This is the third and final chapter in my autobiographical Indian Guides Saga. If you’re reading this before reading the other two parts, you’re doing it wrong.
When you’re done with that, then read this.
There you go! Now you’re ready to read what’s below. Enjoy!
Dad and I led the procession of cars through a winding tangle of suburban back roads. To an observer, the scene might have had the slow, solemn look of a funeral procession.
But one’s perception is not always the reality. That was especially true in this case.
After what felt like forever, we pulled into a parking lot and glided into a “visitor” space.
“We’re here.” Dad declared as he waited for his ancient Oldsmobile to sputter to a halt. His car had this habit of gasping and wheezing for a few seconds after the key was yanked from the ignition.
The Olds let out one last apologetic, wispy fart before finally falling silent.
“There we are. Let’s go.”
Newer and far less idiosyncratic cars pulled up alongside us. Eager fathers and sons soon assembled in a tight knot, brimming with happy anticipation. They all wore brown leather vests and yellow headbands – the official uniform of the Indian Guides – and awaited instructions from their tribal chief, Tall Oak.
Tall Oak was Dad’s Indian Guides name.
It was time for Dad to give a speech. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
Dad loved to talk. He talked even when he didn’t have anything to say – and he frequently didn’t have anything to say. So I figured he would savor his time in the spotlight and ramble on for a while.
But lately Dad had been making a habit out of defying expectations. What followed was the shorted speech he had ever given in his entire life.
“Who wants cupcakes?”
In response, everyone screamed like a banshee.
“I thought so,” he replied.
Without another word, he turned toward the factory, its smokestacks scarring the azure sky with streaks of grey. That ugliness was offset, however, with the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of warm chocolate cake. The tribe had journeyed to Wayne, NJ, to behold the wonders of the Drakes Cake factory and we were getting a contact sugar high right there in the parking lot.
This field trip was a bit unusual for a typical Indian Guides outing. Our weekly meetings were supposed to embrace nature or Native American culture. A lesson in snack cake manufacturing didn’t easily fit into this rubric. This fact was not lost on the other fathers.
“Hey, chief!” one shouted to be heard above the squealing kids. “Which Indian tribe made Ring Dings again?”
The other fathers laughed, but none more so than Chief Tall Oak. “Oh, this trip is about Indians,” Dad insisted. “You’ll see!”
A cheery, red-cheeked man greeted us at the door. He was as wide as he was tall. Clearly a bottomless box of Devil Dogs was part of his employee benefits package. “C’mon in, young braves!” he chortled. “Lemme show ya around!”
After donning goggles and hairnets, we tromped though the factory. It was a magical, sugary place and we saw it all: machines squishing and kneading, rolling and baking; icing oozing out in long brown sheets smothering the fist-sized cakes under a coating so sticky and sweet it made my teeth hurt just to watch it happen.
Then we were off to the packaging department where machines plopped cupcakes onto cardboard sleeves, zipped them up in clear plastic, and dumped them into boxes. The rhythm of these machines was lightning quick and deeply satisfying. Their perfect, precise movements filled me with a sense of inner peace.
When I grow up I want to work in a factory, I thought.
“And that concludes the tour!” the chubby, chipper Drakes Cakes guy said. “Be sure to come again!”
He made a shooing gesture toward the factory exit that felt a little too eager to be sincere.
“Hmm…” He tapped a beefy contemplative finger against his beefy triple chin. “No, no, that isn’t the right thing to do,” he began. “Where are my manners? I can’t let you leave yet.”
He paused significantly.
“I can’t let you leave without TAKING A FEW SAMPLES!”
In response, we went nuts.
As if by magic, trays of Drakes Cakes appeared before us. Funny Bones! Ring Dings! Coffee Cake Juniors! Yankee Doodles! They were all there! We shoveled them into our gaping maws as if were in a competition.
The Drakes Cake Guy beamed. He lived for moments like these. Once the initial gorging began to slow down a little, he called for our attention once again. “Do you boys like baseball?” he asked.
I did not like baseball. I didn’t any sport really. But I sensed that a response in the affirmative would result in more free stuff. So, with my cheeks packed with about a dozen Yodels, I screamed a muffled “YEAH!” that sounded a lot more like a “BWUUUUH!”
“Oh, that’s good to hear!” he replied with evident relief. “Baseball is as American as Yankee Doodles! And did you know that in specially marked boxes of Drakes snack cakes, we are giving away baseball cards?”
This question was apparently rhetorical for he didn’t bother to wait for a reply.
“And because you young braves were all such wonderful guests, I HAVE SOME BASEBALL CARDS FOR YOU!”
