Santa Wore Fatigues

“He don’t care if you’re rich or poor, He loves you just the same”

- Here Comes Santa Claus,  Gene Autry -

 

If I may borrow a concept from Charles Dickens:  It was my worst Christmas, It was my best Christmas.

It wasn’t my first Christmas away from home, but it was my first Christmas in a combat zone.  The year was 1967 and I was rapidly approaching the end of my first tour in Vietnam.  I was stationed at LZ Two Bits in proximity to the Village of Bong Son.  The village was large as villages go.  Our camp was on a small rise on the edge of town.  The road ran through the center of town, leading out to rice paddies and a large garbage dump in one direction and ended at a tee intersection in the other direction.  That road lead towards a larger landing zone, LZ English, in one direction and beyond towards the foothills in the other direction.  There were smaller villages, rice paddies and stands of forest along the way.

 

We were in a period of Holiday Cease Fire, which meant we only had a few firefights with the Viet Cong.  But, in reality, it was relatively quiet and no one had any complaints.

It was mid-November and my family had just learned that I had opted to serve a second tour in Vietnam and, stoically accepting my decision, my mother had written to me to ask what I would like for Christmas.  What was there to want in a combat zone?  I had no record player and didn’t want to be encumbered by one (this was before ipods, cds and 8 tracks).  Civilian clothing was not only forbidden, it served no function at all.  We had cards, games and some paperbacks, so that left one thing only:  snacks.

Let me explain snacks in Vietnam.  First it was unlikely that the snack would arrive in the same condition that it was shipped in.  The usual result at the end of the delivery was a package full of crumbs.  I’ve seen cakes stored in tins arrive looking like a pile of sawdust.  But, good is good, regardless of form.  Second, there was no such thing as anyone receiving snacks dedicated solely to the recipient;  as soon as a package of treats was opened it was fair game for grabbing.  You learned early on to have one hand ready to grab a handful at the time of opening your package.  After that it was rare that you got a chance for a second bite.

I sat down and started a letter to my mother, outlining a few snacks I would like to get.  I wrote for a short period and then laid everything aside and went to bed.  We had a local patrol the next morning and I wanted to get some rest before a gruelling day of wading streams and rice paddies with boots caked with mud and weighing 15 pounds apiece.

In the 1st Air Calvary Division our usual method of travel was by helicopter;  we flew to our area of operation for the day, patrolled on foot and then flew back to camp for the evening.  Periodically we rotated with other platoons and companies to patrol locally, which meant being afoot for the entire day out and back.  This added considerably to the amount of miles we would be walking in less than desirable terrain.

We headed out the next morning in file, spaced out at 15 foot intervals from each other.  This was to minimize personnel damage in the event of an attack, particularly from grenades and landmines.  And, though the village was friendly, it was standard operational procedure to form up in combat formation each time we left the landing zone on patrol.  We headed down the road, waving to friends in the village as we went.  At the tee, we turned to the right and walked on past the orphanage that sat on the edge of the village.

War produces a lot of orphans, and this war was no exception.  I don’t know how many orphans there were being cared for in the village, but there were quite a few.  The orphanage was operated by the Catholic Church and was staffed by  Nuns.  As was customary, we would stop off at the mess tent before heading out and put some candy in our pockets.  At the end of the serving line there was always a large cardboard box filled with packs of cigarettes and candy.  We would toss the candy to the kids in the village as we passed through, and knowing the custom, they would run out to greet us as we walked along.

The kids from the orphanage were standing outside the walls as we approached and began shouting to us.  It was funny how they always seemed to know our schedule better than we did.  As we passed the orphanage I tossed some candy like the others in my platoon and my eye caught two little girls sitting near the wall playing with something.  They looked up and waved and I threw them some candy which they grabbed up then went back to their playing.  They had a stick with a small piece of cloth wrapped around it and from the way they were handling it I realized it was a makeshift doll and they were playing house like girls around the world are wont to do.  I had seen the same two girls on several occasions and they were always playing together.  I didn’t know if they were sisters or if the circumstances of life had made them such.

The day, though gruelling in terms of physical activity; we ended up patrolling several steep hills, was uneventful and, tired but grateful for what we termed a walk in the park, we headed back in to camp.  Following dinner and a quick shower out of a shower bag, I sat down to finish my letter.  As I reread what I had already written, I suddenly knew what I wanted for Christmas.  I wanted a doll.  I wanted a baby doll with a baby bottle and a baby blanket.

