THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Nine (last section)

Thanks again to everyone who has written regarding this little story. I am pleased you liked it enough to visit now and again to read each section, in order. This story has resided in my memory for a long time, so it is nice that it is seeing the light of day for a few more folks.

This part concludes the story, no other parts to be added, nothing much more to say about it. If there is any post script to the story it is the fact that I was not to be blessed with children but hope that other fathers and other sons fulfill my final wish for this special place and time.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART NINE, (last section)

The smell of diesel fuel reminds me of the toilet paper torches we would create to light the way to the evening campfires. If you soaked a roll of toilet paper in diesel fuel for a couple of hours and then position this "wick" on the end of a pole, the effect as it burned looked like something out the middle ages. The camp fires were put on for the entertainment of the campers during which we would lead everyone in silly, easy to remember songs, tell tall-tales, relate border line off-color jokes and generally make complete asses out of ourselves. Often we would attempt to light the fire in some unusual fashion. Stick matches placed inside a ball point pen spring would come to life if one simply applied the juice of a 12 volt car battery via buried wires to the spring. On one occasion we utilized a small Napalm stick, smuggled over from the war, with near disastrous results. Though we were warned to treat the material with respect, we had no idea how hot of a flame it could produce, and that even the tiniest amount coming into contact with your skin will stick to you until the fuel is exhausted. I still have the burn on my hand to prove it.

The sound of "Taps" rushes back the sight of stars literally filling the night sky. Because the camp was so large in area, communication was done via the call of a bugle. Bruce, a chubby faced, Pillsbury doughboy of a lad, was our camp bugler and his talent belied his tender years. We were notified of meal times, assemblies, the raising and lowering of the flag, weekly fire drills and the like, to the strains of a brass horn made more beautiful with his expert skill. There is a bugle call for every significant happening at camp and it takes little time to recognize what each melody signified. My favorite call was "Tattoo" which is the traditional call for soldiers and sailors to return to their quarters, played fifteen minutes before the haunting rhythms of taps. It isn't heard very often, except in old Calvary movies. Believe it or not, I miss this comforting and lyricless song.

The feel and taste of ice cold mountain stream water recalls the fact that many of the water sources made available to us came untreated and sweeter than can be imagined. At the time we had little worries of contamination in the high creeks and wells. Once you've experienced the ultimate freshness of untouched, natural water, nothing else dare be labeled "water." Water today tastes of plastic or unspecified chemicals. Bottled Canadian glacier or imported French spring water cannot compare. It was a simple pleasure but one that was appreciated even then.

The sight of fog recalls a late night moonlit hike. My brother and I decided well after sundown that we would join a small group of scouts who had been taken for an overnight hike and campout far into the woods. As we climbed the trail to the distant outpost, we noticed that we did not require our flashlights to see our way over the rough terrain. The full moon reflected off of the light gray granite, and one could easily read a map in its glow. Half way up, the trail rounded a bit allowing us to view the small town of Idyllwild twinkling below us. We took in the entire scene with silent admiration then noticed a low fog bank creeping over the mountain pass just a few miles north of the slumbering hamlet. The blanket of fog soon covered the entire valley and their few streetlights now appeared as glowing halloed pearls. My brother and I turned to each other, smiled and climbed onward towards the moon. Years later I learned that he too had been touched deeply by the tableau that God seemed to have painted for our personal delight.

But most of all I remember that the summer of '69 was a special time in my life. No longer would I fail to understand the deep need for people to strive to make a better world. That the world was full of incredible pain and suffering and amazing joy is now fully grasped. What was most significant is that I realized this at the time.

My last day at camp was full of saying good-bye to my friends, the promise to get together for a hike or whatever and of arranging rides down the hill and once again to home. Some time during the day, I missed the car full of staffers with whom I was to travel and had to call my parents to pick me up. It was an hour and a half trip from my home and after a brief scolding they assured me they would be there soon.

As I waited in the main assembly hall I realized that the only persons left were myself and Mr. D. The forest was incredibly quiet, the noise of young boys laughing and shouting to each other gone for another year. I looked around inside the hall and gazed at the rolled up campaign hat hanging over the fireplace and smiled a small grin. Walking over to it I noticed the filth of dirt and sweat covering it. Turning to the large picture window that looked towards the large granite spires and the Jeffery Pines moving softly in the first chilling wind, and with it the promise of autumn.

