Jewel Box on the Plains

 

Schwaller House (designed by Edward Buehler Delk) - Hays, Kansas

Jewel Box on the Plains

essay and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          I was worried we would be late to our appointment in Hays, Kansas. The car’s speedometer needle was stuck on eighty while we rocketed along I-70. Travel in Western Kansas would have been much different in the 1920s, with many unpaved roads where Model T Fords and Pierce Arrows crawled across the prairie, succumbing to rough conditions and extreme temperatures. Edward Buehler Delk, an architect from Kansas City, must have dealt with the perils when driving to Hays, Kansas, to meet with his client, Henry Schwaller, to design a house for the successful businessman and lumberman on the high plains.

          Fortunately, in January of 2013, I was able to travel more quickly and comfortably on my way to meet Dr. Michael Meade (Associate Professor – Fort Hays State University), the current resident of the Schwaller house designed by Edward Buehler Delk. Dr. Meade, the grandson of Henry Schwaller, had invited my wife and me to see the house, attend a luncheon with invited guests, and give a lecture on Delk’s architectural accomplishments during his Kansas City practice (1920-1956).

          Delk, a talented architect from Philadelphia, had moved to Kansas City in 1920 to develop a master plan for the J.C. Nichols mixed-use development, The Country Club Plaza. He established a private practice in Kansas City which allowed him to pursue all of his architectural interests. His projects varied from private residences to participating in the national architectural competition to design the Liberty Memorial, Kansas City’s monument to the sacrifices made in the World War I. Delk was developing the master plan for the Country Club Plaza and designing the first two Plaza buildings when Henry Schwaller contacted him.



Country Club Plaza - shopping district - Kansas City, Missouri

          The wheat crop yields were abundant in the early 1920s in Western Kansas, and Schwaller had promised his wife that when the market price per bushel of Hard Red Winter Wheat surpassed $2.00, their reward would be a new house designed and built specifically for them.  Once the wheat price exceeded the $2.00 level, Henry’s next concern was how to go about finding an architect well-versed in designing high-quality residences.

Grand Staircase - Schwaller House

          According to Dr. Meade, Henry Schwaller told the foreman at the lumberyard to go to Kansas City and make the next purchase of wholesale lumber for their business in Hays. He also asked him to query his peers at the lumber yards and find out where the large houses were being built, and who was designing them. The foreman returned and told Schwaller that Edward Buehler Delk’s name had come up numerous times. Delk was developing a reputation for designing houses of the highest quality of design and construction in the Kansas City area, specifically in the new Country Club District, south of Brush Creek. 


Dining Room - Schwaller House

          Schwaller contacted Delk and requested that he design a new residence for his family. He told him that he wanted a tasteful, yet understated residence to be built on a corner lot on the north side of Hays. Delk focused on beaux-arts style of design which revisits European classical details, and he was well-versed in many styles using his innate sense of scale and proportion to create a design that suited each client’s needs.



Well-tailored façade of Schwaller House - Hays, Kansas

          He worked his magic for Henry Schwaller, and created a neatly-wrapped “jewel box” of light stucco, with red brick arches outlining the doors and windows. A horizontal band of brick wraps the house and establishes a façade line between the first and second floor, while the red Spanish tile creates the lid and harmonizes with the brick. The construction was completed in 1923. The year is significant, because that is when Delk began to focus on high-end residential design, and it was two years before Delk would land one of the most important clients of his career – Waite Phillips, a Tulsa oilman.

          The house appears much smaller from the street than it actually is. The single story appendages on each end and a rear two-story extension add considerable square footage. The rustic shutters on the second floor windows are a nice accent to the tailored façade. One of Delk’s signature items, decorative eaves at the roof overhang, gives a sense of scale to the exterior.

Decorative eaves - Schwaller House - Hays, Kansas
designed by Edward Buehler Delk

Decorative Eaves - Country Club Plaza - Kansas City, Missouri
Mill Creek Parkway Building, designed by Edward Buehler Delk

          The house today has been well maintained and is in mint condition, both inside and out. Even the original sprinkler system for the lawn is in working condition. Ironically, there is very little lumber in the construction, which seems unusual for a lumberman’s house. Delk was known to stress the idea of permanence and the use of fire-resistive materials, including clay block.

