Fencing

 

Fencing

Noel Laflin

6-20-25

 

My daughter noticed the multiple bruises and abrasions on my arms and elbows yesterday and said, "What did you do now, dad?"

 

""Had a fight with a fence yesterday," I replied. "But I won!"

 

"Why the fight?" she pressed on.

 

"Because the fence needed fixing and I had to climb over it. I kinda banged up my elbows in the process trying to avoid falling into the channel behind the backyard. But, I was successful, only to realize that I couldn't scale the fence back over again so I had to walk around the channel, through the neighborhood, find the spare house key, let myself in, reclimb the fence with shovel and a ladder in hand because I had spotted a cool looking plant in the land behind the complex that I wanted to dig up and re-pot in the garden. The blooms are fuchsia-like and the hummingbirds will go nuts over them. But there was some more tussling with the fence, shovel, hammer, ladder, dug up plant, etc. which led to a little more bleeding and bruising unfortunately."

 

"Its 72-year-old guys like you that end up in my ER every day," she said.

 

"Yeah, but you didn't see me there yesterday, now did you," I said triumphantly.

 

I get the feeling this discussion isn't over yet.

 

So I'm not going to mention how the old pear tree needs pruning and the only way to do it properly is to climb it to the top and work my way down.

 

I will do it with stealth and grace, of course, and not meet up with Krysten till all the bruises have healed over and the band aids are history.

Monte Cristos

 

Monte Cristos

Noel Laflin

4-8-25

 

Ryan White died thirty-five years ago today. He was only eighteen years old - just a month shy of his high school graduation. We, along with much of the world, had been following the boy's trials and tribulations. He even had Elton John in his corner, speaking on his behalf - shaming the ignorant.

 

Jeremy and I were sitting in the Katella Deli in Los Alamitos when I read the headline in the newspaper I had brought with us.

 

Jeremy saw the headline, too, and began to cry.

 

"Will that happen to us?" he asked.

 

"I don't know, love."

 

Our meal arrived a moment later, two mouthwatering Monte Cristo sandwiches with a generous side of strawberry jam.

 

We dug in.

 

But the question lingered.

 

Jeremy died five years later. He had nearly wasted away during the last year. It would have taken a lot of fattening Monte Cristo sandwiches to have helped remedy the situation, but he had no appetite by then.

 

He was only thirty-three years old.

 

So, I guess we got the answer to part of his question.

 

But there was no headline in the morning paper. I'm pretty sure Elton was not aware of his passing either.

 

But I was.

 

 

Extremely Happy

Noel Laflin

2-17-25

 

I told David that I really like this representation of a younger, cockier man who looked a little sunburned here, as well as unshaven, under washed, probably a little smelly, and no doubt high at the time - but extremely happy.

 

It was taken by a fellow rafter (she was from either Texas or England - some details have been lost to memory, but I remember she was funny) somewhere along the Zambezi River in Africa nearly thirty years ago.

 

We were either in Zimbabwe or Zambia - we alternated sleeping in each country every night, depending on which shoreline held the best promise. We did this for ten days. The only border patrolling was done by large families of snarling baboons who'd like to steal your backpack if given the chance. Some blew themselves up in old forgotten minefields left over from the Rhodesian War decades before. I guess those guys inadvertently warned us where not to wander off to if one were prone to sleepwalking.

 

We rafted some really scary rapids by day, slept out under strange stars and far off unfamiliar galaxies at night, tried to avoid crocodiles and hippos as best we could {eighteen-foot-long crocodiles could really make your heart pound}, portaged some treacherous waterfalls, but in general, had a very good time.

 

And no one died - so there was that, too.

 

I had a bottle of Southern Comfort with me, which came in handy when toasting the Southern Cross as it rose early in enchanted African skies each evening.

 

And I wore a St. Christopher medal around my neck, just for a little added protection.

 

I'm not Catholic - but I figured, what the hell.

 

One Hundred Years of Friendship

Noel Laflin

1-15-24

 

I have four good friends all coming up with birthdays on the same day – in just two days, actually.

 

One was a former coworker, another, a neighbor, the next, a retired teacher, and the last, a once-precocious, but very talented teen who soon turns 60. This doesn't even seem possible for this last fellow when looking back some 45 years ago but, in memory's recall, it only seems like yesterday.

 

My relationship with all four is both diverse and interesting. And if all the years of their friendship were all put together, the sum would exceed a century.

 

And with the exception of one, I still have 'em all beat - as far as years on Earth are concerned.

 

But that's beside the more important fact that we all still stay in touch, applaud accomplishments, lend moral support when needed, and remember good times past - just some of the stuff friendships are made of.

 

So, here's to another hundred years, my friends - or so one can dream.

 

Highway 30 and Neil Diamond

Noel Laflin

1-24-25

 

It's the birthday of Neil Diamond, which reminds me of the time a friend and I were driving down Highway 30, just past Running Springs, when Sweet Caroline came blaring through the car radio. I was 16 at the time - my friend with the car, a few years older.

 

We had been stuffing our faces with fresh warm onion/cheese bread we'd picked up at Heidi's Bakery, washing down each delectable mouthful with ice cold Coke when the song was introduced by the DJ and the now familiar chords began to play.

 

The new hit had only been out for less than three months, but everyone knew the lyrics already.

 

Consequently, Jim and I also screamed them out the rolled down windows, putting both food and drink aside momentarily, our hyped-up antics scaring off any deer or squirrels that might have been in our approaching path.

 

One of us kept cranking up the volume. Or, maybe it was both of us.

 

We continued to sing, laugh, and eat all the way to Highland Avenue and into the intense heat of a San Bernardino summer that awaited us below.

 

We'd be returning to the cooler, fresher mountain air the next day, and would hear the song again, no doubt. And that was fine by us, too.

 

Jim's been gone nearly thirty years now, but whenever that song comes on, fresh warm bread, laughter, singing, along with the elusive memory of youth and friendship is never far away.