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"Foxtales From The Front Porch"


Prologue
Foxtales

By foxtale

There was a time when a family would gather,
perhaps on the front porch, to open the old photo album
and reminisce about times past.

This collection of "Foxtales" is about sharing some
of my family stories which you might discover to be both
unique and yet similar to your own.

Family lore was once shared among those gathered on the porch,
sitting on the top step, or gently rocking in the porch swing.
That was a time of bonding and for sharing stories told from the heart;
sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant and sometimes
filled with unintended surprises!  Those were often the best!

My own family still enjoys the tale of the Drive-in Banshees.  That story begins on a hot summer night, after the daily newspaper had noted that a movie based on Edgar Allen Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher" would be shown at the drive-in movie theater.  Dad was an ex-marine - he wouldn't be afraid- so we boys had talked him into making the drive-in trek that sweltering Saturday night.
.......Come, enjoy reading that story of the seven of us boys unaware of the fright that lay in wait!

There was also the time a very demanding High School teacher set aside his dog-eared copy of a classic novel to share a poignant story from his youth.  He told of his arrival at the prom, James Bond style, wearing a dinner jacket and driving a sports car.  The girls listened enraptured and madly in love with him, while the boys, well, we wavered between loathing and envy. 
........Come and read how he let us understand that he'd once been one of us.

Or, who could forget the Boy Scout outing where our tracking skills were pitted against a three-legged critter and a giant 'gator...
wait, how could there be a 'gator in a California river? Well...

...such are the Foxtales from the Front Porch.


(Although marked as 'complete' your comments and reviews are welcome, so read and enjoy!)


Chapter One: Two evil genius wannabees invent "The Broomstick and Rubberband Bazooka."


..

Author Notes Several of these stories were originally published fnasr in The Front Porch weekly periodical.


Chapter 1
Broomstick and Rubberband Bazooka

By foxtale

Junior High was out for the summer and the batteries in my transistor radio were dying. The latest Beach Boys hit was frustratingly fading in and out, so I was an easy mark when Donnie came over. He had free run of his old man's tool shed and what was a truly genius project in mind. We scavenged through the rafters of my dad's garage to find the necessary supplies - wire clamps, a discarded broom handle, and an old bicycle inner-tube.

Our treasures in hand, we headed for the tool shed. Soon we re-emerged with the best rubber-band bazooka of all time. Donnie test fired at a squawking blue-jay and discovered the large black bands sliced from the bicycle inner-tube were accurate out to 50 feet. But, we needed a more entertaining target that wouldn't flap away at the first 'zing!' Back then, folks still walked to the corner grocery, so we decided to climb the pump-house across from Bell's Market. From there we figured we could nail shoppers in their behinds as they rounded the corner, grocery bags in hand.

Donnie and I took turns firing until we finally zinged our first victim and the man reacted superbly! He jumped, then shifted his groceries to one hand and rubbed his rump with the other. He swore and jerked his head around looking for the hornet he thought had stung him. The shopper reentered the store and came back out with a clerk who poked at the awning looking for a hornet's nest. Donnie and I lay on the roof of the pump-house convulsing in suppressed laughter. Soon we were again peering over the side, waiting for our next target to exit the store.

Eventually we nailed another customer with the same effect as before, except this time they sent out the kid that sweeps up. He looked up at the awning, then down as his feet as he stepped on something. We saw him bend over and scoop up one of the spent rubber bands from the sidewalk. The kid glanced in our direction and we quickly ducked. Peeking over the edge of the roof we saw him take the band inside, then return with his broom to sweep up the rest. He didn't glance our way again so we thought we'd escaped detection - until the police cruiser's tires crunched on the gravel behind the pump-house. We peeked over the roof edge and saw a grizzled, pot-bellied sergeant and a spit-and-polish rookie climb out of the police car. "All right," barked the sarge, "climb on down with that peashooter!"

Donnie and I both had wobbly knees as we climbed down to meet our doom. The sergeant hooked his thumbs over his gun belt as the rookie snatched away our broomstick bazooka.

"Wow, Sarge," the rookie said in awe, "Look at this cannon! Pretty ingenious."

The sarge growled, "Seems pretty accurate too. Get their sack of ammo." Glaring at us the sarge barked, "All right you two, turn around and get your hands up against that wall!" Our hearts in our throats, Donnie and I obeyed, knowing we were about to be handcuffed and hauled away to jail. Behind us, the sarge barked an order, "Load up one of those bands."

We heard the rookie grunt as he stretched a band into firing position.

Then the sarge demanded, "Which of you geniuses thought up this weapon?"

Donnie stammered out a confession and the sarge called out, "Ready, Aim... FIRE!" I heard a 'zing,' then Donnie yelped and began hopping up and down, his hands still pressed to the pump-house wall.

Across the street, a roar of approval came from the store clerks and customers who'd gathered to watch our apprehension by the town's thin blue line.

The sarge growled at me, "How many folks did you shoot at?"

I squeaked out, "Four...but we only hit two."

The sarge ordered the rookie, "Count out four bands... apiece!" At the command "FIRE," I felt a pinching sting on my rump, and like Donnie, I began hopping up and down, my fingers clutching the brick wall, while the crowd across the street jeered their approval.

After the rookie had fired the rubber bands alternately into our backsides, the sarge marched us over to the curb. There he placed our broomstick bazooka across the curb edge and stomped the gun into pieces as the watching crowd cheered.

"Head for home," the sarge bellowed, "and if I catch either of you up to mischief again I'll pin every unsolved crime in the county on the two of you! Now SCRAM!"

Donnie and I shot down the sidewalk at a full run, and we didn't slow until the crowd's laughter had faded from earshot.

"You gonna tell your folks," Donnie asked.

"Nope," I replied, "You?"

Rubbing his bottom, Donnie answered emphatically, "No way!" We walked on in silence for a bit, and then Donnie said, "You know, if we had a half dollar apiece, we could go swimming down at the pool."

I thought this over for a moment, then said, "Robison's cashes in empty soda bottles, and there's some next to the freezer in our garage."

Our life of hard crime cut short, Donnie and I spent the summer at the municipal swimming pool, alternating between watching girls and taunting the cannon-ball divers sitting out their misdemeanors on the knuckle-head bench.


...jfox...
Chapter Two continues the saga of this hapless middleschooler when I discover my place, or was misplacement, in the universe...

Author Notes Originally published fnasr in The Front Porch periodical


Chapter 2
I Am 'The Missing Link.'

By foxtale

The year I entered junior high, I discovered that I was 'The Missing Link' in the evolution of man.

That fall a cheesy carnival had come to our town and pitched its tents and booths in the parking lot of a closed-up store whose owner hoped to make a few extra bucks. So, on a Saturday night, off I went to the carnival with several friends.

Among all the wacky sideshow booths was one with canvas curtains painted as a jungle scene, and a large plywood box that parted the curtains. There was a brightly painted sign that read, "Neither Human Nor Ape, The Mysterious 'Missing Link' May Be Safely Seen Through Our Protective Viewing Port," and an arrow pointed to a dinner-plate sized hole cut into the box.

A black rubber ring encircled the hole in the plywood and a tiny wooden wheel on a short piece of dowel rod stuck out of the box to one side of the ring. Inside of the hole was a filmy sheet of glass mounted on some sort of spindle.

I peered in, but I couldn't quite see through the glass. However, I could see a tiny sign inside that read, "Use wheel to focus." As soon as I turned the little wheel, the filmy glass rotated aside. Then I could see a jungle scene, which I realized was actually a mirror reflecting what had been painted on the inside of the plywood box through which I was looking. Also glued to the plywood was a wrinkly, furry, pot-bellied, monkey-like body dressed in a leopard-skin toga. Reflected above the toga and below a top-knot of hair wrapped around a chicken bone, was the cut-out through which my face now peered at the mirror - making ME the missing link!

It was hokey but funny.

What was even funnier, (but unknown to those of us who happened to view the box while accompanied by friends lacking any sense of loyalty,) was that the rubber ring against which one's face pressed had been smeared over with black mascara! So, off I went through the carnival, with a black ring encircling my face, gawking at all the giggling girls like some red-neck mime.

That was a long, long time ago. But the other day, returning from the shower, wrapped in a towel, I caught a glimpse of my aged, pot-bellied, hairy body reflected in the mirror and wouldn't you know, the memory of that carnival night with my old friends flooded back.

Yes, I'll definitely have to 'get' those old friends.


...jfox...

Chapter Two - Carnivals can be fun, but a trip to the Drive-in horror show is altogether different...

Author Notes ooo eee ooo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang


Chapter 3
The Rodeo Kids

By foxtale

I grew up in California's Central Valley in a family of seven boys. With such a large family, my folks usually tried to find something entertaining but affordable and nearby. Sometimes we ended up going out to the La Grange Rodeo. That was back in the day when they were lucky to get a crowd of four hundred or so spectators. Nowadays while it is still not expensive, it takes law enforcement from two counties as well as the highway patrol just to handle the crowds and all the traffic.

One year the rodeo sponsors were pretty excited to have pre-sold 500 tickets so they pulled out all the stops to put on a grand opening parade on Rodeo Day. The cowgirls on their barrel racer horses escorted the Rodeo Queen around the arena at a full gallop, the US, California and Rodeo Club flags whipping back and forth on the staffs several of them gripped as they raced by. After circling the arena the riders galloped through a figure-eight pattern with the flags crisscrossing at the center point and then they lined up side by side as the announcer asked the crowd to stand while a quartet of boys and girls from the local chapter of Future Farmers of America sang our national anthem. As the last notes faded from the P.A. megaphones, the crowd cheered and the flag bearers raced for the gate out of the arena. As they exited, we saw the Rodeo Queen had stayed in the center, astride her horse which was pawing the ground as she gave the crowd the famous wrist-swivel Rodeo Queen wave. The crowd clapped and cheered appreciatively and over in the cheap seats seven boys stood up on the bleachers and waved their red straw, sheriff-star-bedecked, cowboy hats.

After the Rodeo Queen departed, a bareback rider entered the arena to the announcer certifying that he was a second cousin to a real Texas Ranger. Dressed in buckskins with rawhide fringe the rider bounced up and over his horse from side to side, sometimes running, sometimes riding, as the mustang raced around the arena. In a concerned voice, Mom commented, "That looks awfully dangerous," and Dad explained, "That rider is dressed head to toe in tanned buckskin to save his own hide if he falls or gets dragged behind the horse." The thrill of that implied danger made the act even more exciting in our juvenile minds.

The next act was billed as a dancing horse and when the rider entered, we kids were sure from his fancy black sombrero, embroidered vest and silver trimmed saddle that he had to be The Cisco Kid. The announcer doused our excitement by identifying the rider as a local roofing contractor. While his horse trotted sideways then backed up just fine and paced in rhythm to mariachi music, for us kids, pounding nails into shingles just didn't measure up to chasing down rustlers or shooting pistols out of the hands of corrupt Federales. So we were quite critical and scoffed each time we spotted his almost imperceptible signals to his horse. The Cisco Kid didn't have to signal his horse, his horse was smart, it just knew what to do.