I explained the two girls to my mother and tossed the letter into the outgoing mail bag outside Headquarters Tent.  Thanksgiving came and went and I received a couple of letters from home but no packages so far.  As we entered into December, things stayed fairly routine.  We had one encounter with the Viet Cong in the foothills that resulted in a short firefight with no one hurt on our side.  Back in camp, during evening mail call, packages began to arrive and the time-honored tradition of every man for himself was in full force as snacks and treats emerged from crushed cardboard containers.  We would grab and wrestle over food and laugh about it all good-naturedly.

The few remaining days until Christmas went by rapidly and I still had not received a package from home.  I wasn’t worried, but more and more I was disappointed when my name wasn’t called.  Still, I knew that even packages mailed well in advance from home might take a wrong turn and arrive one to two months late.

Finally, it was Christmas Eve.  No one went out on patrol that day.  We maintained a perimeter guard around the Landing Zone and spent the day playing cards or board games.  Some read, all talked about home, cars, girls.  No one would admit to being homesick.  Then we heard the long-awaited cry of “Mail Call”, and we rushed out like five-year olds running down the stairs on Christmas Morning.  We stood in a bunched circle as the Sergeant in charge grabbed letters and called out names.  The recipient would yell, “Here.” and the letter was tossed to him.  As each received their letter or package, they would rush back to their tent to dig into Christmas cards, gifts of food, and more precious than all, gifts of words from someone who loved them.

And finally it was over, and those few who had not received anything turned away in silence to go see what their more fortunate friends had received.  As I turned to go the Sergeant called to me. I turned back to see what he wanted and he told me to report to the Colonel.  All I could think of was, “What did I do now?”

Wondering how bad the situation was, and what my punishment was going to be, I made my way to the Officer’s Quarters with a reluctant heart.  Outside the Colonel’s tent I called out, informing him I was reporting as ordered.  The tent flap opened and the Colonel emerged.  He looked at me for a moment and then demanded to know what was going on.  I didn’t have a clue, and I wasn’t about to give him one.  I told him I didn’t know what he meant and, in response he pointed to a number of mail sacks sitting beside his tent.  A mail sack was about four feet deep and three feet in radius and there were seven of them sitting there, each full of unwrapped toys.  There were toys of every description, from cars and trucks to bake sets and doll houses.  I told the Colonel I didn’t know anything about the toys and he handed me a letter telling me it was all addressed to me.  I was as lost as he was perplexed, or mad, or both.  I wasn’t about to ask him which.

I asked permission to open the letter and he told me to go ahead.  As I read, the situation was made clear and I explained to the Colonel.  My mother was working for Pacific Bell as a Chief Operator at the time, and, upon receiving my letter about the two little girls, she told everyone at work the story.  People from her work began bringing in toys.  The situation gathered momentum and a toy drive was in full force.  The end result was the pile of toys now sitting outside the Colonel’s tent.  I apologized to him, stating I had no idea this was going to happen.

The Colonel told me to go get two friends and meet him back at his tent.  I volunteered my two best friends, Tony and Tom, figuring if I was going to be shot for treason or something I wanted to die with friends.  Back at the Colonel’s tent he ordered us to load the bags in a small trailer and hitch it to his jeep.  We did so and he climbed in the passenger seat and told us to get in and drive over to the mess tent.  At the mess tent the Colonel climbed out and commandeered a sheet cake that was meant for the next day’s Christmas dinner.  On the way out the Chaplain asked us what was going on, and upon hearing the story, he followed in another jeep.  Tony volunteered to drive the Chaplain.  Tom drove for the Colonel and I kept an eye on the toys in the trailer.

To say that our unexpected arrival at the orphanage on Christmas Eve was greeted with enthusiasm would be an understatement.  The kids laughed and screamed, the Nuns smiled and cried and said thank you so many times I wanted to tell them to shut up.  Tom cut the cake and passed it out.  The Colonel passed out toys to the kids;  there was enough for everyone to receive a personal gift.  The Chaplain blessed each child as they stepped forward to receive a present.  Tony and I found a small tabletop christmas tree in the bottom of one sack and we put it together and sang christmas carols as we decorated it.

And two little girls, smiling as only a child filled with joy can smile, received a baby doll with a baby bottle and a blanket, as well as a package of doll clothing to share back and forth.

