It's a Tie

When my six year old son received a football at Christmas from his grandmother, he decided that he knew all about football. When all the exchanging was finished, and his siblings had moved their gifts to their respective collection places, he embraced the football and said, "Let's go outside." He led me out to the little front lawn.


Holding the football to his chest, he showed me where to stand, and put the ball on the grass in front of him. But then he stood up and said, "Now, you kick it to me."


I accepted the ball and put it where he said to.


As I prepared to dink the ball in his direction, he held up his hand with his palm toward me.


"And one more thing," he declared in a firm voice, "Either I win, or it's a tie."

Cretan Adventure

I've told this piece so often it may be familiar to most of you, but I still believe it 's worth relating again. In Iraklion, Crete, I boarded a local bus for the east shore of this remarkable island. I'd heard good things about its coast.

My funny looking local bus was right out of a Gordo cartoon: people with live chickens, a goat, everyone with those net shopping bags that hold everything from a week's groceries to a winter coat, a bicycle, too, maybe. People were jabbering to one another in a way suggesting that this ride was one of their ways of getting together.


Nearly everyone smiled at me as I worked toward the only available seat near the back. And everyone pointed at my camera. You get used to that.


As the little bus rumbled over the rough, narrow roads, the driver paused at various lonely spots for someone to alight. The passenger hadn't signaled, so the driver clearly knew his passengers' habits.


After nearly two hours, nearing the top of a long, steady rise, and with no house, side road, or even fence visible, the driver stopped and left the bus. Turning, he leaned in and beckoned to me. Every passenger turned and pointed at me, nodding. I was to get off.


WHAT!!!  I thought. This is forty miles from nowhere, and I haven't seen any other bus going back toward Iraklion! What have I done wrong?


But, as the driver and a dozen passengers wanted me off, off I got.


The driver then led me across the road and up to the crown of the hill. He kept repeating ""Paolo, Paolo," and, at the crown he smiled broadly, pointing over the edge.

Hundreds of feet below, was a tiny village with a surprisingly large church. Just beyond was an acropolis, and beyond that a land-locked lagoon, a creamy green lining at its edges. Also visible was pale pink coral. I have never seen anything more beautiful. 


The bus driver stepped next to me whispering again, "Paolo." Then I realized that this local Greek bus driver, with his passengers' approval, had stopped the bus to reveal to this wandering American a scene even Paul himself never had the joy of viewing. I doubt that professional tours were so privileged.


And at last I understood. This was where St. Paul re-supplied on his journeys to Greece or Rome.

I was not now surprised, as we returned to the bus, the passengers cheered, as if I had done something wonderful. The driver even patted me on the back.


When we all left the bus at the village, the remaining passengers said something in Greek, which didn't sound much like "drop dead." as they dispersed.


The people in the village were especially warm, too. As I climbed the acropolis steps, a fellow who spoke excellent English introduced himself. He was on leave from Australia to marry off his sister. He spent the whole afternoon telling about Greek weddings, and the acropolis. He took me into the church to explain the services and the murals, and he proudly informed me that the Greek Orthodox church predates the Roman Catholic. (There are no pews. Everybody stands.)

As we parted, he said that he was not concerned for his sister, because, while the groom may bring only his shirt to a wedding, if the marriage is dissolved, that's all he leaves with.

Sons and Christmastime: 2 Stories

David and the Chimney Story One



The fall that David started school our house had a flat roof. As November passed Thanksgiving, David suddenly became interested in getting up on the roof. He scouted around the house from all angles. After a couple of days, on a Saturday, he came to me and asked if I would help him up onto the roof. We didn't have a ladder, and there was no way I was about to help him up onto the fence to get on the roof. Still, he seemed to feel this was an especially necessary height to accomplish. Eventually, I went to our carpenter neighbor and borrowed his ladder. 

David's legs could barely make the stretch from rung to rung, so I had to keep him secure every step. But he was so intent on getting to the top that he let me keep him secure. 

Once we were on the roof, he took off like a jack rabbit directly to the chimney, grasped the top edges, leaned over the flue, studied it for several seconds, then slid off the top, turned to me, and stated flatly,

"No way."


He headed back toward the ladder, but about half way stopped and returned. Leaning well over the flue, he stared down for several seconds. Then at last he stood away from the chimney again, he said with vigor, "Never."

David lost interest in visiting Santa after that; but it didn’t diminish the season for him in other way we could tell. 




