THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Six

I was young enough to be a bit naive about hate and prejudice. I was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, even if I was just an unenlightened middle-class white kid from the suburbs.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART SIX

It was during this summer that the first African-American staff member was hired. Kelvin was fourteen at the time and came from a very influential and somewhat wealthy family in Riverside. His father was a Doctor of Education working for the school district and his mother was an instructor at the local junior college. Kelvin became one of my friends at camp, but often kept to himself for reasons I did not understand at the time. Each week we would catch a ride together as our parents took turns hauling us up and down the mountain at the close of each weekly session. During the ninety minute trip we would speak of favorite music, TV shows, movies and books, compare hiking, school and girl stories. Kelvin went to a private boarding school which fascinated me.

Upon hearing that he spent most of the school year away from the watchful eyes of his parents, I began to envy his good fortune. He had his own dormitory room (complete with stereo and television - HEAVEN!), attended classes with the very best of teachers and participated in field trips to museums, historical monuments and other privileged events. How cool it must have been, I thought, to be able to come and go as you like, see the things he has seen and do the things he has done. But just underneath his stories I sensed a particular loneliness.

"My parents come up about once a quarter and we do things. They take me to dinner, we go shopping, maybe catch a movie. It's pretty neat," he said without a smile.

One weekend, his mother and father were going out of town and Kelvin was to spend the weekend alone at the camp. When my own mom heard this, she insisted that Kelvin spend the weekend with others. "Honey, you just come home with us. Make sure you grab your laundry and we'll take care of that as well."

I was a little surprised at this concern displayed by my mother, and pitied poor Kelvin that he would have to give up the chance to spend a couple of days of freedom at the insistence of a very stubborn woman. Kelvin seemed delighted at the prospect and was waiting in the car before I had even begun to find and pack all of the week's dirty underwear and tee shirts.

The weekend at home was very uneventful. Dad cooked greasy hamburgers on the grill, we rode bikes into a nearby orange grove, watched TV, teased my little sister, played fetch with my dog, threw dirt clods at the whiny, booger-eating neighbor kid, played with my slot car track, grabbed a Slurpee at the 7-11 store, looked at a dead cat on the road and read a couple of old "Doctor Solar" comic books. Your basic boring weekend.

On the way back to camp, Kelvin was more animated than I had ever seen. He wouldn't shut up. The entire hour and a half he talked about how great a cook my father was, how stupid the whiny neighbor kid proved to be, "He just stood there as we nailed him with that huge clod!" he roared and that he had won most of the slot car races.

As we unloaded our gear from the car, I gave my dad a hug and kissed my mother. They told us to be safe, call when we can and so forth. As I turned once more to wave good-bye, I saw Kelvin reach for my parents and gave both of them a long warm hug. Smiling, he turned away and later told me that he thought my mother was pretty and that my dad could tell a good joke. He then very quietly thanked me for the good times we had shared. Walking further from the cars he became quieter. Nothing more was said about the weekend.

It was late on Wednesday after the evening meal that the camp director made a very strange request. He asked each staff member to write and print the following words: "Keep Digging Son, A Bigger One Is Needed." Each person was given a felt tipped marker and instructed to sign their name at the bottom of the paper. All the slips were collected by the Camp Director who shut himself with two other adult staffers within an adjoining office. We were told to remain in the dining hall until called.

One by one, each boy was called for. No one could understand this strange exercise. It wasn't until an hour later that I was summoned. As I approached the office door, it suddenly struck me that Kelvin had not been present the entire meal.

The camp director, Marvin, and the other adults sat across from me at a long table. Marvin looked at me with a surprisingly stern look and asked me, "Why did you do it? We know you did and we have samples of your handwriting to prove it!"

Of course, I had no idea of what he was speaking and didn't know at first how to react. I smiled, thinking that this was some kind of bizarre joke or stupid Boy Scout test of which I had not been informed. When my smile was not returned I knew they were serious. "What are you talking about, Marvin?"