          Dr. Meade’s cousin, Henry Schwaller, IV, gave us a grand tour of the house. I was amazed at the condition of the interior, with most of the original light fixtures and chandeliers still in use. The interior furnishings add to the ambience of the 1920s residence, reminding visitors of a slower, gentler pace of life. Dr. Meade explained the south Sun Room was originally an open porch, and in 1984 he contracted with a German cabinet maker who enclosed the porch with arched windows that were compatible with the existing house.  



Schwaller House - Sun Room

          After the tour through the house, the host and guests greeted us with champagne in the parlor, where lively conversation ensued. It was an event that was befitting of the house and its history, and I could picture Delk enjoying just such an occasion, with pipe in hand, joining in the discussion of art and architecture.  A formal luncheon (with place cards) was served in the dining room, followed by more discussion and dessert. It was a grand meal, and my wife and I were warmly received and made to feel at home.  



Living Room/Parlor - Schwaller House

          When dessert was finished, we gravitated to the breakfast room where I gave the lecture and digital slide presentation titled “Edward Buehler Delk: Architect and Gentleman.” After such a big meal I was concerned that some of the guests might nod off during the lecture, but my fears were assuaged as all were attentive, and many had questions and comments at the end.



          We thanked our host, Dr. Meade, for the wonderful day and said “good bye” to his collies in the backyard. As I drove away from the house, the tires began to hum softly on the brick pavement. I accelerated onto I-70, where the dotted pavement lines seemed incongruous with the warm, 1920s ambience we left behind. My thoughts wandered to the “jewel box” in Hays as I made a half-hearted attempt to stay under the speed limit.

Curious Collies





Image of a Bygone Era
(photo courtesy of Henry Schwaller, IV)



 

Where Are You Going, O Little One?

Where Are You Going, O Little One?

                     by Greg Larson

Where are you going? Can I come, too?

Let’s watch the birds up in the sky.

Ask lots of questions that start with “why.”

Explore the world with a stick.

Discover things – what makes them tick?

What’s that turning? See what I found!

Jump on board the merry-go-round.

Ride in circles. Don’t stop now.

Clouds are spinning, I wonder how?

Where are you going? Can I come, too?

Kick off our shoes. What are they for?

Pretend the yard is a sandy shore.

Throw fistfuls of sand into the air.

Some falls to my head, what do I care?

Grab some crayons . . . color circles for you.

A masterpiece of red and cerulean blue.

Tape it to the fridge and smile so proud.

Then sing a song, and sing it loud.

Why are you crying, O little one? Why so blue?

The world is scary, not all sugar and spice.

Here’s a hug to make it nice.

Dry those tears and off we go

To better places, forget the woe.

Mom and Dad are busy today.

I have time. I can stay.

Run through the house, play peek-a-boo.

Hide under the bed – I see you!

Where will you go? Can I come, too?

You’ll grow up and get busy someday,

With places to go, so far away.

Wish I could come and follow you,

To see a person strong and true.

Pause for a moment, beside a stream.

Off with the shoes. Stop to dream

Of earlier days when you ran free,

When we had fun . . . you and me.

            
 

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum: Eclectic Museum, Infamous Heist

Corner of the frame which once held Vermeer's 1664 painting "The Concert"
sketch by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum:
Eclectic Museum, Infamous Heist
essay
by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          The empty gilded frames in the subdued light of the Dutch Room screamed at me. I felt violated, and could only imagine Isabella Gardner’s pain, had she been alive to witness the aftermath of the world’s largest unsolved art theft which occurred in March of 1990. Thirteen pieces of art were hauled away in the early morning darkness from the famous Boston museum that bears her name. The betrayal of her trust in the public would have shaken her to the core. The items, including paintings by Vermeer, Rembrandt and Degas, have never been found nor has anyone been charged with the crime. The theft was a huge loss for the museum, but the remaining art is a varied and broad collection, arranged in a unique setting designed by Isabella.

          Isabella Stewart Gardner (1840-1924) was born and married into the high-society circles of Boston. Throughout her life, she was known for her spunky, vibrant personality. As a child, she disobeyed her parents one summer and ran to see the circus, while the family butler followed in chase.



