Baby, It's Cold Outside

When Mussolini made Italy's trains run on time, he ran everything else on schedules, too. When I got to Naples from Greece, he was long gone; but his schedules lingered.  As I passed Sorrento late, looking for a meal and a room, all I knew was that I wanted to spend the following day gazing down the incredible cliffs to the magic Mediterranean. This was Italy's SOUTH, and I was from California, for heavens' sake!  Sorrento is about the same latitude as Washington, D.C.  This was April!! Winter was over!

So, driving around the heel of the “BOOT,” when a sign indicated rooms, I stopped. The building was several stories tall, looking like a Fifteenth Century town mansion (which made it relatively young).  I gave it a try.

I found a place to park that didn't seem likely to be available to the roaming groups of boys who strip cars, then tried the rooming place.

The lobby was ornate and tired, dark, with very high ceilings, heavily draped, and loosely littered with curvy furniture. At the far back a woman eyed me warily, as if I were casing the joint. She glowered.  I thought for a moment of trying another place; but it was nearly ten p.m. Even though Europeans dine much, much later than we do, I wasn't sure I could get a decent meal after another hour or so. 

I walked to the counter. The gloomy woman said she had a room.  It was up two flights, but no worse than the rest of the  peninsula's ancient, forgotten past.  Besides, my car was in the only spot I felt was not at risk from vandalism and the world's worst drivers.

I asked about food, and the woman came to life.  Ah, si, her cousin (I think she said) ran an "excelante ristorante" just doors up the street.  She was right, too.  I wouldn't have given it four stars, or even two; but it was clean and passable.  I ate and returned to my quarters about ten.

       

The bed was short. The frame, when I'd checked before, was long enough; but the mattress was made for a Sixteenth Century population when men were all 5' 6". I also discovered that there was no heat.  I saw a phone but knew  that my infinitely modest command of Italian would be worthless over  the phone.  I dressed and went down to the lobby.

My suspicious concierge had been replaced by a smiling, plump woman who looked like a sister of the first one but who clearly had a better disposition.  She greeted me almost effusively in rapid Italian, of which I recognized not a word.

       

 I tried to explain with appropriate gestures that the bed was too small, there were insufficient covers, and there was no heat.  The woman nodded a lot and smiled a lot. When I had exhausted my mime performance, she nodded even  more vigorously. In her own pantomime, she proposed that I put on more clothing. Somehow, then I managed to pull out of thin air the word for heat.  I needed some.

         

At that, my smiling substitute concierge pulled out a calendar. With authority, she pointed to the 14th day of April. I knew we were past that date.  So what?  So what was that, after then, hotels were no longer required to heat rooms.  Shades of Benito!

A super popular song of prewar days was "Come Back to Sorrento."  I know why they left. 

Hippo

 Hirose Paul Shibata swam on our Y.M.C.A. team.  Of course he did.  He was built like a barrel, and moved through the water like what they called him -- “Hippo.”

He was what is termed “Nisei”... first generation American born of Japanese ancestry.  When I asked him why he had Japanese first and surnames, but a Christian middle name, he explained it was customary for Asian families to give their American born children American middle names.  He said that most families from Europe don't because it is common for kids just to “Anglicize” their European versions.  But Asians don't have even the same scripts, let alone adjustable names that can be Americanized.  By giving their children both English and Asian names, the children have an option. 

       

I never heard anyone say either “Paul” or “Hirose,” though.  He was “Hippo.” Well, except for his father.  The only thing I ever heard his father say to him (other than Japanese streams of words that didn't sound exactly endearing) was “Klaysay!”

Actually, that didn't sound endearing either. Anyway, our teammate  “Hippo.”

       

After December 7th,  Hippo vanished.  A bit later, the “Y” coach received a letter from Hippo from the internment camp. He and his family had been hauled off.   It was a typically upbeat Hippo.  Even in this false detention, he was having fun.

The war eventually ended. I was in San Francisco for a day for something or other.  Out of the mass of people on Market Street popped Hippo, and we took some time to update each other.  Over lunch he told me that the military had offered young Niseis release from the camps if they volunteered into military service.  Hippo prepared to put on a uniform. 