Jeffrey's Christmas Gift to His Mother  Story Two


The Christmas season before Jeffrey started school, he came to me to ask if I would help him buy a present for his mother. He wouldn’t tell me what he had in mind, but the place was "downtown."

The first evening I could, I drove him past the Stanford campus into Palo Alto. Since he wouldn’t tell me what kind of store he needed, I trailed along after him as he weaved his way from one shop to another.


When he turned into a year-round toy store, I thought, uh-oh. Of course he would! Whatever Jeffrey had in mind for his mother, this store would erase it. I was glad that I had given over the whole evening to his request, because this diversion was apparently going to use up most of it.


But NO!  Suddenly, with clear resolution, Jeffrey darted along an aisle toward something. He stopped in front of an array of hand sized vehicles, cars, trucks, wagons, and the Christmas gift for his mother.


He picked off a shelf a shiny red…

                                                                    …fire engine.

Gnomes and Fairies

Splashed across the lower part of the magazine ad was the lettering "Get there before the travelers do." High on the page was an airplane. Centered was Machu Picchu. The logic of that still escapes me. National Geographic does pretty well; but they are, after all, rather especially equipped.  And you don't find out until they've come back.


However, there are places that don't feel like football games, where you are shoulder to shoulder with other "travelers" and not steeped in hawkers and "services."


As with Havasu Falls, in our America there are some astonishingly inspiring places with, happily, relatively few other travelers rushing to maintain their schedules.


One is Luray.

En route you don't pass miles of ballyhoo, or promises of being amazed. But you are amazed. A single step into these caverns suspends time. Virginia, a few feet above you, stops being the reality. An undulating succession of pastel hued paths is the only thing with meaning -- that and the almost visible gnomes and fairies. They are simply shy.

You see on the grotto ceiling a tiny drop leisurely swelling. In a minute, or an hour, whenever, it will descend to the shallow basin beneath. With it a tiny bit of calcium joins others that have formed its basin, drop by drop over millennia. Time here is irrelevant.


Then it hits you. This Elysium meandering beneath the streets is exactly what made Havasu, time zones away, nestled among the massive buttes beside the Grand Canyon. 

Spider Woman Rock / Canyon de Chelly 

When finally you must reenter the surface world, you think surely the gnomes and fairies of Luray have cousins in Havasu and Canyon de Chelly. Didn't you see them dancing atop Spider Woman pinnacle terrorizing Navajo children?

Cheating

When a teacher's career spans nearly thirty years, the total number of students has accumulated to about one thousand, well over thirty thousand hours walking among boys and girls of every personality, background, and capacity. I am actually surprised at how many still saturate my memories rather than a number I may have forgotten. Even when some names have become uncertain, their personalities are vivid. As are incidents.


Some are easy and obvious, like the boy who threw two books out the second floor window to see how long they would take to land. He forgot that his digital wrist watch did not count seconds. And the boy who was in a recess fist fight, and, when asked what happened, told the principal that he had three versions from which the principal could choose any one.

And two boys whose names I never knew, who were dragged over to me for violently quarreling. They stubbornly refused to even answer my questions until I switched into street talk. They were so astonished at my using exactly their vernacular that they forgot their anger and left friends.


Some instances are much subtler.


Several decades ago the Pasadena School District Set aside an hour each Wednesday for churches to take children from classrooms to nearby locations for some Bible study. Not every student participated in the program. Those who remained in the classroom were, by dictum, not to be taught anything. 

At the time, five remained in my class. I set up some table games and acvtivities. I often read stories to my classes, but that was tabooed as “luring students away from the Bible thing.”

One of the s students who remained was a girl who eventually graduated from Barnard College. She and a boy were at one of the table games.


The boy at the game with her suddenly growled "You cheated!"


She replied in a level voice, "I don't care if I cheat."


There was a long moment of silence.  Then the boy said softly, "Show me."

Gospel Mission

A whole bunch of years ago our family went monthly to the Gospel Mission with ten or twelve other Presbyterians, bringing fixings for dinner. We would first meet in the chapel leading songs, and Bible passages, and one of us would give a short lesson.

The chapel was always nearly filled. We had revival songs, repeating favorites each time. A few in attendance would make short statements, and our Joe would close with a general prayer. We served the meal, ate dinner with the group, and conversed with them. We felt that we were achieving something for the folks attending. Also, the staff really welcomed us.


But I got a jolt the evening I was the one who presented the message.

