Angels Landing

Angels Landing

Noel Laflin

6-10-14

When it came time for the last half mile assent, only a few boys rose to join us.  Of those, Brian surprised me.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this, kiddo?” I asked, as I surveyed the steep, narrow trail ahead of us.  It seemed to rise at a crazy rate of an angle.

“Yes,” the boy replied shyly.  “I’m sure.”

“Okay, then,” I said, as I tightened my boot laces and cinched my belt one notch more.  “Let’s do this, friends.”

“Jonathan, why don’t you take the lead.  Neal, how about you follow your boy – I don’t know what’s ahead exactly, but it could be a little scary and you should be there to assist him if needed.”

I turned to young Brian next.

 

“How ‘bout you follow Mr. Parsons and I’ll bring up the rear?”

He nodded and took a very deep breath.  I could see the beads of sweat forming across his furrowed brow.  He nervously wiped his palms across his pant leg as he stared up at the massive chain embedded in the side of the mountain, snaking its way up the trail.  He took a long swig of water from his canteen.

“Tom, I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but thanks for keeping an eye on the rest of the kids.  I appreciate your staying behind here.”

“Well,” the beefy cop replied, “No problem there.  I’ve no love of heights and this is as far as I go.  Besides, we’ve got a pretty good view from here.  Be safe!”

He glanced at Brian and then added, “And, good luck too.”

“Later, guys,” I said to the rest of the troop stretched out, like lazy cats sunning themselves on the red clay earth.  The eight kids and the assistant Scoutmaster had made themselves comfortable on the rocky saddle of this monolith we’d been climbing for the past two hours.  This resting spot on the trail was aptly named Scout Lookout.

I got a few nods, but noticed that no one was looking Brian in the eye.  You could feel a blanket of embarrassment on their part, draped across their collective shoulders.

And, on that note, Jonathan, his father, Brian and I took hold of the chain anchored into the red Utah sandstone and took our final steps to reach Angels Landing.

I had clearly thought that my Scouting days were past, prior to my buddy asking me to be part of this trip to Zion National Park during Easter break of 1998. It seems he wanted to take his small troop of kids to this wondrous valley, but needed a tour guide of sorts as he had never been here.  Through our friendship at work, he had come to know that I had been to a fair number of cool spots in the Southwest, including Zion many times, and thus proposed my being a part of this outing.  I thought, “What the hell,” and soon found myself caravanning a carful of kids and camping gear out to one of my favorite places on Earth.

The small troop from Whittier consisted of Neal, Tom (father of one of the Scouts), and nearly a dozen kids. They were a young group, ranging in ages eleven to thirteen. 

The boys were okay overall, with the exception of one immature flaw in the group’s character: they liked to pick on the ‘fat kid’ named Brian.

That became evident from the moment I watched their interaction together as they set up camp that first day.  The teasing was a little mean-spirited, along with the painful fat jokes directed at Brian.  He was not grossly overweight but any means.  He was not obese.  He was just an eleven-year-old boy who was heavier than the rest of them. If you wanted to say that he’d still retained his ‘baby fat,’ I’d grant you that.  It showed in his rounded face and heavier waistline.  He had just not yet grown into the strong young man that no doubt lurked around the corner of his impending adolescence.

But, he had a sweet disposition and did not know how to fight back with his troop mates.  It just was not in his nature.  Brian spent a lot of time alone or hung around Neal’s son, Jonathan, who did not tease him.  I grew to like those two kids immediately.  I was disappointed with the rest for the moment but figured that something would change their behavior eventually - maturity would be good for starters.

Since I was the appointed tour guide, I spread out a map of Zion on the old picnic table after dinner and by lamp light pointed out the highlights of the park to the assembly that night.  It was decided that we’d take on a real challenge the next day by hiking Angel’s Landing, the giant 1488 foot giant pinnacle that jutted high above the valley floor.  Although I had never done the hike myself, I’d been itching to try it for years.  Another buddy from work had spoken of it over lunch one day, years before, saying that he had to crawl the last quarter mile or so due to vertigo.  He had not realized the narrowness of the trail on the last half mile; neither anticipating the thousand foot drop to one side of him nor the eight hundred foot drop on the other side.  But, he was young and brash at the time and was not about to be shamed by his hiking companions’ taunts.  He said it was the greatest outdoor accomplishment of his life.  Not that he’d ever do it again though, he added.

We had fine weather the next day as we rode the park tram to Zion Lodge, departed for the trail head and stared up at the jutting monolith that we would soon be tackling.  It was an impressive sight.  If there were folks already atop the giant, we could not see them – it was that high up.