He had been sent home to await orders. (I don't know where Hippo's “home” could have been at that time.  Maybe his family's home wasn't confiscated.)  He had a few days on his own until a letter arrived with train tickets to Madison, Wisconson.

       

Hippo was puzzled; but he knew that “good soldiers” don't ask questions.  He boarded the train and eventually got to what he realized was S.H.A.E.F.-- the war's supreme command center.  This didn't look much like Camp Roberts. An M.P. took his letter, led him to a barracks building and a bunk, then told him he'd be led to an officer in the morning.  Again, this didn't seem like foot soldier prep.  In the morning he was ushered into an office with numerous desks. From there he was sent to collect his uniform, and told to return.

Back before the officer, and now clutching a wad of G.I. Stuff, he was told he would be shown where “his class" was.

        “My WHAT?” Hippo exploded.

        “Your class,” said the officer.  “Where you'll be teaching.”

        “Teaching what?” Hippo wanted to know.

        The officer looked surprised. “Ja... pa... nese?' he said, tentatively.

        Hippo struggled to contain himself. Finally, he got out, “But I don't know any.”

        “It says here,” and the officer began reading off a folder he had.

        “That's my father's,” said Hippo. “I speak more Italian than Japanese. I grew up near Little Italy in North Beach. I went to Galileo High school.  I heard more of my high school friends speaking Italian than English. My father wanted me to be American, so the only Japanese I ever heard was when my relatives came to visit.”

Hippo was sent to the 442nd Battalion, the most decorated in the war. I could see that he'd survived, all right, and he was still Hippo. 

*Fast forward twenty-five years.* 

Bob Hirano and I were spending as many days, even weeks, as we could walking every wilderness trail we could reach. This usually involved evenings with topo maps, access routes, and lists, supplies, etc.  During one of our discussions, I happened to mention Hippo.

       

Tazi spun around. “HIPPO?  Hippo Shibata?” she asked.  She beamed when I said, “I knew him at the Y. We were at the internment camp together!”

       

I mentioned his Madison experience, and Tazi giggled.

“Yes, That's Hippo. When Hippo was distressed with a camp guard, he'd say 'Klaysay'.”  (Crazy)

       

Bob added, “We worked on the camp newsletter a lot.”

Then I recalled that, once at a swim meet, calling out, “Hirosi,” he didn't answer.

Tiki Bark

Our bichon, Tiki sorted the cat world into two groups: those that flinched and you chased, and those that didn't, and you didn't. 

 Traveling in our trailer, we had arranged to visit a couple, but, arriving, found a note on the door.  We would have to wait awhile for their return. Our friends' front yard was  typical: a lawn surrounded by a  low fence. We dropped Tiki, Lord-of-Creation, into it. 

       

He sprinted a couple of circles, then began scouting. Suddenly, his tail snapped up.  His forelegs went stiff.  His head thrust forward. A CAT!  By the garden hose bib indeed, a cat sunned.  Cat looked at dog. Dog glared at cat.  Cat closed its eyes, dozing. What we knew, and Tiki did not, was that Cat lived with five dogs, the smallest of which weighed eighty pounds.  This thing on the lawn weighed twelve. 

The cat didn't blink.  Its tail didn't twitch. It gave Tiki a bored acknowledgment.   Tiki tilted forward and barked. Cat dozed.  Tiki barked again.  Cat dozed.  Tiki paused.  Cat was not following script.

       

Moving halfway across the yard, Tiki reared up and barked some more.  Cat's whiskers didn't so much as twitch.  Tiki peered over his shoulder toward our trailer. Then he moved closer to the cat.  He barked again, but somewhat tentatively.  Cat dozed. 

What do I do now?

Finally, he marched right over to the cat until he stood perhaps six inches away.  Mustering his best junkyard dog stance, he literally screamed at Cat. Cat dozed.  Tiki swiveled his head 180 degrees, as dogs can, until he was looking across the yard to us.  His expression said as plain as words, “What do I do now?”

Muriel's response was probably as crushing as the cat's indifference had been.  She laughed.  At that, Tiki pretended that he had never seen a cat.  He inspected a coil of hoses,  a rose bush a bit farther off, noticed a strange noise in the distance, looked over at Muriel, and, when he saw that she was still laughing, turned his back on her.  For the rest of our visit, Cat didn't exist.

