Memorial Day Nostalgia - Geeze, the coffee tasted good back then!

As a child growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 50's and 60's, some of my most fond and vivid memories came from holiday weekends like this one, Memorial Day. My father worked in the fledgling corporate computer industry and always had weekends and holidays off. So, at times like this, our family headed to one of our favorite lakes, rivers, or beaches within a few hours of driving time from Canoga Park. These three day getaways were usually turned into four or five day affairs as we would leave for our destinations on Thursday and return late Monday or sometimes Tuesday, thus avoiding the worst of the traffic escaping and returning to gotham. Leaving a day early also afforded us the opportunity to find the best camp sites. Back in those days, it was first come first served, quite different from today's computerized reservation systems. Getting there early and leaving late was always the plan.

My dad would plan our camping trips down to the smallest detail, writing a long list of groceries and supplies on graph paper. More often than not, he would pack up the trusty old family truckster fun-wagon the night before. We would be ready to hit the road early the next morning...tents, coolers, boxes of food, and fishing gear tucked away nicely on the roof rack and in the back of the wagon.

Arriving at our much anticipated campground by early afternoon, the doors of the station wagon would burst open, disgorging myself, my two sisters, and, more often not, a couple of friends we got to invite along. From that moment on, us kids were just a cloud of dust until it was time for our first camp meal...leaving mom and dad to the chore of setting up the campsite. I will say that my dad insisted I help him set up the tent, one of those square-sided, cabin units from Sears. After having assembled it a few times, the set up time was only a few minutes...unless, of course, one of the frame pieces was missing. Then, a minor amount of trauma, accompanied by some judicious swearing would ensue until the problem was solved.

So, with our bright blue Sears cabin tent erected in just the right spot under the pine trees (now filled with sleeping bags and air mattresses), the Coleman camp stove perched conveniently on the end of the big wooden picnic table, the folding chairs and chaise lounges arranged around the fire pit, and sounds of the nearby stream or lake calling me...I was off on one of my many true childhood adventures: trout fishing in the Sierras.

Our family camped a lot in the 60's. Midway through that decade, we got a boat. So, we not only fished on the lake, we learned to water ski as well. My younger sisters were much better at skiing than I was. They would bug my dad constantly for another turn around the lake, until they were so tired they couldn't stand up on the skis any longer. As for me, I skied as well...but what I really wanted to do was fish. And that is what we did early in the morning, heading out just before sunrise most of the time. It was my dad and me and sometimes one of my buddies in tow, cranking up the old Evinrude outboard and looking for a good spot on the lake. Most of the time, I remember showing my buddies how to tie a hook or lure on the monofilament line. Sometimes, I would have to show them how to cast as well. More often than not, the friends I brought along weren't from camping families. It was all new to them. But for me, I'd done it all before...I was a seasoned 15 year old fisherman and camper.

When we found find our fishing spot, usually in a cove somewhere, I would crawl out onto the bow before our boat came to a stop and drop the anchor into the deep, greenish blue water. The glaring sound of the outboard motor now silent, the smell of oil and gasoline in my nose. The only sounds were the caw-caws of a crow, or the screech of a hawk circling overhead, the lapping of the water on the side of the boat...the distant drone of another boat in the distance, cruising across the morning mist-shrouded, glass-like surface in search of its favorite fishing spot. The sun was not yet up, but there was enough light to see our fishing poles and tackle boxes. Sometimes it was cold as well, making the task of tying a hook or sticking a worm all the more difficult. But I managed. We were fishing!

My dad was usually first to get a line in the water. I can remember seeing him sitting on the bow of the boat, leaning back again the plexiglass windshield, one leg crossed over the other. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette tucked between his fingers on the same hand, fishing line with a red and white bobber in the water a few feet from the boat. This was his time to relax. The days of helping me with my fishing gear were long gone...but that was the way I wanted it at 15.

I finally managed to get mine and my buddy's lines in the water...a little split shot sinker, a hook, and a worm in place. Now it was time for coffee and a doughnut. I think this was when I developed my taste for caffein. There was nothing better than pouring a steaming cup of coffee from a thermos, already laden with plenty of cream and sugar, grabbing a sticky, glazed doughnut out of the box and taking a big old bite, washing it down with the hot coffee. My fingers smelled of worms or salmon eggs we used for bait...and glazed doughnuts. Now, we would wait for the fish to bite. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't. Sure, I always wanted to catch a fish...but it didn't seem to matter if we didn't. We were fishing!

The crows continued to caw and chatter in the nearby trees. The hawk circled overhead. The water lapped at the side of our boat. Other boats droned by in the distance. Our little red and white bobbers sat motionless on the smooth surface of the water. The smoke from my dad's cigarette wafted up and into the cool morning air. There was no traffic, no music, no television, no school, and no worries. That was Memorial Day weekend...1965. Geeze, the coffee tasted good back then!