The last presentation, before the rodeo events started, we knew would be showing off the bull riders' belt buckle. To be sure, the Rodeo Bullfighting Clowns brought out their padded barrel and reached inside to pull out and display the big silver buckle that would be awarded the winner of the bull riding contest. But, in the middle of that bit of showmanship, a Billy-goat suddenly darted into the arena. He stopped and looked around as the crowd roared in surprise. Then spotting an open gate on the far side the goat turned and trotted toward it. The clowns immediately stuffed the buckle back into their barrel and raced with it across the arena to block the goat's path. Then to the delight of all of the kids in attendance the announcer explained that right after the wild bronco riding, there would be a goat race in which any kid who caught the goat before he reached the safety of the gate could TAKE HIM HOME!

Conferring among ourselves, we Fox boys realized our days of mowing our huge backyard with the old push mower were about over. If we could catch that goat, we'd lay back in luxury in the hammock as the goat grazed the lawn to perfection. Just as we were pestering Dad for the entry fee the goat decided that no clown was going to block his path. Wiggling his tail, he stomped the ground with his front feet then reared up on his hindquarters and launched a full, head ducked, horns forward, charge at the nearest clown. True to his training the clown dodged to the side and dove into the barrel for safety. The goat hit that barrel head on and it rocked but didn't topple over. Then as no bull had ever done, that Billy-goat placed his front feet on the barrel rim, raised up and looked inside! The crowd roared in laughter and the barrel lifted up a few inches to where we could see the clown's cleated track shoes, as he began to shuffle off in the barrel, headed for the exit gate. The goat, recognizing that he had the clown on the run, began butting the barrel at each step as the clown picked up the pace until he was running as fast as one can in a barrel.

Over the laughter of the crowd the announcer explained that since that old grandpa goat didn't seem like he would cooperate with anybody trying to catch him, they would also turn loose five little goat kids for the goat chase at the midpoint of the rodeo. Too late Dad realized he'd already agreed to send the three oldest of us kids into the arena!

For the next hour and a half we silently cheered for the calves that got loose from the lariats and the broncos that bucked their riders off early. Every second lost by a cowboy meant we were just that much closer to catching our four-footed lawnmower and living the life of Riley!

Then joy of joys, the goat race was announced and we scrambled down to the starting line drawn in the sand. And we had a plan! If we could grab that Billy-goat by the horns he couldn't butt us!

As soon as the gate was opened the little goat kids shot out like bullets and the big old Billy-goat trotted out to the delight of the crowd. A swarm of cowboy hatted kids headed straight toward that old goat. He just trotted on toward the safety of the far gate and then, just as the crowd of young goat wranglers caught up to him, he whirled, raised up on his hind quarters and with his front feet folded under, ready for the attack, he shook his horns. Like a river meeting an unmovable rock, the crowd split and flowed around the goat, changing the target to the smaller, less menacing goat kids. We too, eyeballing the shaking horns and angry eyes of the Billy-goat, changed our plan and turned with the surging crowd to set out after the little goats. Above the laughter of the audience we could hear Mom's voice. She was screaming over and over "Run kids, run! For heaven's sake run like the dickens! Run, kids, RUN!"

Out in the arena I began to realize goats have their eyes on the sides of their heads so they can actually see behind. Every time someone got within arm's length of any one of those juvenile goats it would veer off like a running rabbit, immediately changing direction and escaping until, one by one, each made the safety of the far gate. The old Billy-goat simply took his time trotting toward the gate, turning every so often to snort at some chasers who'd then flee up and over the nearest fence rail to the delight of the rodeo crowd.
Sadly and in defeat we returned to the bleachers. Crestfallen, we apologized to Mom explaining we'd heard her yelling and yelling at us to run.

"Boys," my dad said, and we turned to see him tapping a cigarette on his thumbnail. That action usually preceded his popping the cigarette into the corner of his mouth as he fumbled through his pockets for a match. Then just as he'd strike the match he'd make some profound, or sometimes wry, observation. "Boys," he repeated, "I think you should know, your mother was actually yelling AT THE GOATS."

Author Notes Published October 2012 in Heritage Writers Community chapbook "Espuelas -Silver Spurs, Saddles and Buckaroos"
part of HWC's Haggin Museum project


Chapter 5
The Drive-in Banshees

By foxtale

The drive-in movie theater was gone. Instead, in its place stood a three-story shopping mall.

From atop the highway off-ramp I could see the mall in my hometown one Saturday. I was stuck in traffic gridlock on my way to visit Mom at "the old homestead." My dad is gone now, and basically so is the town where our family grew up. Oh, it's still on the map, but it's not my Dad's town; not even my town anymore. The orchard that used to be across the street from our house is now a subdivision, seven miles inside the city limits. And there are other changes too, such as that shopping mall where the drive-in movie theater used to be.

Overlooking that dramatic change, I thought back to that time of innocence in our recent history, when so many soldiers returned from war to build the peacetime prosperity my generation enjoyed. So many, like my Dad, had put away the sabers of war, to quietly take on those mundane duties required of the generation that populated the growing suburbs of the late fifties, and early sixties. For many of these men and women, planning missions was replaced with household budgeting. And the only operational logistics they now faced were the competing demands on their time by Little League, Scouts, swim meets and neighborhood barbecues - all of the typical demands of raising children. This was to be a daunting task for so many whose own childhood had been stolen by the Great Depression and the war years. But with the courage born of their baptism by war, that generation set out to conquer these new demands with hard work and an undying faith in the future. And, they were heroes, all.

Dad had flown a Corsair providing ground support in the Korean War and had medals with ribbons in his sock drawer, so we kids figured Dad was a hero. But our neighbors knew Dad was a hero whenever the first warm Saturday night rolled around after school was out for the summer. Dad would hose off the station wagon, wash the windshield, fold down the back seat, load in some sleeping bags, and round up us "Banshees" for the trek to the horror show at the drive-in movie. "Banshees," those wailing harbingers of doom, was the nickname our Irish grandmother had given us kids. Just perhaps, it was quite fitting; "Ben and Betty Jean have seven kids," the neighbors marveled, "All boys, and Ben's going to make the drive-in run tonight!"

The drive-in movie routine never varied. Mom would get out the stove-top popcorn popper and draft one of the taller boys to keep shaking the handle, until a huge aluminum ice bucket would be brimming over with popped corn. Dad used to look at that bucket, wink at Mom, and then sigh. I once heard him tell a visiting friend that back when there were dinner parties and Saturday night card games, that bucket used to chill martini shakers or something called "French Seventy-Fives." Then Dad had given that sigh, and said of course that had been when there were only two or three kids in the family. But now, the ice bucket was reserved for this summertime popcorn ritual.

Once the bucket was full, we'd pile into the station wagon, and Dad would back it down the driveway. I used to think Mom wished she could come too, because she'd stand on the porch, a brave smile on her face, as the tears welled up in her eyes. Years later I would recognize those same teary-eyed smiles on my wife's face, whenever I volunteered to take our children away on some "just Dad-and-kid's" outing.

Dad's station wagon didn't have air-conditioning, so we'd roar off with the windows cranked down, the road noise drowning out the bickering for seating positions. The next stop was the root beer stand, the one with the big root beer mug rotating on the roof. Dad always insisted that the root beer was "fresh-brewed" in that mug, but even the youngest of us recognized that it was just a painted sheet-metal tank with a stove-pipe handle. There we'd buy one of those big "family-size" jugs of root beer. Then we were off on the final run, trying to get to the drive-in before sundown, so we could play on the swing set and giant slide up near the screen until the show started or the bullies and mosquitoes ran us off.

One summer night, the newspaper noted that Edgar Allen Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher" was playing. Dad was an ex-marine - he wouldn't be afraid- so we talked him into making the drive-in trek. The night was sweltering. Heat radiated from the gravel hillocks of the drive-in. Most of us got out of the car to sit on the front bumper. We couldn't really hear the window speaker, so the sound coming from the bull-horns below the movie screen added an eerie echo to the show.

We huddled together on the bumper, as the coffin lid up on the screen began to shudder and strain against the clinking chains wrapped around it. Our youngest brother had stayed in the car on the sleeping bags spread across the folded down back seat. But now he scrambled forward into Dad's lap for safety. The coffin lid creaked, then slowly lifted an inch. Suddenly, bloody fingers clawed through that opening! On the bumper we gasped and huddled closer, and in the car, our youngest brother pushed away from the steering wheel in fright.

Now when someone sits on a car bumper, watching a horror movie, they are only inches away from a horn that is activated by someone pushing the steering wheel hub. Our feet didn't wait to find the source of that sudden blaring sound - they just started running!

In my hometown, the debate lingered long over who had been the most frightened; the boys sitting on the bumper, or the folks in the rows of cars up front who were first startled by some idiot honking and then once more by the flock of screaming banshees running past.

I was in my mid-twenties before I realized... Dad honked that horn!


...jfox...

Author Notes Originally written as a birthday dedication for my dad's 75th. And re-read, with the first two paragraphs added, as a recollection a few years later at his funeral. I am glad I took that risk of presenting it earlier at a joyous celebration. Published in The Front Porch Periodical 2014 and reprinted in Nostalgia Magazine.


Chapter 6
Fisherman, Farmer and a Cook

By foxtale

The aftermath of World War Two was a time of great change for many countries, but perhaps those winds of change were already blowing before the war. Our own "greatest generation" struggled through childhood in the Great Depression, and then faced a baptism by war. But that economic depression was world wide, and most nations were also drawn into the war. National boundaries and old ways were in many cases changed forever.

My late father once told of his introduction into the changing "mind-set" of a different culture while he was on occupation duty on the Japanese island of Okinawa. A young Okinawan who was hired to cook for the US Marine pilots explained that he could become a cook because his own father had broken the long ancestral line of fishermen. Even as a child this young man realized that was very different from the culture of honor and ancestry into which his father was born.

The young Okinawan explained to the American pilots that one summer, as a child aboard his grandfather's fishing boat, he had announced his intention to become a cook, not a farmer like his father, nor a fisherman. His grandfather, who hoped to return the generations to fishing was saddened and had asked if the young boy knew why his father had broken the family tradition. The boy had replied, "Father says the sea is unforgiving and so he wished always to stay on dry land."

The old man pondered this and then had said "At last I understand why your father has become a farmer. He does not understand the sea, for it is neither forgiving nor unforgiving; the sea is just the sea." Then, sadly, the old man had said, "Now you will follow a new path,but it is your path to follow," and had given his blessing for his grandson to become a cook.