The evening had gone well from the beginning: enthusiastic singing, several prayer offerings, good responses to the Scripture reading. My turn came to present the text and its message, and I could feel the warmth among the audience. I decided to make it short and succinct, and so I waded into it.


As I closed, I heard several sotto voce "Amen" murmurs. Delighted, I didn't just stop. I invited them to come to our church on Sunday.


Some among the congregation nodded, murmuring "Amen."


But, from the roughly dozen church brothers and sisters seated at the front, there were several audible gasps. One woman was now looking up at me with her face expressing sheer panic.


I was never asked to present another lesson.

Driving in England

Making the switch from right lane driving to left lane driving seemed delightfully easy when I picked up the rental car at Gatwick. I got us out of the parking lot and onto the highway as comfortably as if I'd always done it. 

And everything went well until we came to the first "y" about a quarter mile from the airport. I made a choice, and in seconds I knew it was the wrong one. Coming out of the "y," we were headed north. 


Winchester Cathedral required a southerly turn.


The divided road had no crossing roads. We had to do something, or we would be in London before long, which was not our destination.


When Muriel said, "There's a restaurant and gas station," I happily peeled off and parked.


I calculated that we were now about twenty miles in the wrong direction. That's not too different from knowing you're on the wrong subway. All you can do is get off.


Instead of asking a petrol attendant, we went into the restaurant. There we met a woman with red hair, a huge smile, and an accent so wonderful I stopped caring that I had erred. I just wanted her to keep talking. She sketched out a map that got us right to the cathedral.

I did better after that, EXCEPT that, every single morning, leaving our B&B, Muriel had to say, "Take the OTHER side, Dear. We're in England."


By Jove! We WERE!!! I knew that...most of the time. Only it didn't help getting us back to our B&B the first afternoon.


All British streets are just paved cow trails. They go where they please. I learned that returning from Winchester Cathedral.


"Just retrace the route you came." Hah!!!


First, we lost the car.  We were not sure of the color and had no idea what the plates said.  At last we found it by looking into several. One had some of our stuff.

We happily drove toward the road back to the B&B. That is, we were happy until we discovered that, during the day, a road repair crew had blocked off the way we had come.  




We knew to stay in the city, but there were no assistance signs, no detour marks, and not a “bobby” west of London.


We began to feel a sense of no progress when we passed the asylum for the insane for the third time. We could have parked and asked. But we decided not there.


Finally, I spotted a foot ruler sized arrow on the ground near the road block. What the bears, I thought. Our B&B is uphill. That little road seems to go uphill, and it's going away from London.

Our guess took us past the only restaurant we'd seen, They opened at six, not a tick sooner, and it was....six! So we ate and had the waitress (also with a delicious accent) tell us that, yes, indeed, we had guessed right this time. We were going in the right direction.

USA, Por Favor

Leaders are assumed to know where they're going. You feel foolish when you discover they don't. You feel worse when you've been the leader.

Crossing the Border

A passport into Mexico was not always necessary for a weekend. I don't know how many people drove across the border every Saturday and Sunday then -- but it was a lot, like a really, really lot.  Sunday afternoon the line to the border through Tijuana was miles. You had time, while in line, to buy piñatas, tacos, and trinkets made in China from the youngsters pounding on your car window.


An alternative was peeling off east and exiting via Tecate, a forty mile detour. Or, as I had discovered, there was an alternate way around the boring border lines themselves.

Tijuana is a large city

Because I was making rather regular trips to Ensenada, I had gotten to know Tijuana's streets fairly well. I could save up to an hour by leaving the line, dodging around past the bus station, and re-entering at a signal light much closer to the border.

river bed near Tecate

One home bound Sunday, late, I picked my special turn and headed at a good clip ninety degrees northward, entered an alley, shot past the Greyhound station, and... made one wrong turn, finding myself in a river bed.

Ensenada (south of Tijuana)

That was bad enough, of course; but it was then I realized that four cars had tailed me.


I hope they got out of Mexico somehow. I realized my mistake and recovered. Those four may have had to go back to that bus station. Or flagged a piñata seller to get proper instructions and gone home with two piñatas. 

The Big Red Canoe

Four of us water polo players at Stanford had our expenses assisted partly by bunking in the campus boathouse. It was more than adequate, including a glassed-in "porch” that overlooked the fake lake. For a prepared pond, it was fair sized.


At the end of November, during "Big Game" week, students built a monster wood pile to put to flame the Thursday night before the game. Of course, it needed considerable guarding to fend off U.C. Berkeley students' attempts to set it off prematurely.