When it was over we climbed back in the jeeps and drove back to camp.  As we departed, we saluted the Colonel, and he returned our salute.  We turned to go back to our tent and he called out, “Merry Christmas, boys.”

Homesick for my family, it was my worst Christmas.  Bringing joy to a group of children who had experienced more than any child should ever endure, it was my best Christmas.  And, for one moment, one brief shining moment, Hell took a holiday and there was peace on earth.

afterwords

• In the now 47 ensuing years, this has remained my favorite personal Christmas story.  Each Christmas season I think of the orphan kids in Bong Son, wondering how the years have dealt with them, wondering, indeed wishing, that some may have found their way to America and a successful life.  The photos included in this story are of some of the kids who lived in the orphange.   One of the little girls who received the doll can be seen standing in the passenger side of a jeep smiling.  I always think of them as children, though they are now grown, perhaps with children and grandchildren of their own. I wonder if one has ever gathered her grandchildren around her at Christmas to say, “Once, when I was a little girl, I made a doll out of a stick and a piece of cloth . . .”  Merry Christmas everyone.
• Addendum – The snacks finally arrived in late January.  I got one piece of peanut brittle.

IN MEMORY OF MARY HINTON 1921 – 2008 WHO SOFTENED WAR WITH THE GIFT OF LOVE

 

 

 

Two Heads Are Better Than None

Story is currently in progress – check back for updates

I had a two-headed turkey, I lost a two-headed turkey.  I terrorized girls, I was clobbered by a girl, I received first aid from the school nurse, I had an interview with the principal.  I received my first kiss.  It was a busy day.

I blame Glen Sakamoto for much of what happened; more on him later.  The rest I blame on cheesy monster movies.

Life is wrought with unforseen dangers when you are in the sixth grade.  There are the obvious dangers, like seventh graders and pets with a proclivity for eating homework.  Then there are the unexpected dangers, like animal freaks of nature and girls.  And lost baseball mitts.

Glen Sakamoto was my best friend at Del Sur Elementary and Jr. High.  He was the only asian in our school and he was the best first baseman on our makeshift team.  His family had endured the humility and injustice of being forced into a Japanese internment Camp during World War II, while their oldest son served in the United States Army in Europe.  But the Sakamotos were made of high quality material, and, rather than licking their wounds in defeat, they rose above the situation to re-establish themselves as local farmers and proudly displayed their older son’s medals and military record while instilling a sense of American Patriotism and love of country in their younger son, Glen.  The Sakamotos were Red, White and Blue Americans, right down to their love of baseball.  And that was the beginning of it all.

We didn’t have a formal team at school; we were sandlot material, choosing up sides and playing a little impromptu ball during recess and lunch.  Usually I covered second base or the pitching mound and Glen was on first.  No one had his talent for first base.  Glen also played on an organized team on Saturdays which explains why he was so good at the sport.  But somehow he lost his glove and his family didn’t have the money to buy him a new one before his upcoming game.  The solution was simple:  I loaned him my glove on Friday, which he promised to return on Monday.  However, when Monday came Glen climbed off the bus having forgotten to bring my glove.  No big deal; he was completely trustworthy and it was a simple oversight that he corrected by bringing it back the next day.  The problem was, we had this day to contend with.

The school day started out routinely:  Roll Call, Pledge of Allegiance, Social Studies, English and then Recess.  Normally during recess I would play catch with some friends, but having no mitt today, I chose, instead to wander aimlessly around the playground; I had no interest in any of the various games going on.  I was leaning against the swings when I became aware of a presence near me.

Copper hair, blue eyes and a light scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her name was Rita.  She was slim, she was cute, she had a nice smile.  She was a girl.

“You weren’t playing catch with the other guys,” she remarked.

“Don’t have my mitt.”  As you can tell, I was a brilliant conversationalist even way back then.

“I was looking for you,” she said.  “I wanted to ask you something.”  Why is it when girls want to ask you something they have this way of gently swaying back and forth as though it is a natural state of being?

“What?”  I was on guard now; this couldn’t be good.  I didn’t have very much experience with girls.  Hell, I didn’t have any.  But since they didn’t play baseball, talk about monster movies or tell dirty jokes, questions from them couldn’t be good for you.

“Do you like me?”  How is it girls can turn their faces into two big eyes staring at you?