"Why did you write those words on the bathroom wall? We don't care how or what you think of Kelvin, but we want you to admit to the act and all will be forgiven," he continued. He then took me into a nearby bathroom and showed me their cause for concern.

On the wall of one of the toilet stalls was written in felt tipped marker,

"Kelvin is a Nigger."

I was dumbfounded. All at once, the cryptic message we wrote earlier made sense. My heart sank as I imagined my friend, Kelvin, finding these words written directly at him. It was if the real world was crashing in on our sequestered, safe and sheltered world in the mountains and the entire place was somehow in need of a cleaning.

My parents grew up in the south and because of that, were a product of another time. A time when that word was as common as clouds. But in spite of that, we were instructed at a very early age that this was a hateful and shameful word. My mother often referred to it as "the nastiest word in the world." Regardless of their conservative politics and indoctrination, hate is easy to see when it is worn on the outside. Words can hurt, we were told, and there are just some things that you never can say without hurting another. My father often reminded us to judge people by what was found inside and not how they seem to be by simply looking at them.

"The poorest man you may meet could turn out to be your best friend and the plainest looking girl may some day be your most beloved sweetheart," he would say. "I've met many people who may look like they don't have the sense to tie their own shoes who were the smartest humans walking this tired earth."

My protestations and declarations of innocence came stumbling out. Partially out of shock at the act of thoughtless hate another had committed, and partially from the fear that they suspected me of this terrible thing. Kelvin always seemed a little quiet for my taste in friends, smarter by far than most of the other staff members, had always been there to help me when I needed it and was the first to laugh at my stupid jokes. In other words, he wasn't my best friend, but as good a friend and better than most of the guys I called "friend." But before I could go on, I asked where Kelvin was.

With a touch of sadness, Marvin explained that his parents were told of this by a call from Kelvin. His parents were understandably and indignantly upset. They had driven up that afternoon and took Kelvin home for the rest of the summer. Without saying much more, I knew that one or perhaps many around me were capable of doing something very wrong to someone who did nothing wrong.

It was a long time later that I began to grasp the loneliness that Kelvin was experiencing. The only black kid among a bunch of white kids, parents who no doubt should have been more involved and other factors of which I can only imagine. All of which probably created a very lonely young man. It was also much later that I heard that Kelvin had become a successful computer programmer and software designer. Although I have long since lost contact with him, I hope that he is filthy rich, lives in a big house and is happy beyond imagination. Success is the most comforting forms of revenge.

We never did find out who placed those foul words on the bathroom wall. It didn't really matter, someone did and that was enough. From that day on, I listened for any hint of racism that might be displayed by my fellow staff members. There were some racial comments made now and again, generally weak attempts at humor. But when it surfaced, we quickly commented, "hey, that ain't cool..." or something along those lines.

From that day on, I trusted and called only a few others my real friends.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Five

Trying to catch up a bit, so posting another section today. I wish I could express fully how terrible this event was and how horrible each of us felt who participated in our escapade. Suffice to say, I learned a lot from this.

As before, if you are just joining the story, it is advised you follow the links on the right to begin the story from Part One.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART FIVE

By 1969 several Marines who had been sent to Vietnam during the early stages of the conflict began to return home, their tour of duty completed. It was also during this time that the United States was hopelessly divided on the issue of our involvement in that foreign war. The story of America in Vietnam has since been related in many ways and any single narrative cannot express the entire expression of emotions, events and reflections concerning this portion of our country’s history. The story is best told in individual tales. My current understanding of the war has only recently begun to come into focus and the vision that I have is indeed an ugly one. My first glimpse into the reality of the war was very different than the television news footage to which we were exposed daily, and which captured my attention but with little understanding.

Each camp season an active duty Navy or Marine paramedic would spend several weeks with the camp staff to serve as on-site emergency medical personnel. The GIs got to relax a while in the mountain air and on occasion be required to repair a skinned knee and perform first aid training, while the scout camp had access to expertly trained medics. Talking to the "Doc's," as we called them, was one of my favorite activities for they were full of stories of overseas adventures and experiences and were a never ending resource of the most disgustingly filthy jokes ever to be told. Both of these talents delighted me.