Again, we went nuts. He Frisbee-tossed each of us a cellophane-wrapped package of six cards. Even though I knew almost none of the players I ripped open the package like everyone else. I gazed upon the unrecognizable faces and scanned their incomprehensible stats.
Dad leaned over my shoulder. “Who do you got in there, Red Squirrel?” (My Indian Guides name was Red Squirrel.) Dad pulled a card out of my small stack. “Can I see this one for a minute?”
Chief Tall Oak turned to the tribe. “Can I have everyone’s attention? I need your attention!” Dad held my baseball card above his head for everyone to see. “Bo Diaz! Catcher!” he announced. “For the Cleveland Indians!”
Every adult in the room brayed with laughter.
“I told you this trip was about Indians!”
The rest of Tall Oak’s tenure followed a similar pattern. Dad organized a trip to a place he thought we’d enjoy, and, as a running joke, he’d conjure up a silly, tenuous link to Native American culture.
“The French gave America this statue, you know,” he said as the tribe peered through the portholes in Lady Liberty’s crown. “And the French fought in the French and Indian War. The French and Indians both lost.”
On another outing, Dad offered up this tidbit: “Europeans got this island from the Indians for $23 worth of goods.” He eyed the tribe’s lunch check. “But these days $23 can’t even get us all fed in Chinatown.”
As so it went. We bowled. We rode horses. We ate ice cream. We had fun. The year was, without exception, a complete and unqualified success.
But the end of the Indian Guides season was coming. Tall Oak’s leadership skills had surpassed my wildest expectations, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to get me out of marching in the Memorial Day Parade.
That parade was the bane of our existence. Dad and I had bad feet. We were not built for marching. When we tried to march on behalf of the Indian Guides the previous year, we were forced to ditch the tribe around the halfway point. We couldn’t hope to do that again this year. Tall Oak was the chief and I was the chief’s son. He and I had to lead the tribe for the duration of the march. It was the price one had to pay for being the boss.
And so I stood in the Grand Union parking lot, the parade staging area, waiting for this hellish experience to begin. The morning was unusually chilly with a mist in the air that promised rain. I hadn’t marched a single step, yet my feet already ached inside my orthopedic shoes.
I tried to distract myself by watching the grannies in the quilting bee attempt to wrap their wares in saran wrap. It was a quixotic endeavor if there ever was one — and I would’ve found it amusing if my mind wasn’t preoccupied with another, troubling thought:
He had left the tribe 20 minutes earlier in search of a men’s room. I was used to Dad’s slowness, but this was particularly slow. I saw stirrings of activity in the distance. The police cars that led the parade began to whoop. Members of the Ramapo High School marching band straightened their tall hats, wet their reeds and wriggled into their sousaphones. The parade was beginning and Dad was MIA.
Just as my anxiety began to reach its apex, I heard a very familiar sound:
It was Dad’s unmistakable whistle. I spun on my heel and found him about 50 yards away hobbling toward me. But Dad, for once, was impatient with his own slowness and waved me over.
“What?” I asked.
“Get the guys. I got us a float.”
“A float? You mean like a parade float?”
“Yes. Go get ‘em.”
My foot pain vanished as I scampered toward the tribe to deliver the good news.
In the midst of all this giddy excitement, my mind soon filled with questions. How did Dad get us a ride on a parade float? Did money exchange hands? Was the driver an old chum from high school? Did Tall Oak masquerade as Bo Diaz from the Cleveland Indians?
I still don’t know the answers to these questions – and, to be honest, I kind of like not knowing. Sometimes an Indian chief needs to possess an air of mystery; it is what transforms a great leader into a legendary one.
The grateful braves piled onto the back of the truck and found it fully stocked with bags of candy. It was a dream come true. Not only were we getting a free ride, we were candy throwers! Memorial Day Parade MVPs!
The police cars whooped a second time and we were soon on our way, our feet happily dangling from the flatbed’s tailgate.
“Are we gonna sign up for Indian Guides next year?” I asked Dad.
He shook his head. “You’ll be too old next year.”
The disappointment crashed over me like a wave.
“But don’t worry, boy,” he added. “We’ll find something else. There’s always something else.”
And so we rolled on. After about a mile, I noticed a boy seated on the curb beside his dad. What drew my attention to him was that the boy was wearing a Cub Scout uniform. I surmised that he was a marcher who was unable to make it to the end of the parade route.
Maybe I was projecting, but in that moment I thought I could see his frustration, his exhaustion, his humiliation in watching the rest of the marchers leave him behind.
In solidarity, I chucked an especially large handful of candy in his direction. It was my way of saying Don’t let this get to you, kid. Next year you might be on top of the world.