The American pilots soon learned this young Okinawan was far more than a simple cook, for he quickly adopted the roles of cultural mentor and demanding instructor in the kitchen. Before their tour of duty was over, there wasn't a pilot in the squadron who hadn't learned how to set a table and prepare at least one garnish or entree. These Naval officers often joked that in the kitchen they were all outranked by a cook.

Freed from the restraints of the old ways, this young Okinawan was in many ways a prelude to the changing post-war world.

...jfox...


Chapter 7
Mixed Signals

By foxtale

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.

_
The Photo: Released by D.O.D.
The Warplane: F4U Vought Corsair.
Wingspan: 41 feet.
Loaded Weight with Fuel and Armament: 14,669 pounds.
The Pilot: United States Marine Corps Captain Ben Fox; my dad.

My dad was called back into the service during the Korean Conflict, now often called "the forgotten war." Dad had phenomenal navigation skills and had flown many different planes as a Navy Aviator during World War Two. However when the Korean Conflict began, it wasn't Dad's navigational skills but his expertise with the propeller driven Vought Corsair that the Marines needed, and they offered him an officer's commission as a Marine aviator. I wondered if that day was on Dad's mind when in later years he warned us kids wryly, "Often the first sign of danger is when someone offers you an up-front reward. You had better read the fine print several times!"

Dad, like most everybody in our country at the time, did not fully realize the dire straits into which the U.S. Marines had plunged on the Korean peninsula. His squadron of prop driven fighters and dive bombers arrived in Korea to discover they were to provide close air-to-ground support for troops fighting in desperate hand-to-hand combat in sub-zero temperatures. In the macabre humor born among men facing death, one of his fellow flyers called this duty "Crop dusting the harvests of Hell!"

In later years, sipping from a snifter of Brandy or glass of Scotch, Dad would describe the hazards of flying at hill top level on strafing and bombing runs so close to enemy troops that he could see the muzzle flashes from rifles and as he claimed, "Where I could tell which of them wore eye-glasses and which didn't." We knew he wasn't exaggerating, because after a second Scotch he'd quietly add, "Over the years I've named each one of those sorry S.O.B.'s." But when he'd set out for Korea, Dad had a different view and expectations of that "forgotten war."

Dad was lucky. While most of the public was vaguely aware of an overseas war going on and newspaper reports about the troops would be published somewhere behind the ads for new Buicks and Frigidaire appliances, Dad was claimed by two towns as a 'local boy' at the front. His picture ran front page in his Modesto, California hometown newspaper and at the same time another photo appeared in the newspaper in Hutchinson, Kansas where he'd met and married Mom. But Mom hated both photographs, probably because of the fact that Dad had just finished college and now had a wife and three kids to support on a Marine's salary. And unlike rest of the country, she understood this 'policing action' was an all out shooting war.

Dad, however, had a favorite of the two photographs. The first showed him in his cockpit checking his instrument panel before taking off on a mission. But the second, which was his favorite, showed him in his leather flying jacket and silk scarf, leaning against the tail of his warplane. This photo hung in his home office and he rarely discussed it, especially around Mom, but one time I was privy to the story behind the photograph.

An old service buddy had dropped by and eventually he and Dad had drifted into the office. I followed them and melted into the background to eavesdrop on their war stories. Dad pointed to the photo, "That's not the picture I originally wanted," he said, "in fact I had hoped to make a keepsake for the wife and kids, but you know the service..." he'd paused and his buddy laughed and finished the sentence, "The old Snafu!" Then Dad described his original suggestion.

"I wanted to stand in front of the plane, so as to get a photo of the famous 'inverted gull wing' of the Corsair. I also wanted a signal flag in the background; the fox flag, signaling my name. As the photographer jotted this down a Navy 'Chief,' obviously unhappy at being assigned to a Marine Air Station, just exploded! He slammed his clipboard down and, to the delight of a grinning Navy Signalman, he snarled 'God save us from Flying Leathernecks! Only a Jarhead wouldn't understand that a front shot of the Corsair would disclose the aircraft's armament to the enemy; and that signal flag! My God! Sailor wouldn't you read that as flight operations under way? That's if we're on a carrier, which we aren't, and which can only be ordered up by the 'ol man' who's posted no such instruction!' By then the 'Chief' was purple with rage. And that," Dad had tipped his glass towards the photo on the wall, "is how I ended up leaning against the tail of my Corsair."

Dad's buddy chuckled and said, "Nowadays if you'd asked for the 'Foxtrot' flag, and 'Oscar', and 'X-ray' it still wouldn't spell 'Fox.' You'd be signaling 'I am disabled! Man overboard! Stop, wait for signals!' Not exactly the message to send out to a potential widow!" They'd both laughed, then Dad's expression had turned serious as he asked, "Bettyjean always sees a cocky Marine flyboy, what do you see?"

Dad's war buddy had stared at the photograph, then, raising his glass of Scotch he'd answered, "I see a Warrior! Ben, we were all young warriors! Semper Fi!" Dad had replied, "Semper Fi," and then they'd clinked their glasses in a Marines' toast to all of the young warriors from that forgotten war fought so long ago.

...jfox...

Author Notes Originally published in The Front Porch periodical for Veterans Day 2004.


Chapter 8
Mentor - The Very Cool Mister Rath

By foxtale

Oh, but David Rath was cool. Much too cool to be teaching English at my high school during the late sixties. But there he was that Monday morning, dapper as ever; modest gray tie, (matching the gray that streaked his temples,) penny loafers and authentic English Tweed jacket complete with leather elbow patches.

David Rath refused to acknowledge that he taught Junior English; the class was Masterpiece Literature and he was "Mister Rath," our instructor. The girls were madly in love with him; and the boys, well, we wavered between loathing and envy.

Monday mornings we were always at our desks, nervously watching the door, where just at the bell Mister Rath would burst in, winded from his frantic dash from the teachers' smoking lounge. But that morning we were lucky; he did not have our pitiful submissions from Friday tucked beneath his arm! Mister Rath opened the coat closet, lifted out a drafting stool and placed it alongside his desk. Then he perched upon it and surveyed the room, scowling until the whispers stopped.

Mister Rath set aside his dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, and asked, "Would someone please explain why we are so chatty this Monday morning?" One brave girl raised her hand, and Mister Rath nodded permission to speak. "The Winter Formal is Friday, and the Junior Class will do all the decorating," she gushed in excitement. Mister Rath arched an eyebrow, pondering this statement for a moment. "Ah, the Winter Formal... Promenades... the Junior-Senior Prom," he said in an almost wistful tone. Then with a wry smile he announced, "I was not always the debonair man you see before you! In fact, to attend my Junior Prom, I had to borrow a dinner jacket and a car."

The girls were incredulous, and each boy that had his own car, (even Jerry, whose junker was perpetually parked in front of Auto Shop,) let a sneer flicker across his lips. But the rest of us warily watched Mister Rath's eyes. There it was - that flicker of flame - then he pounced!

"Of course, it was a Triumph Convertible, ruby red, with a dove-gray ragtop!" The girls sighed, the sneers faded, and Jerry slouched further down in his chair.

Mister Rath seemed to gaze into the distant past as he continued. "I spent hours waxing that auto, removing ages of oxidized paint, until it glowed like a ruby chariot! Then, I examined the gray 'rag-top' and found it truly was but rags! Searching every hardware store in town, I finally found 'Mystik Cloth Tape' in the same color-tone as the top and proceeded to patch every rent in the fabric. As if to test my handiwork, the skies released a deluge the moment I finished, but my repairs held fast!"

Mister Rath, still recalling that long ago evening in that by-gone era; described his arrival at the Junior Prom. "That night I was a demi-god in white dinner jacket and silk bow-tie; my prom date, a vision in peach silk and chiffon. The other drivers would honk and flash their lights in homage as I hurtled my ruby red chariot over the storm lashed streets! I steered through the motley throng of fellow students rushing towards the Gymnasium, and pulled up to disembark my radiant cargo. Everyone stopped and stared as I emerged from my chariot, so aptly named Triumph! The girls froze with mouths agape at the Adonis that leapt from the auto. And the boys were pointing and grinning from ear to ear in acknowledgement that David Rath had arrived in style!" Our class sat in rapt attention as Mister Rath continued his narrative.

"I bounded around the auto to open the door for my date, and there..." Mister Rath's face froze in horror, and deep from within his chest an agonized moan rumbled forth; the same hideous moan that had introduced us to Heathcliff alone on the moor. "Mocking me, " he gasped, "dripping with the vile muck of the storm ravaged streets!" Mister Rath threw back his head; his eyes squeezed shut in anguish as he rasped, "There! Locked outside the door of that auto, with its cursed nameplate 'Triumph.' There, black with oil and grit! A full six inches of silken hem on a now ruined prom gown!"

In the stunned silence of the classroom, Mister Rath staggered towards his desk, shoulders sagging in defeat. His features ashen, he clawed at his copy of Wuthering Heights, then turned and meekly climbed back upon his stool.

His gaze averted, Mister Rath adjusted the knot in his modest gray tie, tugged at the sleeve of his authentic English Tweed jacket, and drew in a ragged breath. Then with fire in his eyes he faced us, and in Churchillian voice bawled out, "Know this about adolescence; You Will Survive!"

Oh, but David Rath was cool!

...jfox...

Chapter Five - There were also times another mentor, my dad, quietly taught us about the world, such as his observation of a young Okinawan cook in the aftermath of World War Two...

Author Notes In later years I discovered "Mister Rath" told this story each year at a seemingly serendipitous moment; oh what a showman!
Published fnasr in The Front Porch periodical


Chapter 9
Fire and Ice

By foxtale

Author Note:Flickering candles, that water glass (oops) still, true love.

The love of my life married me. We are now three decades into our marriage, but the fact that Marsha married me is still a surprise when I think back to that fateful evening at that restaurant.

Although we were both in college and money was tight, I was able to find a nice restaurant that was within my budget. And luckily we had been seated in a cozy booth with a romantic candle flickering in the table top centerpiece.

I guess the waitress there must have recognized that we were a young couple out on a dinner date. For, although she professionally attended to our needs, she didn't hover around our table as we engaged in the small talk and nervous banter of two people getting to know each other.

We had been on a few dates and I really liked Marsha, but she wasn't being very talkative so I was nervous, hoping the evening was going well. Then while Marsha seemed to be listening attentively to my meanderings, I picked up that fateful water-glass.

I have always had a bad habit of sipping the water out of a glass until I can toss back the bits of ice to munch on. And that's what I did on our second date. But, perhaps our waitress was a little too efficient for I swear I had not seen her come by and refill my water glass!

--BOOOOSH!-- I tossed a whole glass of ice-water into my face.

Marsha held out, stone faced for about twenty seconds then with a gasp at having suppressed her laughter, she exploded into laughter. Then still giggling, with tears in her eyes, she dabbed at my face and shirt with her napkin.

