A crash course in ‘MASH’

So the little guy and I are marching along Malibu Creek, appreciating the green gifts that this wet winter has brought, chatting with the birds. Be still, my Irish heart (and liver).

“Know what I like about nature?” I ask him.

“What’s nature?” the 5-year-old asks.

“Nature is the outdoors,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says.

“Know what I like?” I ask again.

“What?”

“You can spit almost anywhere.”

Nature calls, and so we answer. We trudge along Malibu Creek, stopping now and then to admire the little stretches of angry creek . . . the mistletoe hanging in a sycamore . . . a cool tunnel of oaks. You’d think we’d wandered clear to Dublin, the hills are so lush and alive.

“Isn’t this great?” I ask.

“I’m bored,” says the little guy.

“Come on, this way,” I say and lead him down a muddy trail.

It’s a good day to get out of the house. His mother was upset because the lovely and patient older daughter sampled some of her homemade soup, then grumbled, “This has no flavor. And there’s too much oregano.”

OK, kid, make up your mind. It either has no flavor. Or there’s too much oregano. You can’t have both. Fortunately, the little guy was there to take his mother’s mind off this ridiculous culinary slight.

“Hey, Mom?” he said.

“ ‘Hey’ what?”

“You’re the best brother I ever had.”

“Brother?” she yelped.

So in a manner of five minutes, one kid has dissed her chicken soup and another has questioned her motherhood.

“Time to get out of the house,” I said.

“Why?” asked the little guy.

“Before your brother kills you,” I said.

Forty-five minutes later, we are in Malibu Creek State Park, looking for the place where they filmed the great TV show “MASH.” We read in the paper that they’re having a little anniversary celebration of the show’s final episode. They’ve cleared the area where they once filmed. Father Mulcahy might be there.

“Hot Lips too,” I tell the little guy.

“Who’s Hot Lips?” he asks.

I explain that Hot Lips was a nurse in the show who wore tight T-shirts and drove the camp crazy with all her griping. Against all reason, she canoodled with Frank “Ferret Face” Burns. Nobody could ever understand her lousy taste in captains, especially not Hawkeye.

“Who’s Hawkeye?” he asks.

I explain how Hawkeye Pierce was perhaps the best character TV has ever seen. He was funny and smart and wore Hawaiian shirts to weddings. Glib as Groucho, Hawkeye Pierce managed to hold everything together -- through love and war.

“Sort of like your brother,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, and steps around a boulder.

We are an odd couple out here in the woods like this. Me in my Woody Allen wardrobe. Him pale and slight, seemingly built of Popsicle sticks. The hike to the “MASH” location, a mere two miles, seems to take him a million little steps. It is the longest I’ve ever walked without buying coffee.

“Did you know,” I tell him, “that McLean Stevenson was related to Adlai Stevenson?”

“Huh?” he says.

“They were like cousins or something,” I say.

I explain to him that “MASH” changed the course of television, that it blended humor and drama like never before. I explain that Gene Reynolds, Burt Metcalfe and Larry Gelbart get a lot of the writing credit, but the man who wrote the original novel (Richard Hooker) really established the wit and sensibility.

“If you ever get the chance, read the book,” I tell the little guy.

“OK, Daddy,” he says.

“It’s very subversive,” I say. “You know, if you’re into that.”

“OK, Dad.”

And finally, we are there. For me, it is like seeing Yankee Stadium for the very first time. The House That Hawkeye Built.

“Over there, that’s where the helicopters flew,” I say.

“Can we go now?” the little guy asks.

“Over there was the Swamp,” I say.

We crawl over a couple of vintage jeeps. Then we watch Hot Lips (Loretta Swit) do a TV interview with a guy young enough to be her grandson. Mike Farrell, wry and wiry as ever, tells the crowd something about “not trusting mindless authority figures.”

“Is there any other kind?” I whisper to the little guy.

“Huh?” he says.

“Just a joke, Radar.”

OK, let’s get out of here, I tell him. Before Hot Lips sees us just standing around doing nothing.

So we trudge in the mud back toward the car. The little guy’s legs give out in the first 100 yards. For two miles, I wear him over my shoulders like a scarf.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.