Isabella Stewart Gardner - 1888
www.gardnermuseum.org
 

          Her interest in the arts began as a teen-ager, and it continued to grow stronger in her adult life. She married John Lowell Gardner, Jr., another wealthy Bostonian, in 1860, and gave birth to a boy, John III. Then tragedy struck in 1865, when the boy died of pneumonia at the age of two. Isabella was distraught and struggled with depression and illness for the next two years. Her husband was concerned, and he recommended they take a trip to Europe to help her recuperate. Once there, she experienced the cathedrals, the Paris Exposition, as well as museums full of old masters paintings. Her passion for art grew and it became an addiction which she fueled with her family inheritance and her husband’s wealth.

          By the 1890s, Isabella snatched up European paintings from under the noses of East coast male collectors, outbidding the likes of J.P. Morgan and Andrew Mellon. She continued to enlarge her collection and dreamed of a gallery to share her art with the public.

          The second tragedy in her life occurred in 1894 when her husband died of a stroke at the age of sixty-one. After his death, Isabella threw her energy into creating a unique museum to display the collection of art and artifacts. Not wanting to build an antiseptic repository, she used her creative genius to help design and construct an Italian Renaissance-style building that turned inward towards a four-story courtyard that breathed life and light onto every floor of the museum.



Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - view from Fenway Drive - Boston, MA
photo by William Peregoy
http//wperegoy.wordpress.com


          Each room or gallery became an experience in itself, a setting to view and appreciate art. Once the building was completed on a site adjacent to Boston’s Back Bay Fens, Isabella spent over a year arranging an eclectic mix of furniture, wall-covering, and artwork, spending countless hours creating the mix and ambience we see today. In her will, she stipulated that the museum, completed and opened in 1903, was never to be altered in any way.



The Dutch Room - Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - Boston, MA
www.gardnermuseum.org

          On March 18, 1990, on a cold dark morning after St. Patrick’s Day, the peaceful co-existence between the museum and the Boston public was shattered. At 1:24 A.M., two men dressed as Boston police approach the side entry to the museum to notify one of the two guards on duty that they were responding to a disturbance. Without making a confirmation call to the police department, the guard allowed the two men inside. The imposters handcuffed the guards and tied them up in the basement. Free to roam, the thieves selected artwork from several galleries. The paintings, created on centuries-old canvas or wood backing, were cut from their frames. The most notable theft was a Vermeer titled The Concert. One of only thirty-six Vermeer paintings in existence, it is valued at $300 million. Included in the heist were two oddly selected pieces: an eagle finial removed from a Napoleonic flag, and a small Chinese beaker. Between 2:41 and 2:45 A.M., the thieves made two trips out the side door to load the items into an escape vehicle. It is assumed a second vehicle, probably a van, was waiting to deliver the stolen art to an undisclosed location. The thieves removed the security tapes during their exit, leaving scant evidence of the raid on the museum.

"The Concert" by Vermeer
www.essentialvermeer.com

          One of the prime suspects from day one has been Myles J. Connor, Jr., a quintessential New England bad boy. A motorcycle-riding rock-n-roller, Connor’s favorite outfit was a pair of blue jeans, an undershirt, and a black leather jacket. In the 1960s, he tucked his shock of Irish red hair under his cap and rode roughshod over the Massachusetts landscape, raising hell wherever he went. His persona was a toxic cocktail of genius IQ, pathological liar, and thief. He was a smart thief and he had no fear. His desire to own ancient artifacts caused him to begin his life of crime. The rush and exhilaration which he experienced during the execution of his thefts became addictive. With each heist from small museums and wealthy collectors across New England, he became more emboldened, and began associating with a group of thieves linked to the Mafia.

          Wearing disguises, Connor and an accomplice walked into the Boston Museum of Fine Arts in broad daylight in 1975. They yanked a Rembrandt painting from the wall, ran from the museum with the guards in pursuit, and successfully eluded the cops by driving the getaway car onto a sidewalk, squeezing around a Coca-Cola truck which blocked an escape street. Connor arranged the anonymous return of the painting as a bargaining chip to reduce the length of a looming prison sentence for his previous theft of some N.C. Wyeth paintings.
 