This summer was unique in that we had been assigned two Marines from the same unit who were being discharged soon. Both of these Marines were friendly, if a little quiet, but fast with the jokes and amazingly seemed to enjoy our camp food, which we considered to be one step up from lake algae. According to them however, "Marine Cuisine," was a contradiction in terms. Slowly, the camp staff grew closer to the Doc's, which resulted in an occasional story of Vietnam. Their stories would center around leeches and snakes, the look, feel and nature of the jungle itself and on rare instances the nature of "Charley."

The skinned knee business had been slow that summer and our marine Doc's jokingly requested that someone break a leg or something as they were extremely bored and had actually read all of our Playboy magazines. That evening, a group of us decided to liven up their dull existence by staging a fake emergency.

Our victim was to be Eddie, one the smaller staff members, wrapped in bandages and decorated with ample amounts of ketchup. After we were certain that the Doc's were fast asleep, we hauled Eddie on a stretcher up to the First-Aid Shack, which also served as their sleeping quarters. We excitedly beat on the cabin's door and called out, "Doc, Doc, Eddie's hurt - hurry! Doc..."

Suddenly, both men flew out of the door in their boxer shorts and began to bark out orders, calling for a Medivac, and demanding additional supplies. Their eyes were wide open and their faces were racked with concern. Their voices were excited and filled with soul deep fear. We all began to laugh as they began to tear at the fake bandages and Eddie's clothing. It was only then that they realized what was really transpiring. Each of us waited for them to join in our laughter or to be chastised with some good natured name calling, but it didn't happen.

Both of them stood slowly looking at us with disappointment and controlled anger. A long moment of silence followed and the larger of the two said, "This is not funny boys. God dammit, we thought we were still in 'Nam." As he finished those words he began to cry.

Immediately each of us started to tell them we were sorry, that it was only a joke, and that we didn't mean anything by it, everyone stepping on each other's words. But no amount of apology could undo the terrible pain we had caused. For a brief moment we had inadvertently transported them back to the hell on earth from which they had just escaped. They turned without another sound to try and go back to sleep. Shamefully, we walked in silence back to our tents with the terrible knowledge that our practical joke had injured someone in ways we could only begin to understand.

The next morning the perpetrators of the folly were called in to the Camp Director's office and were soon joined by the Marines. They explained that they understood that our prank was all in fun but there were things we needed to know about.

For the next hour they began to tell us a story of the Vietnam which the public would not hear for many years. They told us of the incredible horrors, the gut wrenching vision of hands-on death, the sleepless night fear, and of the paranoia that no one was going home alive. They further explained the reason they were taken out of action a couple of weeks before their actual tour of duty was completed.

Both Marines were the only survivors of a unit that had been ambushed in a rice field at night. All of their friends were dead and their pain was amplified since as medics they were unable to save any of them. Many times they would pause in their story telling to compose themselves and then continue. Looking beyond their eyes, the demon of fear and the monsters of war were still very much alive deep within their minds and memory.

Fortunately, I never had to face those particular demons myself, but I am often reminded of their existence whenever I see or hear of young men and women marching off to fight and kill other young men and women. As I look back over history, with very rare exception, I ask myself this simple question, “…and for what?” The demons and monsters of war may know the answer, but they ain’t saying.

They’re just laughing.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Four

Thank you all, for the kind words you have given me in this endeavor. It pleases me that you are enjoying the story and the site. I think we are 2/3 the way through the story now.

This section is for my new friend, Anne. Thanks, Anne, for the advice.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART FOUR

The ensuing unbearably awkward minutes of small chatter revealed the basics that were important to a fifteen year old, where she went to school, (in nearby Banning), what subjects she enjoyed, (science and art), her favorite musical groups (Beatles, Doors and Turtles), that she was indeed Vickie's cousin, and most surprisingly, that she had been looking forward to meeting me.