It must have been love at first splash, because she married me anyway! And sometimes, when we are out to dinner at a table with a flickering candle, I swear I see a twinkle in Marsha's eye whenever a waitress asks if she may refill our water glasses.

...jfox...

Chapter Eight - I don't need ice water to get me into trouble; a cup of coffee and a donut will do just fine too...

Author Notes Publsihed fnasr in The Front Porch periodical


Chapter 10
The Coffee Monkey

By foxtale

I am happily married, but it took a new puppy to remind me that humor helps keep a marriage happy. Actually; humor, morning coffee and a bit of give and take.

Our old dog had passed on a while ago, so we've got a new dog now. By new, I mean new to us. It is a puppy and we are its first owners, but it's basically the same "old" type of dog that will learn only the standard "old" tricks. We have been teaching the dog to sit, stay, speak, and shake hands. But I know in my heart I will never be able to teach it to make the morning coffee. In a way, that is o.k. with me, because I'd learned something about my marriage after our old dog died.

I've been married to Marsha, the love of my life, for 33 years. As our children are five years apart, we've found ourselves still raising kids into this 21st century. Last winter our old dog passed away at age 15 (105 in dog years). Our kids had always had that dog around, so the loss left a big gap when they visit. This spring our daughter, who is our last child at home and a junior in high school, suggested we get another dog. I said maybe we'd think about it - and added under my breath "but not very hard" as I mentally calculated how long we'd have the dog after she leaves home. But for several weeks she kept bringing up the subject whenever she'd run into me in the kitchen during her mad morning dash to grab breakfast and head off to school.

I am in the habit of getting up each morning and fixing the coffee for Marsha and myself. When our old dog was still alive, I'd also let it out and dish up the dog food while I waited for the coffee to finish perking. Then I'd glance at the weekly calendar on the 'fridge to see if I needed to get down one, or two, coffee mugs. Marsha had recently taken on a new job where she sometimes worked an early schedule, and sometimes late. On mornings when she could sleep in, she liked to take her coffee later.

One morning as I got up I joked that maybe instead of getting the dog, we should have gotten a monkey and trained it to make the morning coffee. As I exited the bedroom and headed for the kitchen, Marsha's voice, muffled by the covers snuggled over her head, echoed after me,
"I do have a trained monkey that makes the morning coffee!" I smiled, happy to know she still appreciates me after all these years.

Author Notes Originally published in The Front Porch Periodical, reprinted in the Heritage Writers Community Haggin Project chapbook, "Affectionately Yours"


Chapter 11
The A-Team Cake and Old Buster Dog

By foxtale

Quite some years ago my wife, Marsha, and I were able to rescue our son's birthday cake in a manner that would have made George Peppard and the "A-Team" pretty darn proud.

At the time our son Jason turned ten, he and most of the neighbor kids were crazy about the TV series, "The A-Team," which starred actor George Peppard and wrestler Mister T as hard-fighting, renegade soldiers-of-fortune. Each week this team of modern-day Robin Hoods would rescue downtrodden citizens using their wits, ingenuity and maximum Hollywood firepower with blazing guns, car chases and explosions; just the type of TV series any young boy would enjoy. The team always escaped in Mister T's seemingly indestructible black van with the villainous Colonel Decker and his Army jeep left far behind.

So, when it came time to pick out our son's birthday cake, Jason decided that he wanted an A-Team cake! Marsha placed our order for an A-Team decoration with the supermarket's bakery section and when she picked up the cake we were happy with the results. Across the top of the cake a miniature black van careened on two wheels along a chocolate frosting road. A tiny split rail fence zigzagged alongside the road which snaked crookedly across green fields and past frosting-puff bushes and plastic trees. Marsha placed the cake on our china hutch with the pink cake-box lid propped open to prevent the trees from being pressed down into the cake. We then set about decorating the dining area with balloons, cake and ice cream plates and other festive items. With less than a half an hour before the guests were to arrive, disaster struck in the form of my in-law's dog, Buster.

Jason had dutifully walked his grandma and her dog, Buster, up to the front porch and then had gone back down the walk to boss his little brother around and watch for his friends to arrive. Back at the porch, as soon as Buster came through the front door he sidestepped grandma and rushed across the room in a beeline for the cake box! As he thrust his head under the propped up lid, we all yelled for Buster to stop and I made a mad dash to grab him, but it was too late. As I pulled the dog away from the box, he was licking frosting from his whiskers and there was a long furrow nibbled across the front edge of the cake.

"We could turn the cake around," I said. But Marsha surveyed the damage and grabbing a knife she cut away the ruined edge of the cake.

"Quick," she said, "I'll whip up some frosting while you run to the store and get some candy rocks that we can use to create a landslide on the front of this cake!"

At the store I couldn't find candy rocks, so I scooped up some large gumdrops, chocolate kisses and anything else I thought could pass for rocks and boulders on a birthday cake. As I reached the checkout stand, right at eye level was a toy that would save the day! Shrink-wrapped on a cardboard backing was a miniature Army jeep and one of those little penny toy soldiers. It wasn't just any soldier, either; it was the aircraft spotter that holds binoculars to his eyes as he scans the skies for the enemy! He was the perfect soldier for my mission!

When I arrived back home, I helped Marsha strategically place "boulders" down the face of the newly frosted landslide and I balanced the Army jeep on the rocks and frosting rubble below. Marsha repositioned the van just past a sharp turn in the road where I pushed over a section of the fence. We finished putting the candles in place just as Jason and a crowd of boys rushed in the door.

"All right," Jason crowed with satisfaction as he got his first look at the A-Team cake.

"Hey, look," said one of the guests, "Mister T's van made the turn but Decker didn't!" The boys all whooped with glee as they spotted the villain standing on a boulder next to his crashed jeep, watching through his binoculars as the A-Team escaped once again.

"Eat dust, Decker," Jason snarled and the boys all chortled in delight.

"Where did you get this cake?" asked one of the boys, "I want one for my birthday!"

Marsha cast a sidelong glance at me and with a wink she answered, "It's a special order, you'd better have your mom call me."

It was several years before Jason learned the reason his mom and I had burst into laughter when later that day he had asked, "Could Buster have some cake?"


..jfox..


Chapter 12
Gramps Loved That Dog

By foxtale

My in-laws had a dog named Buster that they originally got as a pup. When the vet saw the dog, he assumed from its coloring that it was a Beagle. So that old hound grew up to the size and strength of a German Shepherd while masquerading as a Beagle.

Although Grampa loved that dog, Buster just couldn't behave. Like the time he chewed a hole in the fence and stuck his head through to bark at the mail carrier.
The carrier took out his mace, and as reported by a neighbor, walked over and sprayed the dog. Zoop, back goes Buster's head through the fence. Off starts the mail carrier to finish his rounds, when, WHAMMMO, out through the shattering boards comes SUPER-BUSTER; HOUND FROM HELL, with foamy froth from the spray all over his snout! Buster chased down and cornered the letter carrier on his jeep top! Then, baying in pain from being sprayed again, off raced Buster to the nearby park where he jumped into the lake.
We later learned that the Dog-pound squad was summoned and tried to fish him out, but he obviously got away and sneaked back home. Luckily the Post Office and Dog Pound didn't realize they were dealing with the same mutt!

That dog never did know his own strength. One time Buster chased a cat under a car and went right on under after it. Unfortunately, Grandpa had tried to keep Buster under control by looping the leash around his wrist and palm and he got pulled halfway under the car too! The neighbors all bit their lips, trying not to laugh, as a greasy, road-tarred man came marching down the street swearing like a sailor! At his side was a hang dog that slinked along not making eye contact with anyone!

Whenever anyone says they have the world's worst dog, I know they don't!
My in-laws had the one and only!

..jfox..


Chapter 13
Staremaster

By foxtale

A few years ago when I was supposed to be walking for exercise, I happened to run into a buddy of mine who convinced me to come with him to the nearby coffee shop where we each ordered a cup of coffee and a donut,then sat down at one of the booths. As we talked and sipped at our coffee, I had a full view of the street through the shop's window. I noticed that across the street a really buff fitness guru type was jogging along the sidewalk. With real macho styling, he'd removed his shirt to show off his chiseled abs.

As Mister Macho jogged along he glanced across the street to see if this chick jogging in the other direction was gazing in adoration at his Adonis body. Then, 'whang,' he hit one of those diagonal cables that brace telephone poles. The impact literally suspended him in mid stride. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around the cable but his momentum caused him to do a spin and a half around the cable as he clutched it close. I guess the sun was reflecting off of the shop's windows, because he didn't spot any of us inside as he jumped back, then whipped his head left and right, checking to see if anybody had seen his collision with the cable.

I hadn't noticed my slightly out of shape friend sitting with me was also watching until he growled, "I hope that pulled out his chest hair." We both guffawed as did a half a dozen other patrons. Then we went back to drinking our coffee and eating the donuts, having known all along that jogging can be dangerous.

...jfox...

Author Notes Up one and two and lift and dunk!
This shorty was published by the Big Rapids Biz Journal, I guess a coffee shop was opening there, or a gym with treadmills for safer jogging!


Chapter 14
The Magical Mariachi Band

By foxtale

On an ocean cruise to Mexico, when we arrived at Ensenada, my wife and I got off the ship at the dock where a wonderful Mariachi band was playing a lively and spirited Mexican tune. All of a sudden, the musicians stopped playing in mid strain and rushed over to a waiting minivan where they proceeded to cram themselves in, instruments, sombreros and all! Then, with a roar of the engine, the minivan lurched off, zipping haphazardly around a departing limousine and disappearing around a corner.

When we reached the bottom of the gang plank, members of the ship's crew were there to bid us enjoy our day ashore. I commented to a crew member that it was very odd for the Mariachi's to have stopped playing so abruptly and disappear into the minivan while there were still passengers disembarking. He stared a me for a moment then burst into laughter.

"Oh no," he chuckled, "they weren't here to play for disembarking passengers! A wedding couple just got off the ship and the groom had hired the band to serenade them as they got into the limo. Now I guess the band has to get to the honeymoon suite ahead of the limo, so they can serenade the couple's arrival there."

Oh.

"Well, frankly," I muttered mostly to myself, "I think it is cheap of the cruise line not to hire Mariachi's to greet all of the passengers."

I still feel silly for having waved so heartily at the band.

..jfox..

Author Notes That's MISTER Tourist, to you.


Chapter 16
Fly The Thirsty Skies

By foxtale

Some years ago I was one of the scoutmasters taking a Boy Scout troop of forty boys from the west coast to the national jamboree held in Virginia. Some of our scouts had never flown before, but having completed the jamboree training program we assumed they'd be just fine.

However, before the airplane even took off, a mad-as-a-wet-hen stewardess came looking for the head scoutmaster. He was sitting next to me, so I also bore the brunt of her frustration. The stewardess sharply told us to get our scout troop under control. She complained that this was the second scout group to board the aircraft in the last two days that had immediately begun to page her crew and she was darn well fed up with it.