We soon found ourselves crossing over the Virgin River, via the old footbridge and were grateful to still be on level ground.  That soon changed, however, as the trail began to edge ever upward, taking us through Refrigerator Canyon and eventually to Walter’s Wiggles, a daunting set of twenty-one steep, zig-zagging switchbacks.  They had been the brainchild of the park’s first superintendent back in 1926 and completed by the young men of the CCC’s in the early 1930’s.  They were monotonously exhausting, step after step.  But, they did the trick as it got us up an otherwise near impossible climb. 

Brian brought up the rear, sweating and stopping frequently to drink from his near-empty canteen.  Catcalls from some of the eager-beavers in the lead were occasionally called down to him.  Brian never responded.  I believe he was too winded to do so.  I traded places with him as we plodded up the remaining dozen switch backs.  I could see that the back of his uniform was soaked with sweat as I followed the boy slowly up the red, dusty steps.

The trail continued ever upward, but was still pleasantly wide.  By the time we reached Scout’s Lookout, the view had become impressive; we had climbed nearly a thousand feet and the river and valley floor below had become smaller and farther away with every step.

And, now it was time to see who was willing to climb that last harrowing half mile. 

“No way!” seemed to be the two words most commonly expressed at that point in the juncture. 

Tom admitted to vertigo.  Eight of the kids were adamant about not wanting to chance it, once they saw what lay ahead. They made themselves comfortable on the sandy landing and dug out their lunches.

That’s where Brian surprised us all by stepping forward to join those of us who were intent on making it to the top. 

And that is, coincidentally enough, when his tormentors could no longer look the boy in the eye.

Now, I’ve got to tell you, that last half mile up a very narrow ledge with sheer thousand foot drop-offs to either side of you will get your attention in no time.  The anchored chain was a god-send as it provided much needed hand-holds where there otherwise would have been none.  I don’t think I would have attempted the challenge without the reassuring metal links firmly attached to the rock.  And, as these thoughts were going through my brain, let me tell you what young Brian was thinking.

“Hey, you doing alright, Brian?” I asked a couple of minutes into the climb.  He had stopped to get another drink and catch his breath.

“I’m okay,” he replied, replacing the cap on his canteen.

 

“Why don’t you think the others wanted to come,” he asked a moment later.

“Because they’re scared,” I replied.

 

“I’m terrified,” he said.

“But, here you are nonetheless,” I said.  “Why’s that?”

“It’s because I am scared,” he answered.  “But, I figured this was the best way to get over it.”  And with that, he took another step forward, clasping the heavy chain for all it was worth.

 

I held on to it pretty tightly myself as I glanced over the side of the trail and saw a tiny ribbon of water far below. It was the Virgin River – the creator of this very valley – having carved it out over span of a million years, now meandering peacefully way below.

“Time is a crazy thing,” I said aloud.

“Why is that,” Brian asked, panting slightly and pausing to catch his breath.

“Well, don’t freak out or anything, but look at the river down there.  It seems so small from this height.  But, it was that very river, with the help of glaciers and wind and a whole lot of time that created this beautiful place.  That river - or something like it long ago, was rushing through this land at the very level where we are now.  And, it just kept cruising along – digging and digging out this valley we see today.  But, it took a really long time …”

“Sort of like us today, huh, Mr. Laflin – taking a really long time to get to the top of this sucker?”

“Yeah, sort of like us, Brian.  We are like the river that ‘could.’

And, with that, we pulled ourselves up the last steps and stood on the flattened top of Angels Landing.  The view was magnificent wherever you turned.  We were nearly 1500 feet above the valley floor.  It was just the four of us.

Neal, Jonathan and I shook hands and whooped for joy.

Brian extended his hand as well.  I took it and then pulled him in close.

With my arm around his shoulder, I whispered in his ear, “Never forget this!”

“How could I?” he replied.

 

With that, we broke out our lunch and took in the view for the next half hour.

Upon our return, we let Brian tell the group that stayed behind just what they had missed. 

He did it very politely, of course.  It was not in his nature to be mean spirited.

The fat jokes permanently ended that day.

You'll Be Fine

You’ll Be Fine

Noel Laflin

6-5-14

(Mom’s 99^th Birthday)

The middle-aged man stood at the back of the old church and looked about for familiar faces.  And, yes, he thought, there are a few.  He made his way to a pew near the rear and slid in, seating himself next to an elderly couple.

“Hello pastor,” he said, extending his hand to the slight, well dressed, be-speckled gentleman to his left. 