Stunts back and forth were a given. The most astonishing of all during a pre-game week occurred while I was there. One pre-game week night some Berkeley-ites painted bear paw prints all the way up the ten story Hoover War Library.

I digress. This story is about a Lake date.


One superbly lovely spring afternoon, on a whim, I phoned a girl I only somewhat knew and invited her for a canoe ride.


"I’d love to," she said. She’d come to the lake, she offered, because she had a dinner date and needed to dress first. And dress she did: necklace, ear rings, and one of those funny little purses that are beautiful and don’t hold anything.


I helped her into the canoe, picked up a paddle, placed a foot on the stern, and shoved off.


As the bow of the canoe rose up, she reached for the pier, and I was alone.


I pulled her out of the water, and, amid my apologies, led her up to my room. She phoned her house. I heard her roommates squeal while my ex-canoe mate still had the phone to her ear.


Ten minutes later, three roommates arrived with a large bag full of something. I had been waiting on the canoe level, but as the three entered my room, I heard more screams and laughter. Ten minutes after that, the four came down to the canoe dock level with my ex-canoe passenger now clad in flaming red ski underwear, which she had to wear walking the quarter mile to their dorm.


I actually really was forgiven, perhaps because her roommates were so awful.

The Long Walk West

Our Tiki didn't care where we went to dog shows, with only one stipulation: he hated rain. We only disliked very hot weather, and our reasons were different. Dog show “rabids” (there aren’t any not-rabid dog show exhibitors) sign up for shows months in advance, and nothing on earth keeps them away.  If, once there, the weather is brutally hot, they spend their time inside motor homes and stay close with their dogs, keeping their dogs and themselves as comfortable as possible. Otherwise, they cruise the grounds checking out supplies, friends, the competition, vendors, and wandering show judges.






But Tiki thought dog shows were for the show chairperson to escort him around in a golf cart, for us to introduce him to most of the half a hundred breeds, and to sleep on our stall display table while visitors came and went.


But not in the rain. Rain has thunder, or at least it beats on the roof. That’s scary. He even got to distrust overcast conditions.


If you know anything about Missouri and its environs, you know that 110% of the time Tiki would hate it. And he did.
But we were the bosses of our lives and went anyway…. to Springfield, MO.


And he hated it.


He put up with one whole day, and then he insisted that he needed a walk. It seemed reasonable, so we started out.
I probably should have guessed something was afoot, because he was not checking curbs, bushes, etc.,  for random scents. He was single mindedly trotting in a fairly straight line to the edge of the show grounds and then directly along the sidewalk past the showgrounds. Then, suddenly, it hit me.


Tiki was headed west…. west by northwest….. Toward HOME.  Tiki had had it with Springfield, and he was on his way to Oregon!!!!


Still, I wasn’t positive, so I let him continue awhile.


About half a mile from the grounds, we came to a major intersection with lots of traffic and signal lights. At the curb, Tiki stopped and looked up at me. I was to escort him across the street.


I shook my head slowly no. “Not yet,” I told him. “We have to go on to Fargo after this, anyway.”

Lost in England

Everyone knows that an American driving in Great Britain....well, it’s an interesting experience.


Every morning, as we left our B&B, Muriel had to remind me that I had turned into the oncoming lane.


I really had gotten the hang of it by the time we’d survived the intricacies of the weird traffic arrangements around the town of Bath.

So, we were both puzzled when in the rear view mirror of our rented Ford a blue patrol light was blinking. What had I done wrong?


That’s what I asked the young officer who, grinning widely,  walked briskly toward me from the funny little cars they drive.


Pulling out a pencil and pad, he stated airily, "Yer lorst, arencha?"


“Well, in fact, yes.”  And we were.

On our way... in the left-hand lane

We had been searching for one of those incredible country homes which were designed centuries ago for the presumed comfort of an immensely wealthy British peer and his army-like coterie of relatives and attendants. They could house a major university in some of those country homes.


But most British roads were designed, pre Stone Age, to lead likely enemies astray, or something like that. If so, that’s why no invasion of England has succeeded since 1066, when there were no roads at all (I think). Anyway, he was right. We were "lorst.”

Our destination

The bobby asked me to name the destination, and he promptly sketched out a marvelously helpful notation. He added , "I’d foller yer; but it’s past my route. God bless, Yank."

Betty Boop in Shanghai

"We called it ‘Betty Boop’, the English gentleman said.