Boston Museum of Fine Arts
Fenway Drive Entrance where Myles J. Connor, Jr., exited in 1975
with stolen Rembrandt painting.
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          When the Gardner heist occurred in 1990, Connor was in prison in Illinois. That fact didn’t stop the FBI from interviewing him about the theft at the Gardner in Boston. There remains the possibility that he masterminded the crime from his prison cell. He openly admits that he always contemplated robbing the Gardner Museum, and made reconnaissance visits and stake-outs to watch the museum’s operation.

          Another top suspect is David Turner, Massachusetts good-guy-turned-bad. Turner ran in similar circles to Myles Connor, Jr. He linked up with local Mafia bosses and became ruthless to anyone who dared to double-cross him or turn as a witness against him. Several people who attempted to defy him, including his boyhood friend, were brutally murdered, but there was never enough evidence to convict Turner of any of the killings. A year and a half after the Gardner Heist, Turner was implicated and taken to trial for his alleged involvement in a $50,000 Labor Day weekend robbery of the Bull and Finch Pub on Beacon Street, the bar which was the pattern for the famous Cheers television show. The prosecution set up generous plea-bargain agreements with those who implicated Turner, but during the trial, Turner’s lawyer, Marty Leppo, was able to discredit the witnesses, and Turner was acquitted.

          At various times, the FBI clearly paved the way for leniency for both Connor and Turner, hoping they would assist in getting the Gardner art returned, but neither provided the information needed to crack the case. It’s very possible that either Connor or Turner was involved in the heist, or they know the individuals who stole the artwork.

          The higher echelons of the New England Mafia may have control of the paintings, but it is possible the thieves who carried out the original crime don't know what happened to the artwork after the van drove away from the museum in the dark of night.

          The FBI continues to investigate the Gardner heist and has posted a five million dollar reward for information leading to the return of the paintings. Their recent investigation has brought two more East coast Mafia names into the limelight: Robert Guarente, deceased, and Robert Gentile, currently serving unrelated sentences for gun possession and drug sales.

          Robert Guarente was a friend of David Turner and he frequented with associates who knew Myles Connor, Jr. Guarente died in 2004 while living on the coast of Maine. His wife, who was interrogated by the FBI, claimed she saw her husband put one of the stolen paintings into the trunk of Gentile’s car in 2002. Gentile flatly denied the statements by Guarente’s wife, but the FBI wasn’t dissuaded. They searched Gentile’s property and found a list of the stolen art and a 1990 newspaper clipping describing the heist. Gentile also failed a polygraph test. Although the FBI believes they are close to solving the case, it appears they have only circumstantial evidence that the two men were involved, and no one has provided information as to the whereabouts of the artwork.

          If the paintings are found and returned, it is unlikely they will be in good condition. Four-hundred year-old canvas which has been cut with a knife blade doesn’t repair easily. The paintings would suffer further deterioration if they have not been stored in a climate controlled space.

          Over twenty-four years have passed since the theft, which has been one of the most publicized crimes in history. The infamous heist has become a part of popular culture, spawning theories and fictional stories as to the whereabouts of the paintings. Copies of the artwork have appeared on walls of various episodes of popular television shows.

          Meanwhile, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum continues as a vibrant Boston institution. A new wing, designed by internationally famous architect, Renzo Piano, has been added. The delicate addition of steel and glass, which contrasts to the original building, serves as the main entry and includes a gift shop, lounge, cafeteria, meeting rooms and galleries.
 



Entry and new wing - Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

          The museum remains hopeful the artwork will eventually be returned, while the empty frames, which are a daily reminder of the crime, hang on the walls in their original locations in the building designed by Isabella. Crowds pay homage to Isabella’s dream-come-true. But when they enter the galleries, they pause at the blank frames and stand in a worship-like state, viewing the voids with a mixture of curiosity, sadness, disgust and pain.

          During my visit to the Gardner Museum, I looked out onto the sunlit walls of the lush courtyard and felt Isabella's presence. What emotions would she harbor if she were with us? How would she cope with another tragedy?
 



Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum - courtyard
www.gardnermuseum.org

Sources:

Boser, Ulrich. The Gardner Heist: the true story of the world’s largest unsolved art theft. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009.

Connor, Myles J., Jr. and Siler, Jenny. The Art of the Heist: confessions of a master art thief, rock-and-roller, and prodigal son. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009.