We suddenly realized we did hear the page bell dinging and dinging. We were stunned as we'd not had trouble with any of our scouts on the training campouts and previous trips to other destinations. Our head scoutmaster stood up, made the scout sign with his hand to get the scouts attention and told everyone to stop pushing the page buttons. He was still flabberghasted over the turn of events as we started down the runway.

As the plane lifted off the tarmac, I opened the in-flight magazine, and there, just a few pages in, was a full page advertisment for Dr. Pepper soda-pop. The ad pictured the airline's overhead console that has a little call button marked with the symbol of an attendant holding a tray. Except in the ad this button was blown up full page and on the tray was a can of Dr. Pepper above the words "Ask your flight attendant for a Dr. Pepper NOW!"

The Head Scoutmaster folded that page open, and stared up at the "fasten seat belt" sign like a hawk. As soon as it switched off, he was out of his seat and down the aisle to find the head stew! He showed her the article and once she realized these adolescents were simply following instructions printed in her own airline's magazine she apologized.

In fact the poor gal stopped by several times during the flight to apologize profusely. However, we did end the flight with a good laugh. As the plane landed and began to taxi toward the terminal, the stew came on the intercom to announce "We are going to disembark the Dr. Pepper Scouts first."


Chapter 17
Buzz Cut

By foxtale

Ah, those rebellious teen years; how did any of us, parents or kids survive?
The year our son, Matt, became a sophomore in high school, he was transferred to the varsity water polo team. However, this early honor would later be tempered by a bit of adolescence rebellion that "Mother Nature" had to head off in royal style when summer arrived!

Over the previous summer Matt had gained several inches in height to reach six feet, which attracted the eye of the water polo coach looking to add an another goalie to the team. Matt could egg-beater kick, rising out of the water almost to his navel, but he was so skinny that he looked like a rake rising from the depths. Once he extended his long arms, though, Matt was very effective at blocking shots.

The rest of the water polo players had meshed very well as a team and Matt wanted to fit in. Some had nicknames, others were known for fierce "game faces" during tournaments, or for specific abilities against opponents. During a practice leading up to an important game, the coach exhorted the team to excel physically against a feared opponent and each team member to come prepared psychologically, "ready to go to work!" So Matt decided to take the coach's words to heart and develop his own trademark.

The day of the game as Matt exited the locker room and headed for the team bench, every eye in the crowd turned toward him. His hair, normally a dusty blond, was dyed flame red, the school color! Matt ignored the stares and catcalls as he took his place on the bench and set down a small attache case he'd carried in with him. The coach leaned over to say something and Matt reached down and patted the briefcase. I later learned he'd told the coach, "I came ready to go to work."

As the game progressed Matt's hair was forgotten until the coach signaled for a goalie substitution. Matt stood up and an opposing team member jeered, "They're sending in the mascot!" Matt just grinned, snapped open the briefcase, reached in and pulled out his goalie cap. He laced the strap under his chin and as the red hair disappeared under the cap, Matt's entire demeanor changed. With a fierce game face and fire in his eyes, he leaped into the pool and took his position in front of the goal. Rising from the water, Matt blocked shot after shot as the grins faded from the faces of his opponents.

Matt had his trademark and the team had a psychological weapon as the story spread from team to team about the happy-go-lucky kid with flaming red hair who became a devil in the water. Even after the season, Matt could be counted on to dye his hair for a pep rally or a car wash - or sometimes, I think, just to bug his parents and teachers. But his dyed hair was almost Matt's undoing during a summer job as a camp counselor.

As the school year ended Matt had reluctantly honored his mom's and my request that he let his natural hair color grow out during the summer. After a final red dye treatment, Matt got his hair cut very short and it had turned an odd golden-rust shade by the time camp started. I drove Matt up the mountain road, parked at the crest and hiked with him down to Camp Wolfeboro where I volunteered to spend the day helping with camp set-up.

I was working near the staff tenting area when I saw Matt running toward me, dodging from side to side and flailing his arms above his head. I was concerned because I knew the camp forbids hazing, yet two other staff members were running alongside Matt, about ten feet out and roaring with laughter as they came.

"What's going on," I asked as Matt ran up.

Out of breath he gasped, "Bees! The bees are in love with my hair!" He had no sooner spoken than two bumblebees, the huge, black, fuzzy kind, landed on his head. They didn't sting him; instead they pawed though his hair like they had found some wondrous golden-rust flower. Matt shook his head, but the bees just circled and landed in his hair again.

The staffers guffawed and one shouted "We're getting him a hat," as all three dashed off to the tents. A moment later Matt returned wearing a floppy "Gilligan" style tennis hat pulled down to his eyebrows.

Matt furtively glanced over his shoulder. "They are out there!" he said, sweeping his hand toward the hill behind the camp. "Bees, just looking for me!" Tapping his wrist-watch Matt implored, "Dad, you have to leave, now! There's only one more group coming in today and you have to get to a store and back before they start down the hill!"

Matt whipped off his hat and running his fingers over his hair he pleaded, "Hair dye, Dad. I need you send down some hair dye, please! BLACK hair dye!"


..jsfox..


Chapter 18
Scout Camp and the Pirates

By foxtale

Most youth oriented summer camps are based on a theme often related to the history of the area. Perhaps a forest containing an old logging operation has a theme based on logging, with rustic cabins for the campers and zip lines to add a bit of thrills to the weekly events. Or maybe a camp near a lake has canoeing and the "Rendezvous Days" of the Native-American and French Voyageur fur traders as a theme.

But while summer camp might be an exciting adventure for many first time campers, it can become monotonous for the youth staff. Each week the staff seems to hear the same questions, and has to keep up with the same over-achievers as well as motivate under-achievers when the new crop of campers rolls in for the week.

In order to give the staff a break from the routine, many camps set aside one morning each week for an alternate theme to the one stated in the schedule. Then it is up to the youth staff to create a bit of whimsy that the campers will recall for years to come.

One summer at Wolfeboro, a Boy Scout camp in the Sierras, for the weekly alternative event, an old cartoon of Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam fighting over possession of an abandoned fort made a reappearance, of sorts.

It was proclaimed "Pirate Tuesday" and just before breakfast the scout troop campers arrived at the assembly area for announcements and the morning flag presentation. There they discovered 'pirates' had taken over the camp's trading post; a two story log cabin, which now sported a pirate flag and a long black cannon barrel sticking out of an upper window. Pirates dressed in ratty headscarves and eye-patches, and who bore a remarkable resemblance to the youth staff, called out bloodthirsty oaths and 'Ayes' and 'Arrs' from the windows.

After the flag was raised and scouts and their adult leaders had heard the morning announcements read by the Camp Director, the rustic door at the ground level of the trading post suddenly swung open. A Pirate Captain, complete with sash, sword and an Ostrich feather bedecked hat strode out. He was followed by his eye-patch wearing, battle-axe toting, Bos'un Mate. Glaring at the assembled scouts these two swaggered up to the camp's adult staff members gathered near the flagpoles.

Loud enough for all the campers to hear, the captain roared out, "This yar camp has been claimed as a prize by meself and me crew of scurvy sea-dogs!" The rest of the pirate crew roared a raucous approval from the trading post windows.

The camp director tucked his clipboard under his arm and stepped forward in defiance to challenge the pirate, "By what authority do you make such a claim?"

The pirate captain swept his arm toward the upper windows of the log cabin trading post and snarled, "Me scurvy crew has hoisted a deck cannon into yonder fort and is ready to blast all of ye to smithereens if the camp isn't immediately surrendered, Arrr!"

The camp director tilted his head back to look up at the cannon barrel protruding from a window, then slowly turned to look out across the assembly ground toward the river. Turning back to the pirate, the director loudly remarked, "That cannon isn't actually pointed at the staff, but across the river instead. I believe we are perfectly safe and so I defy your scurvy demand!"

The pirate captain glared around at all of the snickering scouts, then drew his sword and pointing it toward the director, roared out an order to his crew, "All right, me buckos, aim the cannon at 'is Lordship here!"

With the Bos'un chanting "Heave Ho, Heave Ho," there came the sound of clanking chains from the upper window, and the cannon,(concocted from plywood and a large black ABS pipe length,) slowly began to tilt downward, until.... just as had happened to Yosemite Sam.... THE CANNON BALL ROLLED OUT OF THE CANNON BARREL and dropped two stories to thud on the ground. The scene was instantly recognized by all who'd ever seen the old Bugs Bunny cartoon.

The whole camp, who'd gathered there for morning flags, burst into laughter. Then, 'tromp-tromp-tromp,' down the stairs clattered the incompetent pirate crew to retrieve their cannon ball, after which they all were chased off into the forest by the irate Pirate Captain and his axe-swinging Bos'un!

Yay, the camp was saved....
and multiple generations of adults and kids spent breakfast regaling each other with tales of pirates and all of the Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam exploits they could recall.


..jfox..


Chapter 19
Smokey's Lesson

By foxtale

One dark night, quite some time ago, the skills of three trained scoutmasters were challenged by a wayward bear. During the years when our sons were in the Boy Scouts, a week of each summer was usually devoted to Summer Camp. Because I seemed to be perpetually on the parents' committee, I was often drafted to go along as one of the adult leaders.

Our scout troop usually selected Wolfeboro, a rustic camp where we wouldn't be limited to mess hall food. We would sign up for the campsite that had an old rock chimney and grill, dry goods storage locker, and several heavy duty cedar picnic tables near the fire-ring. There the boys would spend the week cooking their own meals, which we discovered was a magnet for camp counselors tired of the mess hall fare. We also feared cooking meals outdoors might become a magnet for bears that occasionally wandered into camp. But the troop's previous scoutmaster had added an extra rinse bucket to the Boy Scout dish washing system and had established a camp clean-up regimen that usually kept our site bear-free.

One summer, through a fluke, three of the adult leaders going to camp were named Jim. The scouts quickly remedied that with nicknames. Jim Davis became Jimbo, and I became Foxman. However through logic that is understood only by the adolescent mind, Jim Schwartzenberger stayed 'Schwartzenberger' or occasionally 'Schwartz-B.


Jim Schwartzenberger had a wry sense of humor and an unusual skill that intrigued the scouts. He would string a hammock between two trees, and any time day or night that he eased into the netting he could doze off within five minutes. And to the delight of the scouts within another five minutes he would be snoring louder than a freight train!

One evening the campfire had dwindled to glowing embers, Jim Schwartz-B's snores had died down, and the scouts had run out of jokes, stories, and ghost tales. One by one they had drifted off to their tents, until I was the only one left to douse the campfire and put out the lantern. I woke up Jim so he wouldn't be left to the mosquitoes and morning frost. As I was stirring the dead campfire looking for hotspots, Jim made one final round of the campsite before heading for his tent. He discovered this night the kitchen crew had forgotten to take the ice-chest back across the river to the bear-proof storage of the main camp. "We will have to bear-bag this," he suggested as he strung a rope high off the ground between two trees.