He somewhat made up for his embarrassment later.  When our friends arrived, and we were invited into their living room, our friends brought out their favorite show dog, a gorgeous Samoyed. Tiki glared up at this ninety pound, superbly muscled working dog and barked so viciously, with his teeth bared and snapping we all would have thought the Samoyed was doomed ....  except that Tiki was doing all his histrionics from between Muriel's feet.

Fist Fight

I could almost see the steam coming out of both boys' ears.  Each was far too angry to speak.  I noted the bruise on the one boy's cheek and the battered ear on the other's.  For two ten year old kids, both had done a good job each on the other.  Managing at least to have gotten them seated at the same wide table and facing me, I considered where to begin.

Neither boy was one of my students, but I'd seen them enough to know that they had been good friends.  This wouldn't be resolved by telling them to keep their cools.  Whatever had brought this on would fester.

“Either of you want to talk?” I asked.  Neither did. Nor was there any sign that either would cool down soon. Proposing reason was unreasonable.  Surreptitiously, I checked my watch.  I couldn't send them to their classrooms like this unattended.  I had to get to my own classroom shortly.  The boys had a problem, and so did I.

The school had a teacher specialist who would routinely have been doing what had been dropped on me. The staff unofficially referred to him as “Mr. Fight Fixer.”  Fights were uncommon at our school; but kids are kids, and anger wrecks the useful day for everyone within range.  Our specialist was talented and a pleasure to have on board.  Only right now he wasn't. 

       

“Mr. Singer, sir. How long we be kept here?”  The boy with the roughed up ear had spoken.     I glanced over at him, and had an inspiration.

“You two don't be lookin so good,” I offered. “Yo mamas be askin how come you get them faces not so pretty.  What you tell yo mamas? It better be good, or they come longside both'n yo haids.”

For the first time, the boys sat up. Then they looked at each other. Then they both looked at me and began to giggle. They looked back at each other and broke out laughing.

       

One said, “Mr. Singer, you a teacher!”

       

The other, giggling, too, said, “What we tell our mommas?” 

       

I asked, “Baseball game maybe?” 

       

They looked at each other a moment, then nodded.

       

One nodded in agreement. “Okay,” he said, grinning at his enemy of a few moments ago. “Baseball game.”

       

As the two boys left the room, now arm in arm, one looked back and asked, “Mr. Singer, we cain't be tellin our mommas how you talk.  She gonna wanna know why.”

       

I said, “Well, it's a smaller problem than you DID have.” 

       

For the rest of the school year, they grinned at me every time we passed. One or the other would say, sotto voce, “Baseball game.”

Beaufort

This week's blog comes from our son David Singer.  He sent this letter to Muriel after our visit when he was living near Elizabeth City, North Carolina.  We had accompanied David to Beaufort to see him off as he led a crew sailing to a Caribbean island.

Dearest Muriel: 

What we think epitomizes your outlook on life was displayed by the event in Beaufort when you did the splits.  Once again, you quietly assumed control, as usual, gave specific instructions, and took no credit for your efforts, made the whole ordeal look as seamlessly smooth as a well rehearsed commercial.

It was May 10 of`1997.  Six of us -- Bert, you, Tiki, Tiffany, Trish, and I were disembarking from the 37 ft. sailboat “Stitches” after we had taken the obligatory photos. You know –the “These are the fine folks who saw David off on his voyage to the Caribbean” photos.

Bert had stepped ashore (actually onto the ladder float attached to the pier) with Tiki.  You handed Tiffany to him. He then stood awaiting your leaving the boat.

Then, with Trish at your port, and me, David, at your starboard, you put one foot onto the ladder float, straddling the life lines, to leave “Stitches.” The boat, not being a family member, decided independently to drift out toward Savannah.

As if in slow motion, your feet drifted apart, too, one trying to stay on the ladder float, the other glued to the boat.  Agile you are: a ballerina, not so much. So, you kept both feet planted. Tenaciously, you clung to the piling with your left hand, the boat railing with your right. It was a new version of “Twister,” except that you could go neither outboard nor inboard.  Release anything, and you'd be in the Gulf Stream.

Slowly, relentlessly, the boat inched away from the pier.

“Let me help,” offered Bert with both arms cradling dogs.