“I dunno.  Yeah.  I guess.”  As you can see I was in top form.  I had this handled.

She stepped in closer, her hands behind her back.  “I like you.  Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?  Like going steady?”

My mind was reeling.  What did it even mean to go steady?  That was something you did in high school, or college, or something.  We weren’t even in jr. high yet.  Still, she was pretty.  And her freckles wrinkled just a bit when she smiled.  I wasn’t sure how all of this was supposed to go down; should I have a ring to give her or something?  Was this like being married?  Were we going to hold hands while everyone laughed and talked?  I said, “Sure.  I guess.”

She smiled, reached out and squeezed my hand.  “I love you,” she said and ran off.  I stood there totally clueless for a moment and finally sat in one of the swings, staring at the ground.

A shadow fell on me and I looked up.  Glen was standing there looking down at me.

“What are you doing playing on the swings like some little kid?”  He looked disdainful.  Sigh . . .

That evening I told my mother that I now had a girlfriend.  She asked who she was, and to her credit, didn’t pressure me with a lot of questions.  She asked me if I wanted to give her a friendship ring (whatever that was), and I said, yes, I guess.  In those days I did more guessing than knowing.  I went upstairs to my bedroom on the fourth floor of the tower; I lived in a round tower with a balcony outside my door encircling the tower.  I sat outside on the balcony looking over the desert sky and played the radio.  Frankie Avalon was singing Hey Venus and I thought about Rita.  Maybe I was starting to like her a little bit more than I originally thought.

Things were good.  I had my mitt back and divided my time between playing baseball, with Rita cheering for me on the sidelines, and talking to my girl.  We talked about friends and class and things we did on the weekends.  We laughed and now and then touched hands together.  We endured the infamous Sitting In A Tree song from others, and I gave her a friendship ring, supplied by my mother and picked out, sorta, by me.  It was a beautiful thing.  an open circlet of nickle plated brass with hearts woven inside the frame.  I gave it to Rita one morning and told her I loved her.  She wore it everyday.  It turned her finger green.  We exchanged glances in class and sat together at lunch.  We made Hey Venus our song.

While all of this was taking place  I lived on a turkey ranch, Keithly Sunland Farms.  It was a very large ranch and my grandfather worked there.  My mother had returned home following her divorce from my father before I was born, and never left home afterwards.  She worked for the phone company and nearly all of my childhood was relegated to my grandparents for care.

The tower I lived in at the time was a part of a larger complex.  The main house, patio, tower, hatchery and office were all connected either directly or by an 8 foot adobe wall.  the tower, office and hatchery were connected to each other.  The complex was originally built by a silent screen actress.  It is a dupicate of a California Spanish mission, somewhere in northern California.  I don’t know the name of the actress who built the house, or which mission it is designed after.  The main house is very impressive and I will deal with that in a later story.

The patio was actually a plaza with a high wall on two sides, and thick wooden gates reaching the top of the eight foot wall.  The gates were always open.  To the left of the entrance stood the offices.  In the corner stood the tower and at the back of the patio was the hatchery.  the complex looked like an L with a big zero in the intersecting corners.  The square was completed by two walls that led back to the gate.  at the opposite corner from the tower, the main house began.

Hatching out thousands of turkeys at a time is quite a process.  The hatchery had a number of walk in incubators that went from floor to ceiling.  Each incubator had a number of slide out trays for eggs.  Domestic turkeys are a poor counterpart of their wild cousins.  Inbreeding stacked on top of inbreeding has created a bird with large breast meat, quick market weight, weak brain and weaker heart.  They require constant attention during and after hatching and the losses from hatching day to market were numerous in those days.  If someone tells you that a baby turkey has to be taught to drink and eat, they won’t be lying to you.

On hatching day a group of about twenty people would work inside the hatchery.  My grandmother was one.  The trays were brought out and placed on tables there for that purpose.  As the birds would begin to break the shell, someone would start peeling the shell to assist the process.  For these genetically weakened birds, the process was exhausting, and if left to natural hatching losses would have soared.  As it was there were still plenty of loses in the process.  Steel drums were placed in the room and dead chicks were tossed inside for burning later.  On hatching day I would head for the hatchery after school to watch for the freaks.  It was not unusual for a number of birds to be hatched with multiple parts.  I’ve seen four wings, four legs, once I saw six legs on a bird.  Once in awhile there would be a bird with two heads.  These aberrations were killed immediately and tossed in the barrels with the other dead.