Newcomb, Alyssa – via World News. Thieves in Half-Billion Dollar Art Heist Identified By FBI. ABC World News, March 18, 2013. website: http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/fbi-thieves-identified-1990-art-heist-isabella-stewart/story?id=18757276

Valencia, Milton J,- Globe staff. Alleged Mafia figure linked to Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist gets 30-month sentence. Boston, MA. Boston Globe Metrodesk, May 9, 2013.website: http://www.boston.com/metrodesk/2013/05/09/mafia-figure-linked-isabella-stewart-gardner-museum-heist-gets-month-sentence/wyZtsAMOiZDKXJ2qa7sb3O/story.html

Mahony, Edmund H. A Hartford Wise Guy And A $500 Million Museum Heist. Hartford, CT. Hartford Courant, May 18, 2013. website: http://articles.courant.com/2013-05-18/news/hc-gardner-gentile-0513-20130518_1_robert-guarente-robert-gentile-gentile-claims

http://www.essentialvermeer.com/catalogue/concert.html#.UzA8tcJOXmI

http://www.gardnermuseum.org/home

http://wperegoy.wordpress.com/category/north-america/usa/boston/
  




 


Jamaican Honeymoon Song

Jamaican Honeymoon Song
by Greg Larson

I dedicate this blog post to my Wife, Gretta, who is the love of my life.

       I can sing in public, but it is not my forté. It has to be a really special occasion, and I have to really believe in what I’m singing. Such is the case with the Jamaican Honeymoon Song, which I wrote when . . . you guessed it . . . Gretta and I were on our 2004 honeymoon.

       The Montego Bay airport had a book shop to which we gravitated. While browsing, I found a small booklet with Jamaican slang terms like ya-man, etc. I was intrigued by the term oo-man, so I looked at the definition, which was “wife or girlfriend.” I looked at Gretta and thought “she’s my oo-man!” But I wondered if it was pronounced ohh or ooo.

       On the flight back home, between naps of honeymoon memories, I wrote the short song in my head. I pictured the warm sand and the palm trees framing the deep blue ocean water. While relaxed, I could smell the Jamaican barbeque and listen to the steel drums playing the melody.

       It’s a great song for me to sing in my head while I ride the bike or mow the lawn. It’s always with me, just like Gretta.

       The first time I sang it, we were on a bike tour in Italy. One evening after a little wine, with people we hardly knew, I belted it out. The second time was the other night at our tenth-anniversary party, a most appropriate venue. You never know, I may sing it again, but probably just once in a Jamaican blue moon.

Now that I’ve put the words to paper, the lyrics are copyrighted, so I’m anticipating royalty checks:

Jamaican Honeymoon Song

by Greg Larson

          Oh man, she’s my oo-man

          Oo man, she’s my oh-man
          Oh man, she’s my oo-man
          And I love her all of my day!

          I love her in the morning                                             [point to the east]

          I love her in the evening                                              [point to the west]
          I love her in the afternoon                                           [point to the sky]
          And all night long!                                                      [fist pump to the sky]

         Oh-oh-oh oo-man, my pretty, pretty oo-oo-oo-man

         And I love her all of my day!                                      [kiss Gretta, crowd cheers]

 

All About Nothing

All About Nothing

commentary

by Greg Larson

I dedicate this article to my good friend and writer John Davis, who continually encourages writers to start writing, even when it seems impossible to think of anything to write about.

     Sometimes I try to write, but nothing comes to mind. It’s a common malady called writer’s block. But this time I’ve decided to write about nothing. In the doldrums of winter, it is a topic that I want to shy away from. Even the landscape seems empty and barren. Nothing . . . nada . . . absolute zero . . . a scary concept. Chasms of emptiness come to mind. Big voids unfilled . . . cold cavernous areas of nothingness from deep space to empty hearts. It gives me the shivers.

     But on further inspection, there’s more to the subject than meets the eye. I’ve concluded that nothing does not exist. Now there’s a double negative that puts a body slam to the old zippity-do-dah. Nothing is made of something. Even the pencil mark of zero was created by someone who smeared volumes of graphite molecules onto the paper. And what about those nano-bits of charged data particles that are seemingly nothing when filed away on the motherboard? Computers have the capability to store entire libraries in a space the size of a pinhead. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

     One might think the utter emptiness of outer space is a good definition of nothing, but scientists will tell you it is filled with quarks, dark matter, and even the God particle. Heady stuff. Einstein himself visualized riding a beam of light through the realms of glory and mathematically proved the time clock on Earth would not move if he took a spin around the cosmic block and returned to earth on his bucking-bronco wave of energy. Now that’s something. I don’t understand it, but it is something.