“Here, let me help,” added David, both arms now around your shoulders.

“Here, let me help,” cried Trish, both of her arms about your waist.

“No, Bert. You take care of the kids,” you told him. 

 

“No, David.  I think I can do better if you let go of my shoulders,” you advised me.

Then you leaned toward Trish, saying, “Thank you,” as you returned to the boat.

“Now,” you said. “Will somebody put this boat back so I can leave like a lady?”

       

Disaster had been one small misstep away; but you dealt with it with aplomb.  We were impressed, not surprised, though.  Of course you would leave the boat like a lady!         

                                       

Love, David 

       

        

Crater Lake

Crater Lake is one of the most visited parks in America. It is a “Natural Wonder of the World.” Just a few miles off U.S. 97, it is easy to get to, is open year round, save for occasional 14 foot snow packs, and less than forty miles from my home.  We return regularly.

 Only a handful of folks, however, shared the luck I had there one time.

My intent that day had been to photograph a special spot along the Rogue River.  My route to the Rogue took me past the Crater Lake entrance, and, on impulse, I turned in.  The lake would be especially brilliant that day at that time.  Maybe I could get one of those eye-popping panoramas that we see on calendars.

Approaching the parking lot and lodge, I saw a small crowd clustered a short distance from the lodge.  It was around a soft top convertible. A forest ranger stood nearby.  Approaching, I saw why the crowd. Inside the car was a bear. He was on the back seat eating out of two paper bags.

The bags were no surprise. People staying at the lodge often spent most of a day enjoying the greater perk area. The lodge routinely provided bag lunches.  A couple must have gone from the lodge to the car, but returned to the lodge temporarily.  Mr. Bear, ambling across the lot, having the world's greatest nose, crawled into the convertible.

As I stood by the park ranger, the couple returned. The man stopped and backed away; but the woman instantly strode up to the ranger.

“What's that thing doing in our car?” she demanded

“Eating,” the Ranger offered.

“GET IT OUT!!!!” charged the woman.

“Lady,” the Ranger said in a soft voice, “I don't give many commands to bears.”

“WELL, GET IT OUT!” yelled the woman.

The Ranger sort of shrugged, stepped over to the back of the car, then slammed his hard on a fender, making quite a bang and the, car shudder.  

       

The bear went straight up through the soft top.  As the bear strolled off toward the trees, the crowd exploded in laughter. It also gave the bear plenty of clearance.  The Ranger held his hands out, palms up.

Shanghai Shop

The most wonderful people you often meet by chance.  You aren't looking, and they're just there.

I guess sixty plus years is a long time to recall details of  a casual meeting. But, when I think about the several minutes I spent in that modest shanghai shop, I'm so glad that I can recall it so well.   What the gentleman did in 1945 still seems like last week.

Shanghai was at last no longer several million cowering victims of Imperial Nipponese  conquest. Street intersections were no longer monitored by Japan's soldiers. Now turbaned Indian Sikhs, hired mostly because they were giants who could see over everybody.

Bit by bit, shops were reopening  to masses daring now  to look into them.  What money there was could be circulated openly. As I passed by people, a few actually smiled.

Bored with looking down from the deck of my stop-over railing at the filthy Huang Pu River,  tired of my temporary bunk neighbors as they were of me, and having an entire day to spend my boredom, I went ashore.  At least I could exercise a little.  Downtown Shanghai beat listening to other bored navy guys repeating how bored they were.  By evening mess, I'd at least be tired and maybe hungry.

       

Wandering among the scurrying crowd, every one of them tightly focused on something ten inches beyond their noses,  I found it best to at least pretend to be shopping. If I seemed to be looking into a window, at least people quit brushing into me.

 

Without anything in mind, I paused before a pleasingly arranged curio shop window.  It looked better cared for than others.  It wasn't just  there: it was pleasanter, cleaner, its wares thoughtfully arranged.  Going in seemed natural.

Inside, was jammed with what else?  Curios.  Yet, somehow, it didn't look  so crowded.

My ignorance of curios was (is)  abysmal; but what I could understand was far above the stock junk of nearly every other layout I'd seen over the several days I'd spent in Shanghai. Also, taking time here beat more aimless meandering.

