Every kid wants a dog, and we were no exception. Only the way we got this dog was never straight forward. My dad appeared one evening with this purebred “Norwegian Elk” puppy and said his name was Viking. This would be an incredible dog, my dad explained, for his genes went back to an ancient, northern, fiord land in Scandinavia called Norway. With his thick white fur, upturned tail and splashes of black, Viking was beautiful. My younger sister became the attached, primary caregiver and grieved uncontrollably when Viking, poisoned by a spiteful, unhappy neighbor, died two years later.
Dad, a self-employed landscaper, often took us with him on his gardening route. By our elementary school years he had a collection of rather rich clients, many of whom had, in the heat of a California summer, cool, refreshing swimming pools. With permission, we became swimmers in some of the finest pools in La Canada. Dad also made it a point to bring us to his most beautiful gardens. Lectures ensued about the names of plants, and what plants belonged in what climate. My father's face visibly softened, losing its contorted anger-at-the-world rage as he spoke about his landscape designs. A natural storyteller, he loved sharing background stories about the people we would meet. He proudly introduced us to his fellow gardeners during our many coffee shop breaks. We had no idea what Dad's work routine was like without us, but when we were with him, we stopped frequently for “treats.”
The love of nature and gardens was in Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small manmade bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.
Another favorite family outing was the more formal Huntington Gardens in Pasadena. Our first stop was the infamous art collection, where we stared at Da Vinci's original “Mona Lisa.” We made up stories about why her captivating smile intrigued Leonardo. As we strolled the garden byways, we then made our way through the Japanese themed landscape to the jungle-like river. Here Dad pointed out how the first Tarzan, Johnny Wisemuller, made the beloved and exciting Tarzan movies. We stood on the banks in awe, imaging ourselves swinging by the tree twined ropes.
On a par with Dad's love of nature, was his appreciation of the arts. When Dad pooled our savings money from Grandmother Hadley to create an addition to our small living room, we all helped him build solid wood, wall high bookshelves. On the top of these shelves, Dad carefully placed the precious German books Grandma Koch had brought over from her native Germany. Throughout my childhood, I yearningly stared at these heirlooms. Some day, I promised, I will learn German and visit the places of my ancestors' birth, and in my twenties, I spent several years studying and traveling abroad. On the shelf beneath was Dad's collection of antique, leather bound Shakespeare plays, special editions of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and his Modern Library Classics. Years later he would purchase the Britannica Great Book collection. With a bachelor of arts in English and German literature, I became the first in my family to receive a college diploma.
I remember our family being poor growing up, but somehow my dad always found a way to introduce us to great ballet and great music. On a star-studded evening, Dad quickly herded us into the car after dinner. We drove through darkened streets with no word about where we were going. Up the Los Angeles hills, past Griffith Park we drove and into the parking lot of the Greek Theater. The lot was full and the crowds bustled to enter the outdoor tiered rows. Dad stepped up to the box office and came away with four tickets. Three of these tickets were near the front while one ticket was a few rows back. We sat near the stage and Dad promised he would be guarding us from behind. As the volume of the full orchestra reached a crescendo, as the curtain rose, we were magically captivated by the beginnings of the New York City Ballet's “Nutcracker.” As the Christmas tree rose from the floor to the ceiling, we wide eyed, innocent children became part of an immortal memory.
There would be the incredible Russian Bolshoi Ballet at the Shrine Auditorium, classical/pop Hollywood Bowl concerts, and excursions to the Los Angeles Museums and the La Brea Tar Pits. Each brought an awe inspiring remembrance that would soothe the tougher, occasional violent times of our childhood. But the adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”
Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!
In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.
On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.
If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.
During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.
We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.
Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.
We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.
© 2011
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