Sometimes I would pick up one of these chicks with added appendages and play with it for a time, eventually placing it back on a tray for someone to dispose of.  On one particular day I found a treasure beyond measure.  There was a two headed turkey, just pulled out of the tray.  Two heads were not all that unusual, but this one was different.  Both heads were fully functional.  Everyone stopped for a moment to marvel, and I reached out and took it.

I took it to my room in the tower and placed it in a cardboard box.  My grandfather gave me a small feeder tray and a water jar.  I placed some bright colored marbles in the tray and jar dish. That, by the way, is how you teach the chicks to eat and drink.  They are clueless about food and water, but will naturally peck at anything bright.  Pecking at the marbles exposes them to feed and water.  I named the bird Tom Tom and settled down for the weekend to play with my new turkey, play some music and think about Rita.

Monday morning came and as I dressed for school it occurred to me that my friends might like to meet Tom Tom and marvel at my magnificent treasure.  How many boys had a two headed turkey for a pet?  After breakfast I headed back upstairs, grabbed my jacket and carefully placed Tom Tom inside.  Once inside the classroom I hid the chick inside my desk and watched the clock agonizingly drag on towards recess.  Slowly my plans for showing the guys this wonderous freak of nature began to dissolve into a more devious form, and with the new matrix emerging, time slowed even more.

to be continued . . .

I Was A Teenage Dog Boy

“I thought I saw Lon Chaney jr. walking with the queen and doing the Werewolves of London”

 - Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon -

Halloween has always been, for me, one of the truly fun holidays.  I view it as the beginning of the Fall/Winter festivities; a sort of prelude to Christmas.  When Tim Burton’s, A Nightmare Before Christmas came out I felt I had found a kindred spirit who fully understood how the two holidays were linked.

Some of my favorite stories are about Halloween incidents:  Trick or Treating in a combat zone, being a manicure character (yes I said manicure), having ze candies, etc.  In time you will hear all of those stories, and more.  The story I am about to relate has been a favorite of those I have told it to over the years.

During most of the Seventies I was employed by Magic Mountain Amusement Park.  Situated in Valencia at the no-man’s land between Los Angeles and Northern California, Magic Mountain was created as a direct marketing challenge to Knott’s Berry Farm and, in particular, Disneyland.

These were the days before Disney had branched out to Florida, Europe and Asia;  if you wished to attend Disneyland you visited THE Disneyland.  There was no Great America in Northern California, Six Flags had not yet intruded to place its particular stamp of tract-style amusement parks upon an unsuspecting audience.  To be sure there were parks around the country, each bearing its unique character and history.  We in California knew the name Coney Island as assuredly as those in New York had heard of The Pike out here on the left coast.  Dispersed throughout the nation were other similar amusement parks, each enjoying a degree of popularity and name recognition.

In the mid Fifties Walt Disney forever changed the way the nation, and eventually the world, would view amusement parks.  With a dream of family entertainment and a concept he dubbed Imagineering, Disney expanded the marketing target for amusement parks beyond the radius of local and half-day travel times; no one flew across the nation to spend their vacation at Coney Island.  They did not make week-long reservations at hotels in order to visit the Pike, Pacific Ocean Park, etc.  Amusement parks were limited to a local venue incorporating reasonable driving times to, and from the park.

Today families plan vacations around visits to amusement parks, driving or flying across states, and across the nation.  They come from foreign nations around the world spending thousands of dollars on accommodations, food and incidental expenses, all for the express purpose of spending multiple days visiting an amusement park.  The amusement park industry owes Walt Disney a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

From opening day on July 20, 1954 until May, 1971, the knights of the Magic Kingdom had never found it necessary to lower their lances in a defensive position.  Their closest competitor, both geographically and in marketing target, was Knott’s Berry Farm, located only a few miles away.  However, Knott’s was so diverse from Disneyland that neither presented a true competition for the other.

Then, in the late Sixties, two unlikely entities joined forces to set a challenge upon the horizon, daring to take on the undisputed champion of amusement parks, Disneyland.  Sea World and the Newhall Land and Farming Company were, perhaps, the oddest couple to ever emerge in the amusement park industry.