     What about Absolute Zero, the coldest of cold? To scientists, the word cold doesn’t exist. They call it “absence of heat.” So far, Absolute Zero (-273.15 degrees Celsius) is only a theory. It’s a temperature that has not been attained. They’ve come close, within a tiny fraction of a degree, but the atoms just don’t roll over dead. They act a little weird, but they keep on tickin’. You’d act a little weird, too, if your temperature was a fraction from Absolute Zero.

     The closest I ever came to absolute zero was when I loaned my Starbucks gift card to Gretta, my wife. She was going to a Starbucks, so I gave her the card which I’d been carrying for months. I told her I thought it had something on it. Well, the look on her face when she returned gave me a clue that the card had been used up. The value was zero. I felt like a zero. I figured she might think of me as such. But in all of her wisdom and beauty, she came and told me I was not a zero. To her, I was a hero. For me, it was a great day to be alive in the universe, even though the beings on that far-away galaxy have no clue to the beauty and magnificence of our captive Garden of Eden that we call Earth.

     So the next time the concept of nothing comes to mind, go find that honey-do list. If you think your refrigerator is empty, go clean it out. No telling what you might find. Just be sure to throw away the cheese with the fuzzy green stuff on top. If a wall looks empty, paint it a different color or hang a picture on it. It could be the beginning of a project that really becomes something.

     If there’s nothing on the calendar, don’t (in the words of Jimi Hendrix) let the traffic lights turn blue tomorrow. Call up a friend, or take your significant other out to the coffee shop. Fill those relationship voids with love and consciousness. Keep those atoms tickin’. Get cozy and enjoy a warm cup of coffee and chocolate croissant. Then, in a Seinfeld kind of way, revel in the magnificence of the concept that nothing is something.

     Now that reminds me of the time that . . .

A Scouting Life

memoir

by Greg Larson



Eagle Award and miscellaneous badges

“Hey! You guys need to quiet down in there and get some shut-eye.” My dad grumbled as he stuck his head into the teepee, “I don’t want to have to come back here again. It was ‘lights out’ over an hour ago.” We listened to the faint steps in the grass as he walked away. The snickering continued among the members of the Flaming Arrow Patrol of Troop 704, but nobody wanted my dad to come back again. We finally trailed off to sleep.

I grew up in a camping family, and was eager to progress from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts in 1962. My older brother was already a high-ranking scout. As a young boy, I concluded that my dad’s master plan was to be a leader in the scout troop so that he could keep watch over my older brother and me.

We attended weekly troop meetings and were given handbooks to read, but the most fun of being a scout was going on the campouts. Our troop was unique because of the large teepees we used instead of tents. It was possible for an entire patrol of eight to ten boys to sleep in one teepee, with its huge, circular base. The troop camped in Colorado every summer to collect the tall pine poles for the teepee frames. When it was time to add another teepee, some of the mothers sewed the canvas, patterned after the real teepees used by  Native Americans. We painted each teepee to identify the patrol. Ours had a flaming arrow, but others had bears, wolves and other insignia adorning the canvas.

 

The author next to a teepee at the Colorado camp

As I think back to my scouting days, I realize it was a great experience to prepare me for life after childhood. Immediately, it taught me how to work with other people and I became aware that we all have different attitudes and behaviors. Before every campout, we had a patrol meeting to plan a menu, buy the food, and calculate the cost for each person. We also planned activities that were designed to help us advance up the ranks. With the scout leaders watching us, we packed and repacked our camp gear, using checklists to confirm we had all that was required.

But all the planning in the world couldn’t hold back the unbridled enthusiasm and sense of freedom unleashed in each scout when we pulled into a campsite. As the teepees were unloaded and erected, many of the troop members were already exploring the area, throwing rocks in the creek, playing tag in the woods or finding good walking sticks. I quickly learned a life lesson of trying to keep some sense of order and sanity during the chaos that ensued, and found that I could have some fun mixed in with the chores.