But deep down I didn’t really believe it. To go from a curb to a parade float in the space of one year required the invaluable leadership of a Tall Oak.
And Tall Oaks are rare leaders indeed.
So I threw the kid another handful of candy, as a kind of consolation prize, and continued to wave to the cheering crowd.
66 Replies to “Red Squirrel’s Indian Summer (The Final Chapter)”
Your dad sounds great. Love the doodle, too!
A finer Indian Guides leader there never was — or ever will be.
And, if I may be completely frank, I dashed off the doodle this morning after I remembered your Indian Guides doodle request from last week. (That’s why it looks a bit rough.)
But the vest looks just right! I remember it from my brother’s Indian Guide days. And the smile foreshadows the ending of the series. Good doodle job, for sure.
You are too kind, my friend.
Best speech ever given by your dad (First rule: know the audience) Riding on a float in a parade – what a treat. Yep, Tall Oak knew his tribe and lead wisely. Enjoyed the tale
He would’ve made a fine Congressman. I could totally seem him wheeling and dealing in the halls of the Capitol Building.
and making short tolerable speeches!
No, if the TV cameras were in his direction, he’d go on for a while.
The Drake’s Cakes speech was the exception to the rule.
Excellent story. I want to go to a cake factory! I’ve been to a couple of chocolate factories, and a marshmallow factory (and a few non-food item factories, but nobody cares about them), oh and the Ocean Spray cranberry factory, but never a cake factory that I can remember.
When you come to visit me in New Jersey I will take you to Drake’s Cakes. I don’t know if Drake’s have tours anymore (actually, I don’t know if they had tours back then, either; my Dad could talk his way into anywhere), but at the very least we can stand in the parking lot and sniff the cake-y aromas.
Well that’s the best offer I’ve had all day – standing in a parking lot sniffing cakey aromas, what more could a gal want?
And this is why my wife finds me irresistible.
And to sweeten the deal, I’ll even buy you a Yodel. It’s a little slice of heaven, it is!
That selection looks suspiciously similar to Hostess cakes.
Yes, there is a bit of overlap — especially when Drake’s made the executive decision to put icing on their Yankee Doodles. Back in the day Doodles were icingless and alarmingly dry.
But believe me, a Hostess Twinkie has got nothing on a Drake’s Yodel or Funny Bone. Nothing.
Aww. What a great finish and wonderful tribute to your dad. Actually got me teary eyed once I stopped laughing over “When I grow up I want to work in a factory!” Ha ha ha. Lovely story, Red Squirrel.
The “When I grow up…” is my favorite line, too.
And I’m so very glad to hear that my story got you all warm and squishy inside. Thanks for the kind words, my friend!
Awwwwwwwwwwwww. You dad takes the cake and my guess is you take after your dad. 🙂
Love the story. The suspense almost killed me, but I hung in there and voila. Awesome. Great time for a father and son. 🙂 😀
Oh, the drama of Indian Guides political intrigue!
It was and exciting story and I always root for the good guys. Heck I sat on my edge of my chair, my heart thumbing like an Indian drum. ;-P
Yes. That’s me. 😉
A happy ending to what could have been a very traumatic memory. 😉
Oh, the pre-Tall Oak memories are still traumatic!
Did you really truly get to climb to the crown on the Statue of Liberty? That’s worth more than a million fluff-monkeys.
Great finale Red Squirrel.
I did indeed! This was, of course, in the pre-terrorist days when getting into the crown was not considered to be such a big deal. The only big deal was getting there. One has to trudge up a seemingly endless cast iron circular staircase.
I am super jealous! My mother in law climbed up to the torch when she was a girl. Jealous of her, too!
I am jealous of the torch! By the time the early 1980s rolled around the torch was closed off to visitors.
I guess they were afraid this would happen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-2UMB-9yVM
Mike, What a great story! Your dad is AWESOME!
He would certainly agree! 😉
No “oak quote” at the end? No “sappy” proverb or tree humor in honor of Tall Oak?? With all he did for you, Red Squirrel?!!
This read like an episode from that show “The Wonder Years,” remember that?! Could easily see this narrated in film. It was very entertaining and heartwarming, Mike. 🙂
I was a fan of The Wonder Years. But as far as nostalgic voice overs are concerned, I prefer A Christmas Story.
Yes! Better fit for your humor! Watch that movie every year and have taken friends from out of town to the house many times. (I live on the west side of Cleveland… and yes, I am a big Indians fan!)
Speaking of which – I’m sure you are aware of Bo Diaz’s death… quite tragic. His cards are probably worth a lot of money, if you still have one. 🙂
I’ve always wanted to visit that house! (And own a leg lamp.)