Sea World, because of its unique brand of entertainment, had limited opportunity to expand its share of the market.  People were willing to drive from Northern California to take a photo of family members standing beside a mouse; few would drive the extra hours required to watch a whale jump out of the ocean.  Deciding that location and content were the key to further success, Sea World relied upon a study that said amusement park rides and a position situated north of the Los Angeles basin would be most effective in blocking the tide flowing south to Disneyland, and would provide a siphon from the locals in Los Angeles seeking diversity in amusement.  Their field of dreams was an onion field in Valencia.

Newhall Land and Farming Company, the owners of the field, were willing to relinquish 50 acres for the proposed amusement park for a share of profits.  They weren’t willing to sell the land outright, and thus, a partnership was born.  As work progressed, underestimates continue to pile up, causing financial woes for a now struggling Sea World.  When economic resources ran out, Sea World turned to NLF, as the farming giant was known, for assistance.  Eventually, investments gave NLF a controlling position in the enterprise. 

The park, named Magic Mountain, opened its gates on Memorial Day weekend, May 29, 1971 to a season that was a financial disaster.  Not enough shade, not enough entertainment, not enough rides:  those were typical of guest complaints throughout that first season.  There were days when 2,000 employees served the amusement needs of 200 guests.  Heard at most rides was the amplified voice of operators telling guests to just raise their hands if they wanted to get off, otherwise the ride would continue to run for as long as the riders wished.

At the end of the season it was obvious that disaster had struck and something needed to be done and done now.  That something meant increasing entertainment, giving the park a more appealing aesthetic look, adding exciting rides and increasing marketing.  The fly in the ointment was money.  There was no operating capital from which to draw.  The park had not been expected to make a profit.  Indeed, Disney had not earned its first dollar for 7 years.  However, the loss of revenue in such vast numbers was unbearable to Sea World.   They declared the park a failure and announced their decision to close permanently and lick their wounds.  They had no experience with farmers.

NLF had every expectation that, despite setbacks, whatever they planted would come to fruition and be harvested for gain.  Radishes or roller coasters made no difference.  If the field was fallow you fertilized it.  Refusing to accept defeat or surrender a debt owed them, NLF announced that Sea World’s debt would be settled by the farmers assuming total ownership of the park and ordering Sea World back to San Diego to tend to sea gulls.

Sea World left in a huff, claiming they would return in five years to repurchase the park at fifty cents on the dollar in order to sell off assets to offset their losses.  In response, NLF stated that in five years they would beat Disney’s record by earning their first dollar in profit.  NLF won that bet.

In preparation for the upcoming second season Magic Mountain invested millions in park improvements, including booking top name entertainers, improving buildings, landscaping and grounds.  Believing that their concept of one admission price with no additional costs for rides was correct, they remained the pioneer in that concept, a concept later adopted by Disneyland as Magic Mountain became a serious threat to the market.  Adding a few new rides, including roller coasters, Magic Mountain began looking to other ways to increase profitability during the off-season which runs from September till May for amusement parks.  Christmas on amusement parks are iffy at best in terms of profit margins.  While there are certainly visitors during Christmas vacations, purchasing presents and family visit travelling  is a major siphon from park  profits.

Magic Mountain saw Halloween as an opportunity to exploit.  For one week in October they would deck the park out in ghosts, goblins and things that go bump in the night.  October is typically one of the ideal times to visit a park; weather is fantastic and visitor numbers have slacked off enough to shorten wait times for rides to an acceptable amount of time.

To say that Magic Mountain does Halloween right is an understatement.  Spooky music, monster parades, candy give aways accompanied by buildings, rides and specially prepared areas decked out in ghostly finery transforms the park into a Transylvania wonderland that has continued to be an outstanding success from its inception.  The marvel and technological wonder of the outrageously successful Haunted Mansion at Disneyland is offset at Magic Mountain by interaction with live, and very believable characters.  Which is where I come in and our story begins.

It was the second year of the Halloween Extravaganza at Magic Mountain; the previous year had been a big hit and the park anticipated an even greater success for the upcoming event.  The first year had included a nightly parade, featuring school bands from local and nearby high schools and colleges, interspersed with costumed monsters throughout the parade interacting with the audience.  It was no Electric Main Street Parade.  Magic Mountain had no in-park bands and musicians.  There was no select area in which to logically stage a parade, and there were no floats and other eye-catching flotsam to attract a following.  The parade started near the main gate and meandered its way around the hill to a service gate located near the mid-point of the main walkway.  Music was not specifically written and designed for the occasion.  No special lighting enhanced the route.  It was simply marching bands and monsters wending their way through the park for the enjoyment of those interested in such things.  The audience was appreciative if not overly enthusiastic.  There was no way to knock Disneland off the pinnacle of park parades.