He was the prototype of the cultured Englishman of 19th Century literature. He nursed a substantial cup of green tea as I listened to him in the officers’ "mess" area of the British cruiser. He looked surprisingly well for one who had spent many months a prisoner of the Japanese north of Shanghai.


A couple of weeks after the bombing of Nagasaki, my shore leave from the Philippines had ended, and I had been assigned to an LST ship somewhere in the China Seas. A ship journey and two airplane hitches had carried me to Shanghai, where I was waiting for a connection to Hong Kong. I bunked on the U.S. cruiser anchored in the Whangpoo (Huangpu) River alongside a British cruiser.  My only duty was to check the location board each morning to see if my vessel was reported somewhere, and then to figure out if there was a way to get to it. Hong Kong seemed likely. With the war ended, I wasn’t sure anybody cared if I never found my assignment.


In going ashore that morning, the Englishman and I had met, and he had invited me to tea on the British ship. Now he was regaling me with stories of his imprisonment.


Probably his stories were mostly true; but, true or not, all I cared about was his beautiful accent and an escape from the boredom of my ship. I’d already been in downtown Shanghai three times, which was about enough in those days. There was nothing much for an American save a few night clubs, which I didn’t need.  And the side streets had signs in English warning that, if one was foolish enough to wander into them, the shore patrol would not bother to search. So, the Englishman was a gift.


"Betty Boop?" I asked.


"Your American cartoon," he said, and I understood. The Allies called the twin engine Japanese bombers "Betties." This particular airplane had a routine that did not vary. When American B-29 planes began seriously attacking Japanese positions around the Shanghai area, the sirens would moan their deep whoo, and everything and everybody went for cover. 

The prisoners loved it, he said. They would try to peek out the badly shuttered windows, hoping to see the B-29s. Then, when things were quiet again, a single Japanese Betty bomber would make a lonely, noisy circuit of the area. The prisoners would relax and announce that "Betty has Booped.... All clear."

Long Jump

As a pre- teen growing up at the edge of the city, the huge Golden Gate Park two blocks distant, the ocean even nearer, and miles of raw sand dunes to occupy my time, I was a city boy who more or less lived rurally. I participated as well in every fad and sport season as each came along. Also, the vice principal was a woman who would have made an excellent coach. Our school teams did well consistently.


So, when track season came around, I was out there. Not very big, nor particularly strong. but way up there in the Day Dream Division.


I wasn’t very fast. When, in tryouts, I was in the middle of the pack, I promptly switched to a field event. The school not having javelins, poles for vaulting, or steel balls for putting, it sort of left the jumps. We had no crossbar, nor hurdles. I pondered the skimpy opportunities and at last saw that I really could be an Olympian. I could long jump.

A sports writer for the Cal-Bulletin, which I delivered, had written a long article describing in detail the style of the contemporary U.S.C. star. I read it several times over. Yes, and there was a perfect practice place. Along the uphill wall of the school, by the kindergarten classes, was a strip of sand about four feet wide. I could run along the fence, past the gate, and take off in the Trojan’s form. If I smoothed the sand first, I could measure where my feet first touched.


About ten yards from the sand, I went over and over the article: the hopppity start, the speed-up, the slight crouch a stride before the take-off , and the lean to one side to get one’s feet out of line with the body. I nodded to myself in approval, then went into action.


I’m sure I did it all fairly well. At least it felt right.


What I had overlooked was that, in leaning to one side, my right arm extended outside the four feet width of sand. The sidewalk tore up my arm.


When I got home, my mother said sharply, "WHATEVER DID YOU DO TO YOURSELF?"


"I fell," I told her.


"Off the school roof?" she asked, probably not expecting any real answer.


"Not quite," I said.

Our Hiking Arrangement

Over the better part of fifty years, Bob and I went on long walks. Probably most people call them "hikes," but there wasn't anything fancy about them. We usually carried a couple of water containers. Bob generally brought a book or a tract on the area we were about to cover. Since they had names like Keet Seel and Sutter’s Buttes  (the nation's shortest mountain range). Beaches -- and the east end of the San Bernardino Range -- were on our considerable list of destinations.


I always toted a camera. Neither of us ever wore walking shoes, whatever they are, and usually some lotion. We didn't call ourselves hikers. We just went for walks... some of them far enough, like 45 miles. Yes, we packed food on those.
One reason, I'm sure, that Bob enjoyed our trips was the preparation. We'd get out topographical maps, rangers' notes, and any yarn we could dig out from any previous sojourner.