 

Little more than a month had passed since “The Bomb,” had leveled Hiroshima. It was a marvel that this shop could this fine a display in such a little time. The proprietor had to have carefully and cleverly secreted his curios from the Japanese for years, and even then had to have been very lucky.

The sound of a throat cleared turned me toward the back of the shop.  My host was a person you automatically call ' “gentleman.”  His suit was no longer fresh, having little worn spots at the lapels some re-stitching, wonderfully done, but impossible to completely disguise. His shoes were brightly shined, but showing little cracks betraying their age.

I asked, “Do you speak English?''  Foreigners often indicate that they do, and promptly reveal that they don't really. They'll happily fake their way through mutual frustration.  Bargaining with our pet, Tiki, worked better.

Some admit, with embarrassment, that they know “a little.”  That means  lots of hand waving.

This gentleman shook his head slowly, sadly.  He could, he indicated, read a very little English. I relaxed. We would understand each other, slowly, yes, but we would come out the other end okay, both of us.

I decided to take my time.  I liked the place. And, when I pantomimed would he mind if I touched things, he nodded, smiling, touching a few things himself, then stepping back.

One piece jumped at me.  I'd passed it several times without stopping; but, after awhile paused in front of it.  It was a teak boat, a mandarin's pleasure river craft with poles, long, bent rudder, and extra levels for a crew to propel it without troubling the mandarin.

Turning to the gentleman, I pointed at the boat.  He picked his way among doo-dads, lifted it down, and presented it to me.

Close up, this was a masterpiece.  My superb ignorance of this kind of art didn't keep me from recognizing the skill and patience required to form such a beautiful miniature. And I did know a little bit about teak.  I'd grown up with it all around me, because of so many missionary relatives who'd spent their careers in China, India, Southeast Asia, and the Philippines.

It also wasn't too big for me to tote it the many months before a leave and the many thousands of miles back home.  I nodded, handing it back to the gentleman.

“How much?” I asked.  He didn't have to know any English to understand my question – with my palms up and eyebrows raised.

He said something.  It might have been, “Blessings on Japan,” though probably not.  Words wouldn't get us very far.  I'd show him some money.

I dug into my Navy jacket, pulling out a wallet.  Fishing in it, I found some ones, a ten, and a twenty.  These I displayed. The gentleman considered the several bills.  At last he pointed to the ten.

I separated out the ten, but also showed him the twenty again. He smiled, slowly shaking his head.  At least that motion is universal.

He took the boat to a desk where he placed it on a large piece of wrapping paper.  Then he went back to the shelves.  He bent, rummaged, and came up with a paper bag.  He returned, placing it alongside the boat.  He found a bit of twine somewhere, tied the stuff together, presented it to me, and said something with a sweet smile.  He did not have a business card.

Back at the ship, in my quarters, I opened my prize...and got a surprise.

My Chinese gentleman had added almost a dozen pieces of tiny furniture, mats, and trappings to the boat.

Maybe there are not all that many “Shanghai gentlemen” everywhere; but there are some, and I've sure had the good fortune to have met some of them. (In 1950, I asked an auctioneer I knew what value he would place on my boat.  He said he would open the bidding at $200. That's nice to know; but it would take a ton more than that to pry it loose from me today.

Tokyo Rose

None of the G.I.s I knew in the Pacific in WWII were angry with Tokyo Rose.  She was too entertaining.  She recited  lots of nonsense, but we were pretty sure that her trash talk was essentially for her own people, who probably wanted to believe most of it.  We certainly didn't have to. When she was telling us that an aircraft carrier floating a hundred yards off our stern was being sunk, we didn't have to ask CINCPAC if “Rosie” was mistaken.

           

The thing was that, for all of her silliness, her radio program was the easiest to receive, and  she played all the best contemporary LP's.

           

Broadcasts from the States was usually like listening through a fish tank, wavering, and often interrupted by bad weather.  Ships could have relayed stuff, but that would have been an invitation to Japanese subs.  Rosie was reliable, and tuning in was secure.

Australia wasn't all that great to tune into, and they played "Aussie" stuff.

           

Rosie had to have been working from a monster station.  Bad weather and sunspots never spoiled reception.

           

One of our favorite pastimes was hearing her recite ships “sunk” by the Japanese fleet, and then seeing who would be first to identify those ships.     