There was a “Best Costume” contest for guests showing up in costume, but that event was scrapped in succeeding years due to logistical and other considerations.

This year I had applied for, and received, a role as my all time favorite movie monster, the Wolfman.  From early childhood I have watched Lon Chaney jr. in his famous role of Larry Talbot so many times that I can practically quote the movie line for line.  I have watched the wolfman portrayed by many actors through the years with delight, but, for me, there is only one true Wolfman:  Lon Chaney jr. 

Each year, during the Halloween Extravaganza, Magic Mountain would bring in professional people to help create the creatures of the night.  As we began formulating my character I was asked if there were a certain look I wanted; of course I chose the Lon Chaney jr. look.  the overall costume was simplistic in nature, tan trousers, torn and ragged at the cuffs, and a blue denim work shirt.  In keeping with the character, I opted to not wear shoes.  That was a regrettable decision; the concrete was cold and the cinder bed on the railroad track where I performed was hard on the soles, but determined to be a trooper, I sucked it up and nearly crippled myself.

Makeup began about two to three hours before showtime with all visible skin being covered with a dark makeup base.  This was followed by shading around the eyes, nose and mouth to gain the right look.  My fingernails and toenails were then painted a dark brown, followed by an elastic smearing on the face, hands and feet to hold the fur that was applied.  a hair net held my natural hair tight and a wig was applied and blended into my skin by more makeup and elastic.  Finally the pentagram was tattooed in my palm and a mouthpiece giving me lower fangs that overlapped my upper lip was applied.  When I stepped out of Makeup and adopted a hunched over loping trot, I was the wolfman personified.  I like to think that Mr. Chaney would have been proud.

As in my previous role of Dracula the year before, my main area of operation was the premiere Halloween Ride, The Haunted Train.  There was, of course the parade through the park and the Haunted Town to make appearances in, but the train was where I performed.

I had a couple of methods that always were crowd pleasers and I varied them back and forth.  When the train entered the station there was an ivy covered wall between the tracks and the inside portion of the ride.  In one scenario I would wait behind the wall until an incoming train emptied and, before the gates were opened to allow a new group of passengers to board, I would jump up on a car, rush across, down onto the platform and leap up on the turnstile and howl.  It was always effective;  some people would actually run out of the queue line and never return.  Most would scream then applaud.  Following this, I would leap back down onto the platform and run alongside the queue railing, turning to growl at members of the audience.  Once the turnstiles were opened, I remained in character, taking time to pose with guests wanting to take a photo.  As guests were boarding I would work the train itself, leaping from car to car and running along the running board startling people and, again stopping to pose for photos.  I would remain on the train until it turned the bend in the tracks where an entire halloween scenario was set up, complete with a haunted town, a hanging man kicking his feet, the headless horseman charging the train and various monsters located throughout the ride to leap out and startle people.  As the train turned the first bend the headless horseman would charge the train holding the famous burning pumpkin aloft.  As everyone turned their attention on his performance, I would leap off the train and dash back to the wall to await the next train; we had two trains running on the track equidistant from each other to keep the crowd flowing as quickly as possible.

In my second scenario I would remain behind the wall while the train loaded with passengers.  As they were doing so, other characters would work the train platform, drawing the attention of everyone.  I would crouch down and move alongside the train until I found an open seat and would carefully climb up to sit beside an unaware guest.  Once the train was in motion, with people still looking at the performance back on the platform, I would leap up and do a deep growl.  It was always effective, drawing startled screams from my victim.  Then, as before, I would work each car, allowing guests to photograph me or scream at my antics.  I was in my element and I loved every minute of it.  I returned home each night so exhausted that all I wanted to do was collapse in bed, but the next night I was eager to do it all again.

Finally, the big night came:  Halloween.  Our last performance of the year.  I went through the ritual of makeup and costuming and still had a couple of hours before show time.  I was hungry, but didn’t want to go the Employee Cafeteria because of the unwanted attention I would receive from fellow employees;  I just wanted to eat and relax until showtime.  My mother-in-law at the time lived about five minutes from the park, and since it was dark, I decided to drive to her house and grab some food.  It was unlikely that traffic on the road would notice me, and if they did, it was Halloween night and they would just see me as someone a bit big for Trick or Treating.