One night at Bob’s house, we were in his kitchen examining maps, when Bob looked up and said to his wife, "Taz, do you remember last month we were looking over topo maps of the Sierras?  I can’t find it here."




She stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned and went to the far wall, pulled a cookbook off the shelf, and brought it to him. At the table, she opened it with the maps having been used as a marker.






And there was "the agreement."


I was six feet tall. Bob was about five - five. If there were steep hills involved, we would start together at the base, and I would take my natural strides, which gradually gave me a considerable lead after awhile.  Bob would walk at his natural stride. When the grade switched to down, Bob would find that his legs began to accelerate. Most often we would reach the base nearly together. Of course, if the grade was not particularly steep, we had plenty of conversation, camera clicking, and discussions involving John Muir.

John Muir in Yosemite

Every time, on the way home, we were already working over the next go. 


I recommend friends like that.

What Do You Do for Work?

One day, as I passed by a student’s desk in my 5th grade classroom, he looked up and asked, "Mr. Singer, what do you do for work?"




Taken off guard, I replied, "I'm here five days a week, all day."


"I know," he nodded. "But what do you do for work?"


The question itself wasn't all that remarkable, I suppose. I was at a meeting that included a board of education member saying, "You people just sit at a desk all day." I should have retorted what I was thinking then: Yeah, sure, with six of my students already on the police blotter.

Sixth graders wtih Bert at Madison Elementary School. Pasadena, CA.

The real humor of this boy's question was that he almost never got an assignment turned in on time. When the kids lined up, he was always near the end. I overheard a girl saying to him, "Don't you ever do anything? You don't even run to first base."


What I "do for work," young man is apply for summer jobs. They're easier.


G. B. Shaw was cited as saying, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach."


He must have been a school board member and never entered a classroom. In nearly thirty years of classroom teaching a school board member entered my classroom exactly once. That was unannounced, and he was ticked that I ignored him. He was the member who contended that students needed only three books: a speller, a reader, and an arithmetic book. He never said at what levels.

When I Was a Girl Scout

For several years I was a card-carrying Girl Scout. It came about very naturally: my daughter told someone that her father would be all massively thrilled to drive a truckload of gravel for them up to the Girl Scout mountain camp.




Naively, I thought that complying this one time would close the deal. How little I was clued in to the world of volunteers! I missed that “one time” by eight years!

California state highway #2 is a two lane, tightly winding, rapidly climbing forest highway through the Angeles National Forest with La Canada at one end and the San Bernardino Mountain Range at the other. Along the north side is, de facto, the western end of the Mojave Desert. At the base of the “Angeles” are the San Gabriel Valley, Los Angeles, and smog--perpetual, ugly, brownish, and smelly. The drive up from the San Gabriel Basin past the television relay towers to a mile above that crud is actually worth dragging a load of gravel some forty-five miles.

Anyway, it became evident shortly that The Girl Scouts of Pasadena had gotten themselves a new patsy. At least, I wasn’t alone. I was shortly inducted into a committee that met to fix things -- things at the camp, things in town -- and especially to bargain with local pooh-bahs for providing stuff, and inventing ways to do things... lots of inventing. I never dreamed those little girls needed so much stuff to sing “Make new friends ....”

By then I'd been "advanced" from just driving "Jimmy," the supply truck up and down the mountain, to random chores in the camp, which gave me general use of the Jeep, a WWII relic that everyone in camp hungered to ride along the camp's steep slopes. 


To be authorized to sign whatever for the Scouts, I had to be an official member. So, for years I carried a card. That also put me on the automatic “to phone” list -- everyone’s. Among all the Pasadena Girl Scout troops, and even a few Campfire Girl groups, I became referred to as “Uncle Bert.”


The camp director was a helplessly hooked freebie collector. Once she turned up with six twenty-foot flagpoles. Lacking any other notion of what to do with them, she asked me to install them by the camp swimming pool. It wasn’t easy. The granite mountains of the San Gabriel aren’t billiard table flat or made of loam.


I got them in, seated and in line, and I called the director over.
When the director came to look, she scowled.


“They’re not level at the top,” she snapped.  She was standing by the deep end of the pool, so I had her walk with me to the shallow end.


“That’s crazy,” she said. “Now they slant the other way.”


“Now stand in the middle between them,” I said.


She did, then walked away grumbling, “Everybody will always think they’re crooked.”


I offered to take them down, at which she whirled toward me and said, “We’re the only camp in California with six flag poles.”