my side of the equation) and a couple of Jewish holidays and practices; the lighting of Yahrziet candles, for instance. Though she is a self-described non-observant Jew, her Jewish-ness is always there, like a soft hum or an underscored chorus. In turn, there is a deep appreciation for things Jewish. Yiddish is spoken with an American twang and latkes are sometimes served with salsa.
Last fall, we traveled to Washington, DC for work and like any well-planed boondoggle, were able to tack on a few personal days to the trip. With much anticipation we took this opportunity to visit the Holocaust Museum and spent most of the day there. "Visit" isn't the right word. "Pilgrimage" I think is more appropriate. Among other things, we wanted to list Susan's father in their survivor registry.
So many emotional moments occurred during the visit but most significant was when we examined the Warsaw Ghetto exhibit. The exhibit featured various striking photographs and artifacts including a section of cobblestone street that was traversed to access the exhibit. The stones were from one of the main thoroughfares in the Ghetto. As we read the sign telling about the stones, Susan crouched down, gently touched the stones and said very quietly, "Daddy walked on these..." and softly wept. I joined in her tears and answered, "He very likely did, sweetheart."
The heartache and grief that is experienced when one considers the Holocaust extends to much more than just the camps. The effect on Henry was profound as he began to drink more and more with each passing day. Henry and Hilda were separated many times as Susan was growing up. His relationship with Peter and Susan was always strained, never satisfying.
The tears that fell on those smooth stones were for the pain felt by her father as well for lost parts of her childhood when his actions and words reflected the devastation and hopelessness that perhaps never went away completely and certainly was never fully healed.
Henry died about 20 years ago with Hilda following soon thereafter. Susan's understanding of her father, of what he was and what he was not, has improved since then though she freely admits that she could only begin to grasp the even the most basic aspects and effects the Holocaust had on him and in a real sense had and has on her.
An innkeeper by trade, he owned and operated a relatively successful roadside inn and restaurant near the Czech, German and Polish borders before the war. After the invasion of Poland, Nazis forced Henry and his family, like so many others, to the Warsaw Ghetto. He recalled that many of life's basic necessities were in short supply in the ghetto and that cloth, fresh produce, meat, shoes and butter were just a few of the things that were held to be very precious and incredibly hard to obtain.
At some point in time, a pair of good shoes was traded with a German guard for a large block of butter. For some reason or another, the shoes were not needed by any of his family members and the butter would not only be appreciated, savored but divided up and used to trade for other things as well. Bartering was the primary method of goods exchange since cash was virtually useless in the ghetto.
When the family brought the delicacy home, they quickly discovered that what appeared to be a solid block was actually a small pasteboard box covered with a thin layer of butter. They were devastated at the deception and had no recourse but to accept the cruel trick and carry on. He bitterly recalled this specific instance because it was then, I believe, that he abandoned all hope and his faith. It seemed that he had lost everything at that point and could not envision any chance of survival. Ironically, he was one of only a few of his family (brothers, cousins, etc.) that did survive the war.
After being liberated by Allied forces, he met Susan's mother, Hilda, who had lost her husband in the war. Her husband was a German soldier, killed in battle on the Russian front, well before the end of the war. She had a young son, Peter, who recalls a few details about meeting American soldiers, some of them from a black regiment. He had never seen a person of color before that time and innocently thought that the dark color was some sort of military camouflage which could be washed or rubbed off. The African-American soldiers politely obliged the child's curiosity until they demonstrated the color's permanence and he realized his misunderstanding. He recalls being delighted as this discovery as he thought being dark would be an advantage for hiding in the night from the German enemy.
Another of Peter's interesting memories was of the time the Americans gave him a chocolate bar which through sign language and the GI's pigeon-German he came to understand was a special treat. Since he had never seen a wrapped candy bar before he began to eat the bar, wrapper and all. The Americans gently teased him and laughed which greatly embarrassed him. His feelings of shame are still vividly recalled.
Hilda converted to Judaism (she was raised a Lutheran) and married Henry who raised Peter as his own. In 1953, they were able to immigrate to Cleveland, where Susan was conceived and born.
Susan recalls being raised in a home that contained an amalgam of cultures, Jewish and Christian, German and Mid-West American, sometimes celebrating holidays for both faiths and eating foods from both parts of the world. Her maternal grandmother, solid German stock fresh from the old country, helped to raise her when she was an infant. This naturally resulted in the infant Susan speaking German before learning English some time later.
Even today, we celebrate a secular Christmas (from my side of the equation) and a couple of Jewish holidays and practices; the lighting of Yahrziet candles, for instance. Though she is a self-described non-observant Jew, her Jewish-ness is always there, like a soft hum or an underscored chorus. In turn, there is a deep appreciation for things Jewish. Yiddish is spoken with an American twang and latkes are sometimes served with salsa.
Last fall, we traveled to Washington, DC for work and like any well-planed boondoggle, were able to tack on a few personal days to the trip. With much anticipation we took this opportunity to visit the Holocaust Museum and spent most of the day there. "Visit" isn't the right word. "Pilgrimage" I think is more appropriate. Among other things, we wanted to list Susan's father in their survivor registry.
So many emotional moments occurred during the visit but most significant was when we examined the Warsaw Ghetto exhibit. The exhibit featured various striking photographs and artifacts including a section of cobblestone street that was traversed to access the exhibit. The stones were from one of the main thoroughfares in the Ghetto. As we read the sign telling about the stones, Susan crouched down, gently touched the stones and said very quietly, "Daddy walked on these..." and softly wept. I joined in her tears and answered, "He very likely did, sweetheart."
The heartache and grief that is experienced when one considers the Holocaust extends to much more than just the camps. The effect on Henry was profound as he began to drink more and more with each passing day. Henry and Hilda were separated many times as Susan was growing up. His relationship with Peter and Susan was always strained, never satisfying.
The tears that fell on those smooth stones were for the pain felt by her father as well for lost parts of her childhood when his actions and words reflected the devastation and hopelessness that perhaps never went away completely and certainly was never fully healed.
Henry died about 20 years ago with Hilda following soon thereafter. Susan's understanding of her father, of what he was and what he was not, has improved since then though she freely admits that she could only begin to grasp the even the most basic aspects and effects the Holocaust had on him and in a real sense had and has on her.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