Through experience we had learned that a clean campsite, with all edibles removed, or strung high out of reach, encouraged any curious bears to keep on trudging down the path. I double looped the rope around the ice chest to form a sling, tied off one end and Jim began to tug on the other to hoist the bundle up out of reach.

The task was harder than we thought due to the weight of the full ice chest, so I brought over one of the log ends a scout had used as a fireside chair. Balancing on this improvised stool, I used the rake I'd been stirring the fire with to push upwards on the ice chest as Jim heaved on the rope to draw it taut. As the bundle inched higher and higher, I stepped down from the log and used the rake to tug at the chest to see if we had hoisted the food securely out of a bear's reach.

Suddenly Schwartzenberger stopped tugging and cocked his head to stare past me. Then he quietly said "Turn slowly and look what's at the table." I turned and peered into the darkness and just beyond the light from the lantern I saw a bear, a very large bear. Without us hearing it, the animal had crept into the campsite and had gotten as close as the end of the picnic table where it sat back on its haunches to intently watch us at work. Like a dog waiting for its master, the bear rested its muzzle on the table top where the lantern light glinted off its black nose and reflected from its dark eyes as it curiously watched us at our task.

The bear's head was covered with dark brown fur, but its muzzle was tan, creating a living replica of the US Forestry's famous Smokey Bear. When I pointed this out to Jim he reacted with alarm. "Smokey?" He gasped, "Oh no, oh no! What have you done?" I was confused by Jim's behavior. "What," I asked, "what's wrong?"

The twinkle in Schwartz-B's eyes told me I'd just been suckered as he replied, "You know Smokey can already handle a shovel, and now you've taught him how to use a rake!"

...jsfox...

Author Notes This was originally published fnasr in The Front Porch weekly periodical.


Chapter 20
The Fast Track - Stalking Critters

By foxtale

One of the secrets to being a good scoutmaster is to accept the training offered by the Boy Scouts of America, go camping in the great outdoors, and above all, try to stay a chapter ahead of the scouts!

During my tenure as the Scoutmaster for a Boy Scout Troop, I used to take the scouts to summer camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. One morning at camp, I awoke early and climbing out of my tent discovered that a light rain during the night had erased all footprints and settled the dust on the trails. Several scouts were already up and building a fire lay for morning campfire. On a nearby trail I discovered the tracks of an animal in the rain-freshened dirt. I called the scouts over and we set out to see where these tracks would lead.

Using a Boy Scout Handbook we identified the animal tracks as those of a raccoon. Oddly each set of tracks included only three prints, indicating the critter had scurried along on two hind feet, but only one front paw. As we followed the trail, the boys began to discuss just what might have caused this peculiar set of tracks. One scout suggested that a trap might have cost the raccoon a paw; another argued that it must have been the result of a predator's attack. At a curve in the trail the tracks veered towards a tall Sugarpine. But how could a three-legged raccoon possibly have climbed such a large tree?

The mystery was solved when we found a torn open snack wrapper discarded at the base of the tree. We burst into laughter as we realized the tracks from our little "wounded" animal friend were actually set down by a healthy four-legged forager who had clutched his stolen prize tightly to his chest with one paw as he'd raced home.

After our adventure with the "three-legged raccoon," I decided that in the future, when tracking animals, the scouts should stick to reading the signs they could see and not fill in details from their imaginations. However a weekend canoe trip with the scouts and several parents on California's Stanislaus River would soon put this vow to the test.

After an early breakfast at the campsite alongside the river, we began to survey the riverbank for a good place to launch the canoes. A scout shouted from upriver, "Here are the tracks from a beaver that came ashore; it looks like probably to feed on willow shoots." Recognizing an opportunity to study the tracks, I challenged the boys to tell me what happened along the riverbank, using only the tracks and signs left by the animals.

The excitement grew as the Scouts followed the tracks and discovered that several more beaver had climbed up the bank to dig into the sandy soil and gnaw on the tender parts of the willow shoots.

A few yards farther on, one of the boys called out, "I found imprints made by the wet fur of the beaver where they quickly slid down the muddy bank into the water." The scouts surveyed the signs, then spread out to see if they could determine what had spooked the beaver into a panic rush back to the river.

Immediately one Scout shouted that he'd found what he described as "the track from the tail of a very large crocodile or alligator-like creature" that had headed straight for the water. We rushed over to where he pointed out wide, staggered patches in the muddy shallows. "That's where the gator's feet had churned up the sand as it rushed after the beaver," he stated with absolute certainty. Several boys exchanged concerned looks as they used these tracks to mentally measure the immense size of the creature.

Again, imagination was pulling ahead of observation, so I attempted to steer the boys back on track. "There are no alligators in California's rivers," I announced as I walked over to where I could see boot prints from humans who had obviously carried a boat down to the water's edge and shoved it in. It was the keel of a canoe that had left the "tail" tracks and the paddles had churned the mud in the shallows.

Unfortunately, before I could guide the Scouts to this logical conclusion, a canoe rounded the river bend with two parents aboard who had been fishing. "What are you fishing for," hailed one of the Scouts. And one of the parents, possibly knowing the chaos he was about to unleash, innocently joked, "Just 'gators!"

..jsfox..

Author Notes In September 2000 Scouting Magazine edited and printed the first three paragraphs as "Paws for Refreshment." Later I was able to expand the story by adding the tale of the 'gator tracks. The Front Porch periodical later published (fnasr) this under the title "On The Fast Track - Stalking Gators and Three-legged Critters."


Chapter 21
The Man, The Owls, The Woman

By foxtale

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.

This is a retelling of a tale that was told long ago by the Yaudanchi tribal people of California's Native American Yokut Indians. It was told as U'dom, a legend that teaches the people.
H'o! Listen to the truth about The Man, The Owls, And The Woman With A Basket.

* * *

Long, long ago, when the animals could talk and the wisest people were the Yokuts, a Wuksachi man from the hills and his wife set out on a journey not too far from here. They packed all that they had in a very large burden basket and carried it between them. They would not leave anything behind, so their journey was slow and as night fell they had not reached their destination. They decided to spend the night in a cave, just over there.

The husband, Ko-u-TEZ-un, built a fire at the mouth of the cave and as the sun set, they realized they had not packed anything to eat. The wife, Mu-Kec, knew her husband was a good hunter, so she said 'Husband, go to that dead tree near the mouth of the cave and call the animals, for we must have something to eat.'
The husband went to the tree, and in the dark he called out 'Hu tu lu, Hu tu lu' several times, for he was a good hunter and could mimic the voices of the animals.

Now Hu tu lu, the Owl, hearing his name called, flew silently down out of the night and landed on a branch of the dead tree. The hunter had drawn an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring. Now he drew back the arrow and let it fly straight through the heart of Owl. The owl fell from the tree and the man took it to his wife who began to strip away the feathers to prepare the owl for roasting over the fire.

The man sat down, and said, "Mu-kec, I have brought our dinner." But his wife said, 'You have brought me only one owl and there are two of us. We must have another owl.' So the hunter returned to the tree and again called out 'Hu tu lu, Hu tu lu,' and soon Owl's brother glided silently out of the night to land in the tree. The hunter shot this owl and brought the body to his wife beside the fire. But the wife said, 'You have brought us enough meat for tonight, but we still have a journey ahead of us tomorrow and maybe the day after that too. You must go get more owls for us to eat on the days of our journey.'

So the man went to the tree and called out, and when Owl's sister came near she too was killed. Still the man called out, and more owls began to glide out of the night to land in the tree. Then from alongside the fire, out from the severed head of Owl, flew his spirit, up to the top of the tree. There the spirit called out, "Ite-et, Hu-tu-lu, I am the soul of Owl, avenge me!"

When they saw the arrows fly and they realized their brothers and sisters were dead, the owls began to call out 'Hu tu lu, Hu tu lu' and many more owls began to glide out of the darkness to land on the tree. So many flew down that soon the branches of the tree began to creak and crack and crash to the ground. There the owls began to hop toward the man who was standing at the mouth of the cave. The man shot arrows until he had no more, but still the owls hopped toward the cave. So he cried out in fear to his wife that the owls were coming into the cave. The frightened man ran to the back of the cave and dumped everything out of the burden basket. Then he turned the basket over and his wife crawled underneath to hide.

The man ran back to the mouth of the cave and began to swing his bow at the owls. The owls reached out with their sharp claws and beaks and held onto the bow until it was so heavy the hunter cried out that he could no longer lift the bow. His wife peeked out from under the basket and saw her husband rush to the fire where he grabbed a flaming stick and swung it at the owls who were now hopping into the cave. In fear the woman pulled the basket tightly down over head.

The woman hiding under the basket heard her husband scream that the owls were not afraid of the fire and they all were hopping into the cave. He screamed that the owls had snatched the flaming stick from his hand. He screamed that the owls were attacking him. Then there was silence. The woman listened from beneath the basket. Still it was silent, as silent as when an owl glides down from the darkness.

The woman waited and listened. There was nothing but silence. Soon the woman decided to peek from under the edge of the basket, but she couldn't lift it. It was as if the basket had grown heavy. So she tried hard to lift the basket, but it would not move. The woman tried once more, straining hard to lift the basket. It was then, next to her ear, that she heard 'Hu tu luuuuu' and claws and beaks ripped into the basket.

The woman died, screaming in the darkness.

H'o! Listen to truth.
Go, live as you should; take only what you need, do not live life like the careless hunter and the woman who was unwise, and die screaming in the dark.

* * *

People who have camped near San Luis Reservoir in California (where the Yaudanchi once roamed) know that at night when you have built a fire and sit there quietly, Hu tu lu, the owl, and several of his brothers and sisters will glide by silently through the firelight.

Tell campers this tale from the Yaudanchi and they won't sleep well!

Author Notes An long time ago a Miwok trine Keeper of Stories visited our campfire and told of this lesson from the Yokut Yaudanchi. He spoke only a few words of their language and knew we wouldn't know his Miwok language so he told the story in modern English. I have tried to be faithful in my recollection of that story told so long ago.


Chapter 22
The Hidden Trail

By foxtale

Craig Stiles lay on his stomach atop the inner-tube and trailed his chin in the cold water of the river. He could hear a woodpecker nearby, hammering on the tough bark of an old oak tree. Craig closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the water gurgling beneath the canoe that was towing him. He dipped his
chin into the water in rhythm with the canoe paddle softly breaking the river's surface. The warmth of the midday sun bore down on the back of Craig's neck, above his lifejacket and the ratty safety string that hopefully would hold his eyeglasses on should he take a spill. With his thumb, Craig pushed his glasses
back up onto the bridge of his nose, opened his eyes and squinted toward the river bend ahead. This should have been an enjoyable summer day on the river for a boy just turned twelve, but Craig was miserable.