I have fond memories of waking up to the smell of bacon on the campfire, then tossing a football around the campsite after breakfast (this was before frisbees were invented). The camping days were filled with hiking, swimming and numerous other activities. After a big dinner, each patrol would plan a skit for the evening campfire, which was a big bonfire that tended to hypnotize all of those gathered around it. I’m sure Mom enjoyed the peace and quiet at home, but when we returned she ordered us to pile all of our smoky-smelling clothes in the garage, then strip down and go take a shower.

During my first time at summer camp in Colorado, our troop went on an overnight survival hike. I was the lowest rank, a Tenderfoot, and every experience was new. Our five-mile hike followed a pipeline that was being installed in the national forest. In the heat of the afternoon, I began to choke on the dust. Blisters formed on my feet from negotiating the clumps of dirt along the pipeline trench. It seemed as if the hike would never end, and just as we arrived at a remote campsite in the lodge-pole pine forest, the typical afternoon deluge in the mountains began. Ponchos were pulled out of the packs, and we hunkered down under the trees.

I was exhausted, but it was time to fix supper, which required us to boil water for dehydrated soup and beef stroganoff. Before the hike, we were each issued two matches to carry in small waterproof containers. My two buddies and I tried to get a fire started, but all we could find were wet branches and sticks. In our foolish desperation we used two matches at once on our final try to get a lasting flame. With our matches gone, we approached our scoutmaster, Mr. Lein, and told him that we had failed. Oh, the shame.

Mr. Lein was not upset. He kindly showed us where to snap the dead, dry twigs from the lower trunks of the pine trees. He configured the twigs into a small teepee and lit them with one match. Although I was glad to see the fire grow, I was exhausted, and tears began to well up in my eyes. I felt even more embarrassed, as we huddled around the fire. Mr. Lein, noticing my predicament, poked me softly in the ribs and matter-of-factly commented, “That darn smoke gets in your eyes sometimes, doesn’t it?” After supper we built shelters with our ponchos and pine boughs. I slept well that night.

The next year in Colorado, one of the activities was a one-day, ten-mile hike to the summit of Mt. Ouray, a big mountain just shy of 14,000 ft. in elevation. I felt more like a veteran as I began the trek with five leaders and twenty boys after breakfast. We hiked for a couple of hours through the woods, then the path became rocky and less visible as we rose above the timberline. The cold wind and the ominous clouds forced us to put on our ponchos while we wolfed down our cheese sandwiches and apples.

The giant boulders and rock towers to the side of the ridge to the summit became our shelter from the wind and sleet as the storm blew past. I remember feeling quite small as the lightning flashed and the thunder shook the ridge. Once the rain stopped, we continued on, but many of the leaders and scouts had turned back, due to altitude sickness and the weather. Just six scouts (including me) and two leaders continued to the top of the mountain. When we got to the summit, I thought I could see all the way to Kansas.

My scouting path took me many places, from the boundary waters of Minnesota and Canada to the slopes of the mountains in southern Colorado, where I worked on the Spanish Peaks Scout Ranch staff for the first year of operation in 1967.

My brothers and I thrived in the scouting program, and we each obtained the Eagle rank. Although it is a significant achievement, I believe that by the time most scouts have the Eagle medallion pinned on their uniforms, they have learned that the process of learning will continue for their entire lives.

Three future Eagle Scouts (author with dog at right)

 

In 2007, I was returning from a business trip, flying back to Kansas City from California. I was worried about my dad, who was ill, and I was anxious to get home and drive to Wichita to see him. As a scout, I loved to look at maps and use them to determine my location. Many times while looking out the window of an airplane, I used those skills to identify certain features of the landscape and the cities below. That day was no different. The clouds over the Rocky Mountains were few, and I viewed the San Luis Valley below. Quickly, the jet flew over Mt. Ouray and for a few seconds I spied its summit where I had stood decades ago. I looked down on the vast forest of lodge-pole pines and remembered the long, exhausting hike. I also remembered the time Dad woke us up one night at the Mt. Ouray camp to see the beavers at work on the nearby ponds. With child-like excitement, he rustled us out of our sleeping bags to show us the beavers swimming and splashing in the moonlight. “Look, there they are!” he exclaimed as he pointed his battery searchlight at them.