I began to cry, for I knew I would never return to this place as a boy. The next time that I imagined that I would enjoy these mountains and this camp may be with my own son. Behind me, Mr. D walked over to me and placed an arm over my shoulder.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked.

"I'm going to miss this place." I answered.

"So will I. But it will always be here."

"I suppose."

"It will. It will always be here and here," he said pointing to my head and chest, "so trust me, you will never forget this place and never forget this time."

He hugged me as I cried a little more. He then began to laugh as he pointed out a small ground squirrel that had stretched out on his stomach just beyond the window, unaware of our presence. The squirrel seemed to be breathing sighs of relief.

"It looks like he's glad were gone," he offered.

We both laughed at the small animal that had survived one more summer of over eager boys bent on disrupting the calm of the woods, yet taking with them a part of the wilderness experience.

Camp Emerson still conducts summer programs for boys of all ages. It still provides memories and stories for those who will listen and take note. The trees still have the scent of vanilla, the lake still offers late night canoe rides and a smelly old campaign hat still hangs over the fireplace.

I will never forget that wonderful place. Even the thief we call time cannot take away the summer of 1969. It slumbers in my heart and in my mind, awakened now and again by a familiar sound or smell.

I will never forget.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Eight

I have not changed any names in this section. Mr. D deserved open recognition and remembrance. My brother still holds this man very close to his heart.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART EIGHT

Some of the staff looked upon the fact that we had a cook to prepare all of the staff meals as either a curse or a blessing. The staff's cook was Frank Delgado. "Mr. D" was not too well known by myself, however, my brother was assigned as the commissary director and the cook's assistant. My brother, Jim, related that though his was a demanding boss, he was also given to an extremely odd sense of humor.
He would often walk into the kitchen while the dishes were being washed and announce, "No smoking in the kitchen!" all the time puffing furiously on a pipe, then suddenly walk out.

On occasion, to liven meal times up a little, he would walk into the dining room and tell everyone it was time for "the auction." He then would drag out an old Navy duffel bag and produce various used items, which we would then bid on. Using just about anything we could barter with, from candy bars to pine cones, the staff would engage in outbidding each other for old coffee pots, beat up frying pans, and army packs.

He would begin, "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, (and if any females are in this room, I want to know about it), this coffee pot is unique in its class. You will notice that the inside is caked with so much coffee residue that one no longer needs to use coffee grounds to create the perfect cup of Joe. Just add boiling water and voila' you have a brew fit for a king." Continuing, "What am me bid for this personally embroidered army pack? This fashion accessory matches any color you may be wearing, as long as you are wearing olive drab and why just look here, please notice the initials on the flap, it reads U.S., that's right - "us"!

Mr. D also was a veteran of past wars, and though he rarely spoke of seeing action, it showed. He was a little man with a protruding stomach and a back that was bent and terribly humped. His entire body was covered with albino-like splotches. Jim told me that he had been seriously burned in the Second World War during which he served on a submarine in the South Pacific. Apparently, Mr. D's sub had been hit by enemy fire causing the survivors to seek refuge on the surface.

The surrounding waters were covered in a deep film of burning submarine fuel. During the course of his attempts to rescue his fellow submariners he received burns over most of his body. For several days they fought off shark attacks and exposure to the sun. Frank Delgado was decorated for his heroism and for the injuries he sustained in the war.

Later, in civilian life, Mr. D started and led a Boy Scout troop in the city of Watts. The troop was the first black scout troop in Los Angeles. A short documentary was made recalling his life and was broadcast in the early 1960's. Like so many of the adult leaders in the scouting movement, Frank Delgado gave unselfishly of his time in an attempt to build the character and to enhance the lives of young boys growing up in a confusing and dangerous world. Certainly, if one looks to people like him, a great deal can be harvested through his example.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Seven

It's odd to me that I still recall this old bastard. I remember how mean I thought he was, but could not refrain from listening to his old stories. One thing is for certain, thank goodness I have met very few people like him in my life.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART SEVEN

In 1969, and I suppose certainly now, being a Boy Scout was very difficult for a youngster of junior or high school age. Membership in the organization was generally kept secret from non-scouting friends and certainly from the girls with whom you attend class. There are many reasons for this, the greatest of which has to do with the uniform.

