Len's Memory Blog

  The Cabin   (entry for 6/26/2024) There are of course many cabins in the world, but from before I was born until I was about 15 or so, when anyone in the family, or even the extended family, said the words, “The Cabin,” there was only one possible meaning. They meant a cabin in the mountains above Denver, above Turkey Creek Canyon, just below a mountain which we called Double-Header, but for which the official name is Double Head Mountain. The Cabin was owned by Emma, my maternal grandmother, and it was dear to all of our hearts.         (The photo shows Double-Header from the west. The cabin is at the foot of the mountain, just out of sight to the viewer’s right.)   There was no electricity, no running water, no bathroom, no good road to get to it, no modern conveniences of any kind. We loved it. We would go up from Denver for the weekend and ‘camp out’ for as long as we could afford to stay away. One glorious summer (1947) when my dad was betw...

  Judy   (entry for 6/19/2024) Her name was Judy Dikeman and she was my first girl-friend. Or at least the first one that reciprocated my interest to any degree. The family was of so-called Dutch extraction. (The proper word is Nederlander. 'Dutch' actually means German.) Both of Judy’s parents were of pure descent, and the dad had actually been born in the Netherlands. (Holland is only one of the States of the Netherlands. Calling the country ‘Holland’ is like calling the United States ‘New York’ or ‘California.’)   Like many Nederlanders, they were all of that peculiar pure cocoa-butter complexion that inspires envy, and sometimes even guilt, in other so-called White People. No freckles, no acne, no blemishes of any kind. Just pure coffee with lots of cream in it. Judy had large deep-brown eyes, even darker wavy brown hair, high cheek-bones, and a moon-shaped mouth that curved down at the corners when she smiled. She had dimples, too, deep ones. In other words, she was ...

  The Bell-Ringer (entry for 6/12/2024) What do you call a light-gray woolen suit that’s smeared with black and brown grime? Do you simply call it 'Dirty'? I suppose you could, but somehow that wouldn’t quite cover it, because it was going to have to go to the dry cleaner, and not be washed. (There was no such thing as a washable suit in those days.)    And there wasn’t a dry cleaner handy. Or any within thirty miles, for that matter. And it was my only suit.   My first year at Laurelwood, 1955-56, my Junior year, I worked in the bakery. (My dad tried to get me a job in the powerhouse, and failed, for which I gave many prayers of thanks. I would have been a disaster there.) I both loved and hated the bakery. I loved the fact that I was learning a useful trade and that I was producing, or helping to produce, something tasty and healthful. What I hated was the foolish ways in which my fellow-workers acted. Particularly the way they didn’t take the work itself, or the p...

  Dwayne (entry for 6/5/2024) Click HERE to see this with a nice related header. From the day I met him in 1949 until the day he died in 1955, Dwayne Marchbanks was my best, and sometimes only, friend.   He was the only person who stood by me when the whole world dissolved around me in the 7 th grade, and he was the only person who ever tried to teach me how to shoot a porcupine, and was probably the only person in the world who could have refrained from laughter when I missed. (This last was never put to the test, as he was the only person who knew about it.)   He was one of the toughest people I have ever known and also one of the most sensitive. He suffered from a severe inguinal hernia which was not surgically reparable and for which he wore an awkward and bulky truss. (Or perhaps his family couldn’t afford the operation: they were very poor.) He wore the truss even when he was fighting, which was often. He was very small for his age, and far from handsome, and other...