The jet landed in Denver and I checked my phone messages while waiting for the plane to continue on to Kansas City. A message from my brother asked that I call him, and when we talked, he gave me the hard news that our dad had died within the hour. I realized that I had been looking down on Mt. Ouray about the time that Dad had passed away. The flood of memories came back to me.

Dad helped lead the troop for countless years. I realized that he volunteered as a leader because of his love for scouting and for each of the boys, including me. Now he was gone, but a smile came to my face. Dad and the other leaders taught us the scouting skills, and they taught us how to live, too. I’ll keep using those skills the rest of my life.

Toyland Heaven

 

Toyland Heaven

memoir by Greg Larson

 

            The 1962 Fall edition of the Sears and Roebuck catalog seemed to weigh a ton. I held it close to my chest, then threw it down in front of me on the sleek sofa, spread out my legs behind me, and began flipping the pages, one by one. The tinsel on the Christmas tree in front of the big picture window glistened in the sunshine. It was my afternoon ritual, part daydream journey into fantasy Christmas mornings and part mission to select important things to put on my list for Santa. Wasn’t the meaning of Christmas to seek out the favorite toys to get on Christmas morning, and then blissfully play hour after hour without thinking about school?

In the electric train section I looked at all the sepia-toned images of every train imaginable, from giant locomotives roaring across trestle bridges in the forest, to stubby-looking switch engines working the freight yards of big cities. The Great Northern Railway locomotive was my favorite, hauling Mesabi iron ore through tunnels in the birch forests. I closed my eyes and pictured small towns with wooden train stations and goose-necked lamps along the platform, with the countryside full of mirror-surfaced lakes and snow-capped mountains beyond.

The anticipation of Christmas was almost unbearable, but Christmas Eve finally came and we all gathered around the tree to take turns reading parts of the real Christmas story from the Bible. After our fill of sugar cookies and hot chocolate, we grabbed a flashlight and a wristwatch to keep under the bed covers. Mom had a rule: nobody gets up before 6:00 AM. The night went on forever. My brothers and I tossed and turned, checking the watch every ten minutes.

 

Christmas Eve 1962 - Brothers Tim, Dan, & Greg

At 5:50 AM we rousted our parents. Dad had to get up and position himself with the 8mm movie camera and floodlights before we ran down the hall and into the living room. The blinding light and the buzzing camera motor were the signal to see what Santa had brought during the night. Everything in the room was flooded with silver light, creating a surreal atmosphere. I thought it must be something like heaven, all silvery with shiny toys spread about the room.

There it was! Low-hanging tinsel fluttered as a Lionel train rolled on a track set up in front of the tree. Wow! New train cars; a Sunoco tank car, a double-decker car full of automobiles, and a boxcar with a Baby Ruth trademark on it. The camera lights, the train whirring along the track, and our yelps as we explored the room made for a heady experience and a great Christmas memory. Santa (aka Dad) was a smart cookie. He had not disappointed us.

Immediately, Dad began to talk of a project for the rec-room he had built in the garage. He wanted to build us a train table that would fold up into the wall. My older brother started planning a track layout that would fill a four-foot by eight-foot table top.

Over the next few days we watched Dad assemble the plywood table. At times, he allowed us to hold a piece of lumber when he ran it through the power table saw, or sweep the sawdust and pick up the wood scraps. He installed a big piano hinge along the table edge and wall box, and added folding legs for the outer corners of the table.



Brother Dan installing track

After a lot of discussion between my Dad and brother, they began to attach the trestle pylons and pieces of track to the table. My brother consulted with his friend across the street to determine how to maximize the track. Only one piece of track had to be cut and spliced.



In no time at all we had our Katy switch engine pulling train cars along the track. On our nearby blackboard, I created lists of train cars, and we spent hours rearranging the cars, using the sidetracks to create new trains to pull. We took turns controlling the train from the transformer, which became warm to the touch. Occasionally, we were able to run two trains at the same time, but that put our small transformer to its limit. On the busy days with the train, the room became warm and the engines emitted the fragrance of ionized electrons and three-in-one oil.

Before the end of the Christmas holiday, we had daily visits from our friends bringing their favorite Lionel engines and cars to run on the tracks. My friend Mike brought his silver Santa Fe engine and we had two trains running at full speed. I remember thinking it was the best Christmas ever for an eleven-year-old boy in Kansas.