Once Rosie named a C.V.E. we were alongside getting some supplies from. But she must have been an elitist, as she didn't mention our ship, just the big one. 

Security in war time is important, of course, but its effectiveness was at best moot.  When my brother-in-law's B-17 was shot down by the Germans in Rumania, the plane's crew were taken to an interrogation officer who pointed to each crewman and, in acceptable English, identified each by name, rank, home town, and prewar job. 

           

In the Pacific,  we always had a pretty good idea where the Japanese were, how many, how well equipped, and if they were readying any action.  We just couldn’t tell people at home that we knew. Which meant that Rosie's real effect was on her own country.

           

Once I wrote a long letter.  I dressed it up with cartoons of airplanes in the margins, palm trees, and wings on a steam boat. A month or so later, a response arrived.  My letter had been censored ... sort of. A censor had very neatly razor bladed out each drawing.  But, he, or she, had also left every clipped sketch inside the envelope. 

Some people at home actually knew things about my ship and schedule that I didn't.  I did not know when my first leave would begin until the day my leave papers arrived on board.  I only learned the name of my home bound ship by reading the bow on it as my exec and I were being motored to it.  Yet I was met at the pier in San Francisco, and my uncle in Berkeley had a reception waiting for me.  Maybe Tokyo Rose knew it, too -- but she didn't like to tell good news.

  

We loved her LP's.  Wouldn't you tune in Rosie when she was playing “Begin the Beguine,”  “Contrasts,” and “Don't Get Around Much Anymore”?  Oh, I forgot.  You weren't born then.

Semana Santa

Americans don't really know how to watch parades.  We cheer marching bands and stand a little straighter when military units snap by.  We cheer when long legged girls in shiny black boots come by tossing batons in the air.  But we don't really know how to have fun at parades the way folks in other countries do.

In Seville, Semana Santa (Holy Week) isn't a parade: it's six parade days, each lasting all day. Floats weave through the wandering streets.  People collect at float storage doors, cheer as each enters the street, run alongside, go ahead to meet them approaching various “singing” stations, and do their watching in family groups with lots of food and cerveza.

At designated places along a route, an assigned person sings to a tearful Mary (Mary's tears are dazzling pearls).  The crowd listens silently during the solo, then nods approvingly.

Floats are deliberately not motorized.  Carrier teams are unionized, toting by strict rules of rests and distances.  Every so many blocks, the float pauses for a respite, during which friends, relatives, and whomever, leave the curb, lift the float drape, and offer soft drinks and/or cerveza.  Folding chairs are shared among families and elderly strangers.

This week boom boxes are taboo.

              

As important as the floats are, they actually rank a few points behind the main goal of Holy Week – picnicking, family picnicking.  If one spots a friend across the street, one walks across through the parade.  Children enjoy darting around the floats.  Nobody minds, not even the float carriers.  There is very little police oversight. I saw two over the whole week.

              

Mary is the feature of several floats.  Each is extravagantly adorned with jewels, especially pearls.  A single float can match the cost of any Pasadena Rose Parade float. 

              

At designated places along the route, a man sings to Mary.  His lyrics describe how awful the Jews were and what terrible things should be done to them. (Apparently, the Inquisition isn't quite over yet).

The parade winds through the city in a leisurely fashion, with no single “launch” spot. And no single assigned route. One can get a program layout with approximate point passing times.  One can see the procession several times from different vantages, by using the map.  You can know a given float's designated route.

Semana Santa is another opportunity for Spaniards to deck out their young daughters in the classic tradition of “Flamenco.” ('Flamenco' translates “Flemish,” which, of course, it is not).  

Typically, they are done up in lots of black and some bright red. Mantillas and fans are a must.  Many wobble along in four inch heels as they beam at everyone. There is lots of whirling and hip flinging to make the multiple skirts radiate. And no outfit is complete without the shiny black spikes.  It is apparently a rule that all little girls be heavily rouged.

When I photographed two of these girls, my conversation with their mother led to my being invited to dinner.  I arrived to find that the mother's sister's family had also been included, as well as four neighbors.  It was a wild evening among sixteen people, not one of whom spoke any English.  They were most patient, laughed at my bloopers, and showed their tolerance by pressing more liquid on me as I struggled.