This trip with the Boy Scouts should have helped Craig fit in with the other kids of the scout troop but everything had gone wrong; just like yesterday evening when he'd helped set up the camp. Craig had opened his Boy Scout Handbook to the pages that he'd previously book-marked. He had inserted sticky notes to help him quickly locate the illustrations of knots he was sure the troop would use while setting up tents. But since all of the tents were modern dome tents which didn't require ropes or knots, the other scouts had quickly set them up without Craig's help. So, he had wandered back and forth between the patrols comparing the camp set-up to the illustrations in his handbook. That had annoyed some of the scouts and they'd started to jeer at Craig. Mr. Todd, the Scoutmaster, had to come over and warn the other scouts about laughing at Craig over some remark he'd made. Later Tim Rausch, the troop's Senior Patrol Leader, had to stop an argument between Craig and Choppy Andersen. Although only Tenderfoot rank, Choppy had become the self-appointed bestower of nicknames within the scout troop, and Craig desperately wanted to be "Craiger," or "Craigo," or any nickname that proved the other boys accepted him. But now it seemed impossible for that to happen.

Last night the scoutmaster had quietly asked Craig why he didn't explain anything quickly. Mr. Todd had said, "Craig, learn to keep it short and to the point, O.K.? Around the other boys you tend to launch into some scientific analysis, just like tonight when you helped light the campfire." Craig knew friction heated, and then ignited the low tinder-point of the sulfur in the matchhead, producing the flame and he had started to explain this to the nearest scout. That had started the argument with Choppy. Tim had come over and separated the boys when Choppy shouted "You're not Einstein, and I'm not stupid!" In exasperation Tim had told Craig, "Look, when you're helping with a task don't give some know-it-all lecture unless someone asks for an explanation. Do you understand?" Craig had nodded, but he really didn't understand why the other boys didn't seem to care about knowledge although most were just as smart as he. Craig sullenly thought over what Tim had said to him earlier; "You've got to try to fit in, or you will be miserable."

Now it was too late to fit in. This morning the scouts had teamed up buddy style, to float the Stanislaus River, and Craig had been paired up with Choppy, who'd also brought an innertube. Other boys had brought rubber rafts, some had kayaks, and the rest were in canoes with the adults. Lifejackets were required, but Craig had brought a bulky old "Mae West" style life-jacket, which made it clumsy trying to guide the inner-tube with his paddle. He'd ended up entangling his tube with Choppy's and wrapping the tether between them around a snag jutting out of the river. Mr. Todd had to paddle over to stop the boys from arguing. Then Tim had suggested towing the inner-tubes. Now Choppy, behind Tim's kayak, had disappeared up ahead leaving Craig in tow behind Mr. Todd who'd taken the rear position for the trip.

As Craig forlornly dipped his chin into the river again, he thought he could hear an odd drumming sound lightly echoing across the water. As the sound grew louder he realized that it was coming toward the river from the bluffs above the bank. Then suddenly, with a crash of hooves through the foliage and a chorus
of angry braying, two little donkeys raced down a trail hidden among the rocks and weatherworn faces of the bluffs. Startled, Craig lifted his chin out of the water so he could focus on the animals. He realized from their shaggy coats that they had to be wild burros! Glancing around, Craig saw Mr. Todd draw his
paddle into the canoe, as he too watched the burros come down to the river. Their manes were unkempt and scarred from old battles and the animals began biting and kicking as each tried to drink from the same pool at the river's edge. Craig was astounded. The scene could have been scripted straight out of a nature film about the Grand Canyon, yet they were only a half an hour from town in the middle of California's Central Valley.

As swiftly as they'd arrived, the burros turned and raced back up the trail to disappear among the wild blackberry bushes lining the bluffs. Astonished, Craig called out, "Were those burros?" Mr. Todd had started paddling again, and he answered over his shoulder, "Yes, Craig. Pretty cool, huh? They were wild
burros." As they rounded the next bend of the river, Craig and Mr. Todd reached the pullout point where the other scouts and adults were already ashore and packing up the gear. Mr. Todd's canoe glided up to the sandy beach and Craig leapt from his inner-tube to splash ashore. "Did you guys see the burros?" He
called out, "Wild burros came down to drink from the river!" The boys stopped packing and just stared at Craig. Then one laughed, "You almost had us on that, Craig! But, wild burros?" Craig vigorously nodded his head, "Yes, two wild burros came down the bank, just back there!" Several scouts laughed and turned back to the task of hauling the canoes up the sandy bank. "Really," Craig insisted, "Mr. Todd and I saw wild burros!" But Mr. Todd had already started up the bank with his canoe hoisted on his shoulders and he didn't seem to hear. Craig looked back toward the other scouts. "Wild burros," he repeated. One of the boys called out "Hee-haw" in Craig's direction as he made donkey ears with his hands alongside of his head. "Hee-haw," he called out again, "Hee-haw! Hey, Hee-haw Pedro!" A chorus of "Hee-haw Pedro," erupted from the other scouts. Craig glanced up the beach. An obviously frustrated Tim was just standing there, not stopping any of the jeering.

Mr. Todd had returned and Tim had gotten the boys back on task. Soon the canoes were loaded onto several cars and pickups for the trip through the park and back to the campsite. As the scouts hiked along behind the vehicles Craig was discouraged. He'd hoped for a nickname, but not "Hee-haw Pedro," like the little cartoon burro, Pedro, who hauled mailbags across the pages of Boys' Life magazine. "Hee-haw Pedro," how could he ever shake that? When they reached the camp, Craig glumly helped prepare "spuds," foil wrapped potatoes, as part of the campfire dinner. But, this entire campout was turning into a nightmare for Craig. Mr. Todd had mysteriously disappeared and the other adults tried to help Tim keep order, but some scouts would still walk by, making donkey ears with their hands and mouthing "Hee-haw" at Craig.

The sun was setting and the scouts were just dishing up dinner when Mr. Todd's van rolled in, followed by a woman driving a pickup truck. Mr. Todd walked into camp with the stranger and announced, "We have a dinner guest. This is Mrs. Gates. She has a ranch just across the river here from Caswell Park." The scouts welcomed their guest and began to set another place at one of the picnic tables. The rancher sat down near the lantern and opened a scrapbook she'd carried in under her arm. Looking around she asked, "Now who is it that says he saw wild burros today?" Amid the snickers and donkey ear gestures, Craig stood up. "I did see wild burros," he said quietly, "and Mr. Todd saw them too." Mrs. Gates had an amused smile on her face as she licked her thumb and began to leaf through her scrapbook.

"Well, I've got to say," she began, " I think that you must have stumbled across a secret burro trail hidden alongside the river." In the lantern light, Mrs. Gates held up the scrapbook, and Craig stared in astonishment. There were photographs of burros being unloaded from a horse trailer. In the photos the burros looked just as unkempt as the ones today and they were trying to bite aand kick the ranch hands unloading them.

"Donkeys," exclaimed one of the scouts. "No," said Mrs. Gates, "actually they are burros, wild burros. I got them through the BLM Wild Horse and Burro Project." A scout asked, "What's the BLM burro project?" Instinctively Craig answered, "BLM, that's the Bureau of Land Management and they are in charge of the wilderness lands. So, to make sure that the wild herds stay healthy, the BLM needs to keep the horses and burros from overgrazing the range-lands." Craig realized he had started off on a long explanation and he looked around. The other boys were all listening, and Mr. Todd winked and gave a thumbs-up signal, so Craig continued, "They used to thin out the wild herds by shooting some of the animals, but now the BLM project adopts them out, instead." Mrs. Gates nodded and said, "Some folks domesticate these animals, but I brought 'em out here and turned 'em loose to live as wild and free as they were born. My scrapbook shows how spooked these burros get around humans, so nobody ever sees them. I was amazed when your Scoutmaster showed up and said a scout saw these rascals on that hidden trail today!"

Mrs. Gates looked up at Craig. "You're Craig, the scout nobody believed?" Craig nodded and in embarrassment looked down at his feet. From just beyond the lantern light, Tim, the Senior Patrol Leader, spoke up, "I owe Craig an apology." He continued quietly, "A scout is trustworthy, courteous too. That's part of what we learned when we joined scouting. So, I should have realized you were telling the truth today." Sheepishly the other scouts also began to murmur their apologies.

The rancher closed her scrapbook and with a friendly smile she spoke to the boys, "Well, my boy was a scout when he was your age, and I know sometimes the rules were hard for him to follow. I suppose today my burros decided to make you think about what it means to be a scout. It appears to me that Craig should be welcome in your troop." Choppy cleared his throat, and said loudly, "Excuse me, Mrs. Gates, he's not Craig. He's 'Pedro, Pedro Craig,' yeah, 'P.C.' Old 'P.C.' with a mailbag full of knowledge!"

Craig blinked his eyes in confusion as the scouts crowded around to pat him on the back or elbow him good-naturedly in the ribs. Then as the boys gathered around the campfire to serve dinner, one called out, "Hey, P.C. pass those spuds on down!" And Craig grinned with satisfaction as he realized that a pair of shaggy burros had helped him earn his own nickname on the river today; a nickname magically transformed into one of pride and respect.


Chapter 23
Firelight Honor

By foxtale

Author Note:A murmur of concern rippled through the crowd as reflected firelight flashed from his knife blade.

Whenever I see a tattered American flag valiantly flying on its staff, I think back to an inspiring flag retirement that I, along with my son Jason, witnessed years ago. I had joined several other families on a trek to a Boy Scout camp to attend the campfire the last night before bringing our sons home from a week of summer-camp. That evening a memorable flag ceremony took place during one of the last campfires held at the old Boy Scout Camp 49'er in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California.

The United States Flag Code requires that worn-out American flags be disposed of with honor, preferably by burning. The United States Armed Forces and their auxiliaries are charged by Congress with the duty of retiring old flags. These organizations have flag retirement ceremonies with specific guidelines to meet the flag code requirement. The Boy Scouts of America, chartered by Congress, is also given the duty of flag retirement. However the BSA does not mandate a specific ceremony but instead relies on the wisdom and patriotism of its volunteer scoutmasters to perform this duty honorably. The ceremony I witnessed was so moving perhaps because it was presented from the heart of just such a volunteer.

The evening had been full of boisterous songs, silly skits, and camp awards. Then, following a camp-wide singing of "America," an old scoutmaster stepped forward and announced the retirement of an American Flag. His beard was streaked with gray, and his red jacket was adorned with patches and awards from 'camporees' long past, but not forgotten. But it was that old scouter's short and simple flag retirement ceremony that had a lasting impact on every camper.