The scouting program is based on providing certain experiences and guidelines to young boys. These experiences; such as hiking, camping, and other outdoor activities help to build a boy physically and create a sense of self reliance and esteem. The scouting tenants of responsibility, honesty and providing aid to others are designed to create a positive moral basis. This is at a time in a youngster's life when many other influences are at work which can be destructive and oft times dangerous. Today there are controversies regarding the sexual preferences and religious beliefs of scouts and scouters that were not issues of concern in 1969. But for myself, the program was one in which I personally believe had a very positive effect on my life.

However, and perhaps unfortunately, scouting has many military influences that in the eyes of some people detract from the success of the program. Scouts spent time engaging in patriotic ceremonies, marching in formation, saluting and attempting to achieve certain ranks or badges. This influence was most apparent when you examined the emphasis on the wearing of the uniform. The uniform was designed to make all of the boys equal in dress, create a certain sense of "belonging," and discipline. During the late 1960's and early 70's anything related to military practices or anything resembling the armed forces were considered by many, especially by young people, as reflecting a negative model for anyone to embrace.

Not surprisingly then, many of the adult volunteer and professional scout leaders, “scouters,” had military service records. Although I held that the then current military presence in Southeast Asia as being reprehensible and morally corrupt, I was still drawn to the stories that these adults would relate to my eager ears. There were two older men that worked at the camp who captured my imagination and in the case of one individual captured my respect.

Tom Hardweld had been the camp's rifle range instructor for many years prior to my arrival as a staff member. Tom, or known simply as "Hardweld," was about one hundred and thirty seven years old, smoked hand rolled cigarettes and cursed the foulest language recorded in history. His skin had the appearance of a bran muffin with extra raisins, his legs were spindly and bowlegged and his right eye was completely white with cataracts. He could always be seen wearing one of the old fashioned Boy Scout "Campaign Hats," which he had rolled in a manner that more resembled a cowboy hat than any officially approved head gear. Despite his near blind condition he could hit a bull's-eye from twenty miles. His skill with firearms was absolutely bewildering and often took on legendary proportions.

Hardweld was at once frightening in appearance, abrasive in attitude and short in temper. Here was a man who proclaimed that children would make quite adequate target practice but spent every free moment working with them.

During the summer of '69 a new rifle range shelter was being built and Hardweld was found many times walking on the roof rafters twelve feet off of the ground much to the worry of everyone. On several occasions I would walk up to the range to bring him a cool drink and listen to his colorful memories.

He had spent a great deal of time in the armed services and had rode horses in the now non-existent Calvary. "I remember chasing Pancho Villa up and down the Mexican Border for weeks on end. That son-of-a-bitching Mexican was as clever as a coyote," he laughingly said. "Never did catch that brown bastard. It was like trying to catch a mouse with boxing gloves!" he added. He would pause, look me right in the eyes with that one clouded eye, and laugh out loud, hack and light up another cigarette. I never knew if he was testing my resolve to stay and listen or telling an out and out lie. Whenever I looked at him I recalled Edgar Allen Poe's story, "The Tale-Tell Heart," and the protagonist's obsession with his victim's evil eye.

"Why there was one time on an Arizona Indian Reservation that I had to hand out food and blankets to the Navajos. Those people couldn't speak a single word of English and the women were as ugly as I have ever seen." Continuing, "I tell you boy, it looked like a goddamned bread line."

Though I listened and sometimes smiled, I rarely added anything to these talks. His obviously racist attitudes bothered me greatly. And though I sought him out I never really liked the man.

One morning, Hardweld was walking on the roof of the near completed range shelter putting on shingles and fell about thirteen feet, unable to move. We placed him on a stretcher; all the while he was cursing and writing in pain.

"I need a smoke. Somebody give me a cigarette, somebody give me a god damned cigarette," he demanded.

Finally someone produced a lit Winston and placed it in his mouth. The curious thing is that the only people at the scene were staff members, none of which were allowed to have tobacco. As we were carrying him down the hill to the waiting ambulance, we noticed that he had dropped his hat. I found it lying on the ground near the place he had fallen and put it on my head. As he was being transported to the hospital I hung the hat over the fireplace in the main assembly hall for safekeeping.

We learned that he had broken a leg and his hip. He never left the hospital. Hardweld died several months later.

His belligerent, cantankerous attitude and hateful behavior was unwanted and unnecessary. He was probably a man of his time but the old bastard lived a bit longer than he should have. Fortunately, his hate died with him.