The surprise of being a part of some devious plot of my older friend and her cousin was embarrassing and removed any bit of confidence I may have had in past dealings with girls. I usually never had a problem with speaking with girls. They had always fascinated me and I enjoyed their company over the company of other boys my age. They seemed to be a little wiser, more interesting, and certainly easier on the eyes. But now, I was having some problems putting together words in any coherent fashion. I thought I was dull, far from clever and probably not very funny.

This was perhaps the first time that I was entering into a conversation with a girl with the expressed desired outcome to be potentially romantic. The approach was completely foreign. And it wasn't working.

At some point, I decided to just step back and stop trying so hard to impress her. It was so much easier to just talk to her as if there wasn’t any romantic potential. I found it was much more fun to make her laugh because it was enjoyable to see her smile, rather than trying to make her like me or think I was a clever young man.

My nervousness went away, and I found that I was really enjoying myself and her mere presence. Plus, she was looking at me with those big brown eyes.

Rick and I spent over two hours talking and laughing with Donna and Vickie. They were to be at Buckthorn the entire summer just as we were. Plans were made to meet again, camp telephone numbers and addresses were exchanged. They promised to come to one of our campfire programs and to definitely keep in touch.

As we left the girls to return to our camp I was filled with a sense of incredible vitality and sexual energy. Rick evidently recognized my pleasure of the successful first meeting.

"I think she likes you, Terry"

"Really, do you think so? Jesus Rick, she's beautiful! My god, I am in love," I exclaimed.

Rick merely shook his head and smiled.

Donna would prove to be my first love. We met several times, took many walks together, eventually held hands, told each other how much we liked each other and how glad we were to have met, and so on. During many of our walks I would share my expanding learning regarding the trees, constellations and the birds of the area.

"This tree is a Jeffery Pine," I began. Picking up a bunch of the tree's needles I continued, "There are three needles in each grouping, and if you smell the bark, you can detect the smell of vanilla bean."

Both of us leaned into the tree's truck and took in the sweet scent. As our faces came together, Donna kissed me on the lips. I had prayed every night for a month for t his to happen, but had not expected it so soon.

We didn't speak for many minutes as the kiss continued and grew in intensity. Eventually we found ourselves on a soft carpet of pine needles, never breaking the embrace or the kiss. The embrace and kisses were awkward, yet unabashed. Rather than embarrassment it seemed the perfectly natural thing to do. It was as if we both understood that while we may not know what the hell to do, it was perfectly acceptable to admit ignorance and find out together. It was safe to be ourselves.

Our young, passionate, interludes continued the entire summer, and at our last meeting, late one evening we found ourselves again in each other's arms. Yet despite our increasingly fevered intentions, we did not have intercourse. It was at this last meeting that Donna also asked me to make love to her. But either fear, the desire to maintain a kind of limited purity to our short time together or just understanding that a few years needed to pass held me back. I remember telling her that I loved her deeply and that is was probably not the right time for us to go any further than we had at that point. I remember distinctly Donna saying nothing to me for a long time as she looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.

Finally, she broke the silence, rested her head on my chest and said, "Terry, I think I will always love you."

We then tickled each other until we feared our laughter might reveal our hiding place to anyone nearby. We dressed, walked slowly to her cabin, embraced and kissed each other one last time. I promised to write when school started again, turned and walked with a full heart back to my tent.

When the school year began we exchanged several letters and spoke on the phone a couple of times. I don't remember who stopped writing first, but I never saw her again. Each time I pass through Banning on the freeway to Palm Springs, or when ever I smell the bark of a Jeffery Pine tree, I feel the presence of a young fifteen year old girl with long brown hair and her promise of always loving me. Without a doubt, there remains in me a particular love for Donna, (or perhaps the memory of her) and occasionally dream of our first and last meetings.

I hope she dreams those sweet dreams as well.