I just love the way you assume I know something about Bo Diaz’s death. Now that I looked it up, however, I can assure you I will never forget. Death by satellite dish! Mercy!
Sorry – guess I assumed you knew because it was so horrific!
The Christmas Story House is quite a tourist attraction. But I’m sure you know (but then again, maybe you don’t know)! that most of the movie wasn’t filmed there. If you are a fan, it’s still cool to see though, and there is a gift shop there as well where you can buy lots of cool movie-related stuff, including leg lamps of all sizes. 🙂
Much like the mom in A Christmas Story, Ellen would make sure such a leg lamp would meet an untimely demise. And then she would use up all the glue. On purpose!
Oh no! Not the glue! That’s crossing the line! Maybe you can take the tape!
Can’t say that I blame her though, about the leg lamp… wouldn’t want one in my house either… my daughter has a mini one that’s a night light… so there you go! A compromise, maybe 🙂
I don’t think I’m going to get too far beyond a leg lamp tree ornament, I’m afraid.
I have one of those too! And that should be enough to satisfy you – more leg décor would be strange, Mike! I’m sure Ellen would agree! lol
Oh, she does indeed agree!
What an unpredictable, creative and awesome dad! He marched to his own drum beat — like someone else I know. You really know how to spin a great tale! I enjoyed all three stories. Keep them coming. I need to laugh once a week!
Thank you, my friend!
I’m going to have to do a post someday about Dad’s Oldsmobile. I had never seen a car so perfectly match its owner’s personality.
Will look forward to that!
Ah, Red Squirrel, thanks for regaling us with memories of your nutty childhood. They indeed take
the cake–just like you did!
Gorged on the cake would be more accurate.
Must be east coast cakery goods–HoHos I’ve heard of.
I know HoHos, but they are not all that common around these parts.
Ding Dongs? Twinkies? I was raised on Hostess, Wonder Bread, and Hamburger Helper. This might explain quite a bit about me…
Brother, I love this story. I did the Indian Guides with my younger brother in the 70s, and it was just as you said. You are a genius.
It is always so nice to meet a fellow brave!
How did you fare with the annual Indian Guides camping trip? I had a story about that, too, but the post was getting too long to include it.
Amigo, this was way back, 1969 or 1970. All I know is I survived, and the old man got to save a bunch of money on Boy Scout dues. There may or may not have been a rattle-snake, adults sending kids off on snipe hunts, and the obligatory dad or two pretending to be bears off in the woods after the kids fell asleep. But after 46 years, that’s mostly conjecture!
Sometimes you gotta chalk up survival as a win. But the dad’s in your group didn’t get the memo; the fathers and sons are supposed to be allied against NATURE.
Great doodle! Your dad sounds a lot of fun. Here’s to a bit of mystery!
I’ll drink to that.
Oh my my my, you have brought me back home to New Jersey and the Ring Ding. Ohhh, the Ring Ding in my youth was my savior after a bad day at school. And when I was young, there were many bad days at school. Not academically, but socially. I just didn’t ‘get’ kids. But one thing I could share with my school compatriots: RING DINGS. Thanks for the memories, Red Squirrel.
I have high respect for your dad, Tall Oak. Give him a Ring Ding, from me.
The Dings are delightful, that’s for sure.
I recently introduced my son to Funny Bones. It went well.
You, Red Squirrel, will always be a Tall Oak in your son’s mind.
My (quite adult) son and I have a perverse pleasure in sneaking in a pink Snow Ball together every once in a while. Remember them?
Love Sno Balls! My son wouldn’t go for them, though. He has an unhealthy hatred of coconut. Ellen hates coconut, too, so every Halloween I get all the Mounds and Almond Joy bars. No complaints.
Now what are your thoughts on Butterscotch Krimpets? (Yes, we have now moved on to Tastykake territory.) I live for those things!
Oh. Moan. Tastykakes! I went into withdrawal when I moved to CA in the ’80s. Every time I visited my parents in NJ, I’d surreptitiously go to the small town store and buy a load of Butterscotch Krimpets to take back home. Don’t tell anyone…
Your dad was a special guy. He could have been a great salesman. Don’t know what he did for a living, but I can see him doing well in sales.
I agree with you; We would’ve been great in sales. Dad was a school administrator — and he was great at that as well.
What a great story. You know how to spin a tale. Mike, I’ve reviewed hundreds of books and I got to tell you, I can see this as a chapter book. I can literally see the illustrations for it. You might need beef it up a little, but I know you can do that. I love this story. It would be great for young boys and reluctant readers. It can be your next Kid Lit Hit.
That’s a really good idea! My gears are turnin’…
Dibs on first read.
That can be arranged.