One morning in a business section of Seville, I photographed four boys, roughly aged twelve, who had created their own "float."  It had been done with colored paper, wire, marking pens, and table decoration streamers.  They had a small guitar (every living Spaniard has at least one guitar), a popcorn can drum, and trinkets probably accumulated from neighbors' trash.

 

One wag at this “mall” brought a beer to the float, holding it under the drape for the imaginary carriers to slake thirst.  Another man stopped the boys so he could sing the “praise to Mary” bit. Bystanders paused until the song was completed.

The boys' little "float" and reception by the mall goers, made its own statement. Pasadena's Tournament of Roses parade is awesome, but the Spanish know a lot more about thoroughly enjoying life.

Bridal Veil

Bridalveil Creek Camp, in the Forest Service's own words, is one of Yosemite's best kept secrets.  Being open just three months each year keeps it relatively little used and on few people's agendas. This is the great good fortune for the lucky ones who venture to the site. 

Bridalveil Fall

My own recommendation is that one should plan to arrive in the a.m. and remain until at least the following noon.  Bring along your 18-55 zoom and a 250 telephoto, too.

El Capitan

Why?  A very short walk north brings one to the Bridalveil Fall overlook.  From there you are facing Yosemite Falls and El Capitan across the valley. Below is the Merced River winding past Curry Village. 

Half Dome

Northward, you see the entire Yosemite valley past Half Dome to Tuolumne Meadows in the hazy distance.  The Fire Fall is nearby on your right. Vernal and Nevada Falls decorate the farther right. It is the view that locked John Muir's heart.  Nothing on Earth can cap it.

The camp itself, at least when I was lucky enough to be there, was definitely primitive.  There was a water faucet, a campfire circle, and, um, uh, and a couple of small signs.  Oh, yes, there was a trash can with a lid.  The lid was chained to the can, and the can was chained to a stake anchored in concrete. That should have been enough to warn visitors about the caveat: Protect your food.

I noticed that the few other campers had lashed bags of what looked like food to overhanging branches that were at least eight feet above open ground.  Deer, I thought. 

I should have done a bit more thinking. 

              

I took my sandwiches out of my plastic cooler, tied it to a bag, which I tied to a clothesline, which I flung over a very high branch.  Deer can't leap twelve feet, I thought.

              

Merced River

After spending the entire day along the rim, clicking at the fairy story falls, shooting across the valley, turning to photograph into deep woods up stream, catching the wondrous shifting of cloud formations, trying to snap birds, chipmunks, jays, and wishing I had a recorder, while missing two meals, I finally realized that it was dark.  I needed to eat.

              

A family was spending the early evening at the campfire. They invited me to share thier marshmallows.  I told them what I'd been doing, and they decided to remain until the next afternoon.

I crawled into my sleeping bag around nine, promptly sleeping deeply.  Sometime in the night I became conscious of a clanking. There was no moon, but the clear, starry sky allowed me to make out moving shadows beyond the campfire circle.   A bear was pulling a trash can over.

He was clawing at the secured lid. In moments he had it off.  He promptly stuck his head deep inside. Then his head reappeared.  Apparently, he was too late. The Forest Service had already cleaned out the can. 

              

The bear clawed at the can now resting on its side. He stuck his head inside again.  Shortly, he backed out again. He glared at the can some more, his head swaying.  He turned to walk away, but suddenly whirled and gave the can a resounding whack.  The can bounced the foot or two to the end of its chain tether, clanging loudly. The bear glared still.

              

A second time the bear walked off a few paces, then spun once more, and whacked the can so hard it bounced crazily, losing much of its earlier roundness.  Apparently finally satisfied that he had taught the Forest Service and the can a lesson, he lumbered away.

              

In the morning, I was awakened by some rather colorful language. A male voice was unhappy.  Peering out from my bag, I saw my marshmallow host standing by a branch dangling from a tree.  A piece of string and the remains of a plastic bag rested at the end of the broken branch.

                

A deer must have leaped higher than the man thought he could.  It didn't take rocket science to see that the eight feet was not enough.

              

Mr. “Marshmallow's” wife peered out from their tent.  “Honey,” she said.

              

“I don't want to hear it,” he snapped.