Two Eagle Scouts brought forward a tattered flag for retirement and the old scouter asked the camp audience to stand as the flag was unfolded and stretched between the two scouts. Then the old scouter explained its history: "This flag has flown proudly over the BSA 49'er Council office. She has done her duty well as a symbol - a daily reminder to all who saw her that we are a nation founded by thirteen colonies desiring to live in freedom. Today, like the stars and stripes sewn into this flag, we the people are bound together and united as one nation."

The scouter opened his pocketknife and the firelight flashed on the blade as he stepped toward the flag. A murmur of concern rippled through the audience as the scouter carefully cut a slit into the blue field. Slipping his hand through the slit to support a star he said, "On the 14th of June, 1777 the Continental Congress of the United States did ordain that our national colors shall consist of a flag with a blue field bearing 13 stars representing a new constellation, the symbol of freedom." Lifting the cradled star towards the firelight, the scouter continued, "Today the stars in that field of blue number fifty; one for each of the separate states united as one nation." He then carefully cut a slit through a red stripe, and then a white stripe, and supporting them with his hand the scouter said, "The Continental Congress of those 13 colonies united as a new nation struggling through a war of independence, did ordain that our nation's flag would also consist of 13 stripes; red separated by white to signify the separation from our mother country and the old allegiances to kings and queens. We would henceforth be forever a self governing nation of free men and women."

Stepping aside, raising his knife and folding the blade closed, the scouter stated, "By these rents in her fabric, I have rendered this no longer a flag, but only the tattered remains of our national colors. Tonight, as required by the Flag Code, we shall retire these colors with honor." He then he called out, "Quartermaster?" A voice from the darkness beyond the light from the campfire answered, "I am here." The scouter asked, "Quartermaster, has this flag been replaced?" The voice answered "She has been replaced by a new flag, bearing the same symbol of stars and stripes representing our nation. She flies proudly each day."

The old scouter then issued this charge to the audience; "Let it ever be so, that this flag shall always be replaced with honor. Never let it be that American men and women gather in darkness to burn the last remnant of our civilization. Pledge that now. Join with me in stating your allegiance to our nation and to the symbol of freedom, our American flag."

As one of the Eagle Scouts lowered the tattered remnants onto the campfire, the other stepped forward to unfurl an American flag on a staff and lift it high, illuminated by the flare of the flames. The Quartermaster's voice called out from the darkness, "Hand salute. Who Pledges?" And with eyes moist from emotion and hearts beating with patriotic pride, civilians and veterans, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons all spoke in unison, "I pledge allegiance to the flag..."


.jsfox.

Author Notes Originally published fnasr in The Front Porch periodical, this article is also now in the ceremonies section of the US Scouting Project resource for scoutmasters.


Chapter 24
Thirteen Stripes

By foxtale

With our local National Guard unit called up for active duty overseas, there have been a lot of flags sprouting up on store fronts and front porches all over town. Some flags are old, some brand new, most with fifty stars and some with less, but all with the familiar thirteen red and white stripes; our national colors.

By tradition the first use of a flag with thirteen stripes by our national armed forces was when George Washington received appointment as Commander-in-chief of the Continental Army. General Washington accepted command and had the "Continental Colors" presented to the assembled troops.

Back in my days as a Scoutmaster I often worked with scouts on the Citizenship in the Nation and American Heritage merit badges. It helped me to learn a lot about our history and our flag too. One summer at a Boy Scout Camp as I stood there with my scouts for the morning flag ceremony, our national flag was hoisted along with a replica of the "Continental Colors." As the camp's flag historian stepped forward and explained the first use of this early American flag, I realized I had even more to respect about George Washington. And I shared my insight with the scouts.

General Washington had a flag hoisted which bore the British Union Jack ensign in the upper left corner over thirteen stripes, alternating red separated by white, which he announced, "Symbolizes the thirteen colonies now separated from our mother country."

What I suddenly recognized was the pure genius of George Washington and that flag. At the time, almost every town militia in the colonies had a Queen Anne Ensign Flag which bore the British ensign in the upper left corner of a solid red flag. Now, by the simple addition of white stripes sewn or painted onto that flag, every local militia could have a national flag of the colonies in rebellion.

Even more ingenious was the perfect propaganda this created; anywhere the armed militia joined the rebellion and changed their flag to fight for freedom, the Tories of that town no longer had a flag with which to welcome the arriving British troops. I am convinced that George Washington consciously planned that.

How ominous that must have been for those arriving Redcoats.

.jfox.


Chapter 25
Folded Red White And Blue

By foxtale

One summer, when I was about eight years old and waiting for a parade to start, I watched as soldiers set up a military reviewing stand nearby. Suddenly a gust of wind blew the flag-stand over the edge, dumping the American flag to the ground. A grizzled U.S. Marine Sergeant rushed over to set the flag-stand back up and reinsert the flagpole. I, as only an eight year old could do, promptly told him the flag had touched the ground and so had to be burned.

"Who says that?" The sergeant barked.

"Teacher says," I nervously replied.

"Listen, kid," the sergeant growled, "I have crawled through sand and mud with a flag tucked in my sweaty shirt pocket. I have seen flags soiled by the smoke and ash of war. I have seen a buddy's flag stained by the tears of his mother when I brought it home to her. So kid, if a flag touches the ground, just brush it off and let it fly with pride until it is too worn out to use anymore. That's the flag code, then you burn it with honor. Now help me set this flag in the stand and you tell teacher she is a jackass."

Well, I did help him with the flag-stand, but I didn't ever tell teacher she was a jackass. And, I've never forgotten what that Marine said that day.

I don't think I truly understood about that sweat-stained pocket flag until just this past September. My son's unit had rolled into Iraq and back here at home a lady from the VFW gave my wife a little folded-up American flag to send to him...
for his pocket.


.jfox.

My son carried more than a flag in his pocket - there were also the five pencils...

Author Notes This was originally published in my home town paper when our National Guard unit shipped out. My son's unit is back home now and I clipped the yellow ribbon from the flag on our front porch and gave it to him upon his arrival at the airport, when I hugged him.


Chapter 26
Five Pencils in Iraq

By foxtale

Five Pencils

My son has served our country as an American G.I.
G.I. That's the term we Americans often use to denote our nation's soldiers. When our troops recently returned from Iraq, our family went to the airport with the yellow ribbon that had hung on our flag for the past year, and we welcomed our G.I. home.

"G.I." originally was an abbreviation adopted by U.S. soldiers during World War One to refer to equipment as "General Issue" or "Government Issued." Like the phrase "Dough Boys," from that war, the term denoted uniformity; stamped from the same piece of dough, meeting a government standard.

By World War Two, in the mind of the public, the term had become synonymous with the American soldier. But calling a soldier a G.I. was a wry acknowledgment of something beyond "General Issue." These were the fathers and sons, brothers, nephews, daughters and cousins of the American people. By virtue of this connection to the public, then as now, G.I.s often exhibit values ingrained in home and community; values the G.I. has carried to all corners of the globe.

Now that our soldier is home again, and adjusting into everyday life, the quiet stories come.

The year my son was in Iraq with his National Guard unit escorting convoys, he would toss ziplock bags to kids alongside the roadways. Each bag contained five pencils and a little school-kid pencil sharpener. Each also contained a sheet of paper with five mazes for the kids to run their pencils along, trying to solve the way to the center.

Why five pencils and mazes? In hopes that the kids who snagged the ziplocks would look at the paper and pencils and perhaps realize they were to share.

Only geometric mazes had been photocopied so that no person's religious restrictions on art in the form of "images" of people or animals would be offended.

There was a message on each pencil; Democracy Is Freedom From Fear.
Should someone translate the phrase, perhaps the kids would internalize that message. Then, should a village elder or an insurgent or even a town bully take the pencils away, the message would have even more meaning in the hearts and minds of those children.

My son could have just grunted out his time; he didn't have to think about the kids, but he did.

The American G.I. really isn't 'Government Issued' when you think about it.
That G.I. is home grown.
And I am proud of mine.


.jfox.

Author Notes Now that he is home again, and adjusting into everyday life, the quiet stories come.


Chapter 27
Sergeant Gus and the Day of Joy

By foxtale

Author Note:Semper Fi

Sergeant Augustus Trenchfort, USMC, stepped into the recruiting office bathroom and closed the door behind him. Placing his cap upon his head, Gus surveyed himself in the mirror. Ramrod straight, his bearing belied his five foot eight inch stature, but that had always been Gus' strength; he exemplified duty, honor, courage, in a manner that made him seem larger than life. Gus eyed his reflection, noting the double starched shirt of his uniform bore ironed creases that could cut paper. The dark blue serge of his jacket was single brushed in one direction presenting a spanking brand new look, which had been enhanced by the addition of red backed gold sergeant chevrons purchased at the PX and stitched on just last night.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. Oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh." Gus quickly voiced through an almost musical scale, ending in a deep basso profundo that rattled the mirror. He intended to be in full voice when he made his announcement.

"Stop it," Gus addressed his image in the mirror as he noticed a slight twinkle in his eyes. "I know this is the dream assignment of every recruiting sergeant, but this is a mission and you will maintain all seriousness for the Corps! Semper Fi!" Gus snapped a precision salute to the image in the mirror, then squaring his shoulders he turned, opened the door and headed across the office toward the street out front.

From just beyond the police sawhorse barricades, a crescendo of jeers and cheers greeted the sergeant as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Glancing around, Gus saw that each group had been sequestered in its own spot by the Berkeley police. The Lezzes in Fezzes shook their signs angrily as they shouted "Marines Get Out!" Beyond them, the Feed The Earth Pullets Not Bullets protestors screamed through their feathers and rubber chicken beaks. Even the Naked Guy was there wearing only a strategically placed stop sign. Off to the side, cheers of support erupted from a row of tomato splattered ROTC students. Gus acknowledged them with a nod and also snapped a quick salute toward the American flag held high by the Veteran Bikers group wearing their motley array of various military jackets.

Gus held up his hands to quiet the crowd. At first the jeers got louder but were quickly drowned out by a chant of "Free Speech, Free Speech." When the hubbub had dropped to a level that he could outshout, Gus addressed the crowd. His heart was pounding, for Gus knew that what he was about to say would make him a legend from Parris Island to Camp Pendleton.

"Citizens of Berkeley," he began, as he fought hard to keep from grinning, "the Marines have decided on an answer to your request." The signs stopped waving, people strained forward to hear what this recruiting sergeant was there to announce.

In his finest Drill Sergeant voice and with joy in his heart, Gus barked out,

"HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!"


(-Author's Note- No rubber chickens, city council members, motorcycles, protestors nor Marines were injured in the production of this article. Any similarity of characters to real persons is an honor.)

.jfox.

Author Notes Semper Fi, for my ol' man! This was just fictional musing originally published in Art & Prose, now in Soldier's Song at Anthology Builder. Mixed Signals, Folded Red White And Blue, and Five Pencils are true soldier's stories in my portfolio that honor my Dad and my son.


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