By the time I finished my food, kids were hitting the door with knocks and cries of Trick or Treat.  I decided to give the older kids a treat by hiding in the bushes near the front door and, as they passed me by unnoticed, I would leap out and do a deep and very ferocioius growl.  It worked everytime and they would turn screaming, some running off as fast as they could go.  Understand, I didn’t look like someone in a costume wearing a mask;  I looked like the wolfman in the flesh.  Once the initial scream was over, I would go into a friendly character and wish everyone Happy Halloween, waving as they ran off to the next house.  I only did this to older kids. kids from about 10 years old and up.  I had no wish to frighten small children and would just remain hidden as they passed by.  Sometimes I would move out to the center of the lawn and waved at them when they came back down the driveway, being careful to not move in their direction.

It was nearing time for me to head back to the park when I saw a couple of boys running door to door.  One last scare and I would head out, but they were too tempting to pass up.  They appeared to be somewhere between 10 and 12 and I waited until they ran past and banged on the door.  When they did, I leaped out, assumed a crouching position with my claws splayed out on either side and gave them a blood curdling roar.  They turned with eyes wide in fear and pressed back against the door yelling. 

In total fear, his voice breaking in a prepubescent screech, one of the boys screamed, “FUCK YOU DOG BOY!”

I lost it.  I couldn’t maintain character.  I literally fell to the ground laughing so hard my side was aching.  In the moments following, I talked to them, explaining why my costume was so real looking.  I reached in my pocket and found some tickets to the park.  I usually had three or four on me at all times to give to people.  I gave them to the boys, wished them a Happy Halloween and headed back for my final performance.

Though things went well, as expected that night, from time to time I had to hide my laughter as my new designation of Dog Boy sprang to mind.

afterwords

• this took much longer than anticipated.  I had forgotten the difference between telling a story and writing one.  I bogged it down somewhat with a lot of information about the initial creation of the park, but I thought that some may find it interesting.  I apologize to the one or two who have been following this story and promise to try to be more timely in the future.  Lon, Bella, Boris, creatures of the night:  what beautiful music you made . . .

Beginnings

“He was a part of my dreams, but then, I was a part of his . . .”

- Through the Looking Glass,  Lewis Carroll -

So, this is my little corner of cyberspace; my 15 minutes of e-fame.  Now all I need is something to say, and therin lies the problem.  It is my opinion that too many people have opinions.  Which is how wars get started.  As for me, I’m weary of war.  Even wars which may be unavoidable.

That said, I’ve no intention of wasting time with ranting and raving about how I feel about the world at large.  Whatever my beliefs, my politics, my worldview, my likes and dislikes about all and sundry, I’m keeping them to myself.

If you like what you read here, return.  If not, stay away.  It keeps things simple that way and it allows us to each go our separate way in peace.

You may ask, what is the point of having a blog if I’m not going to blog?  Why go to the trouble of creating a web log and not editoralize?  The answer to that is as simple as it is complex:  I have promises to keep.

Across the years I have related stories from my life to friends in both the physical and cyber world.  Often I have been encouraged to write down my stories by others who are well intentioned, though their judgment may be brought to question.  I have frequently replied that I would consider the matter but have never taken steps to bring their advice and requests to fruition.  My avoidance and procrastination has been unworthy of their friendship and kindness and I wish to make amends.

Let us begin then, this journey through a life that has been largely uneventful and uninteresting.  There is no chronology that will allow a timeline to be traced;  events that happened 50 years ago may find a place beside those that occurred 50 days ago.  There is no theme to consider, no plot to follow, no ideas or ideals to enlighten.  I have no cause to promote nor argument to debate.   These are simply moments from my life, expressed in memories which admittedly may be flawed as often as not.  I can only say that it is not my intention to embellish or deceive and if I do so, the fault lies in my lack of recollection. Hopefully, you may find some of my stories interesting, perhaps amusing.  Possibly and probably, you will find some droll and boring.

Regardless, if you’ve a few moments to spare, sit back and relax.  I’ll tell you a story . . .

afterwords

• it is impossible, of course, to write to any extent without inserting personal opinions on any number of given subjects.  that said, I promise to not use this as my personal soapbox;  any and all personal opinions and viewpoints you may encounter are entirely unintentional and without guile.  feel free to disregard at will.