“Oh, good Lord, look who’s here, dear,” the former pastor said, turning to his wife.  “The prodigal son has returned!”  They all shook hands warmly.

“I saw where you had parked your car,” the man said, winking to pastor’s wife.  I made sure that I parked in the other lot.” 

Pastor’s wife, now in her early eighties, smiled brightly and blushed at the memory.

“I knew you would bring that up,” she replied.  “But I still might find a way to hit it before the day is up!”

It was an old joke between the three of them.  It referred to the time, some forty years prior, when the only two cars in the entire church parking lot had been that of the pastor’s wife and the old Plymouth driven by the young gardener for the church.  Despite the fact that the gardener’s car was the only other vehicle within a mile of her own, she had backed into nonetheless.  There had been no damage – just acute embarrassment on her part.  The young gardener, now not quite so young, had never let her forget the episode.  It had been their opening line to one another for four decades.

 With pleasantries aside, pastor and his wife’s attention were soon diverted elsewhere by other congregants wanting to say hello.  The man took his cue and settled in. He took keys and cell phone from his pockets and placed them beside him on the old cushion.   He relaxed, closed his eyes and said a silent prayer - May the biopsy be negative. 

His recent colonoscopy and the over-due pathology report had been weighing on his mind for several days.  Coming to this place today, the very place where they had said a final goodbye to his mother, oh so long ago – due to colon cancer - had been darkening his thoughts lately. If that were not enough, a friend ten years his junior had just been diagnosed with the insidious disease and was on his fourth round of chemo.  They removed polyps from me once more, the man thought.  I have been lucky in the past, but will it hold out the older I get. I grow weary of this wait.   I just want some good news today.

Coming to again, he took in his surroundings.  I was just here a year ago for another old friend of the family – a fellow who had been a favorite friend of my folks; a man who had brought a smile to my own father’s face in his waning days; a gentleman who had watched me come into my own manhood so long ago. He looked about and spotted his widow.  She was chatting amicably with two other elderly ladies several aisles away.  Old familiar faces, the man thought; there is always comfort in that.

  

He felt the vibration of his phone against his thigh as it lightly danced about the cushion on the old church pew.

The number flashing across the screen was local, but not familiar; there was no name attached. 

“I’m not taking a call during a funeral,” he silently muttered and congratulated himself for having remembered to silence the ringer just moments before. He suddenly recalled how his brother had forgotten to turn off his pager during a funeral some twenty-five years before.  The piercing interruption of that little device should have been enough to wake the dead.  Fortunately it did not.  But, he was not about to test that hypothesis today.

The phone began to dance once again with the same unknown number. 

Christ Almighty! he muttered to himself as he grabbed for the phone.  He looked around guiltily just to make certain that he had not actually uttered the oath aloud.   He could see that the persistent caller finally went to voice mail.  I’ll deal with you later, he mumbled.

The minister stepped forward and welcomed the gathering.  The service was underway.

 

Nearly a hundred folks had joined with the man to pay tribute to a life both long and well-lived.  Jackie was 91 years old at the time of her death; the last original charter member of Lamb of God Lutheran Church.  The old friend of his family had outlived all the other founders of the congregation, the man’s folks included.  She had been a much loved and faithful congregant for fifty-two years.  The man’s sister had alerted him to her passing.  He knew he had to attend.  Jackie and family had been a warm and familiar touchstone to his past.

 

The minister had just directed everyone to page 759 in the old red hymnal, “My Faith Looks Up To Thee.”  Wavering old-lady soprano voices began to rise in pitch and eclipse the more timid among the crowd.  The man closed his eyes and pictured the church choir rehearsal scene from Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town.” In that iconic piece the town drunk and choirmaster, Simon Stimson, lead the choir in “Blest Be The Tie That Binds.”  The man began to hum that tune instead.  It had always been a favorite of his.

It was right there, he thought, casually glancing across the aisle as folks delved into the second verse of the hymn, that I first hinted to my mother that I had lost my faith.  Jesus, that must have been 1970 - I was seventeen.

   

I remember the day so clearly.  I had driven separately that bright Sunday morning.  I found my folks and joined them in that very pew.  The man’s wandering eye now lingered across the aisle as verse three of “My Faith Looks Up To Thee” was taking hold.

We were in the middle of reciting the Apostle’s Creed, that warm lazy day in May, when it struck me - like a thunderclap - that I was in great doubt as to the validity of those ancient words – words I had been repeating aloud with everyone else in the congregation ever since I’d had the ability to speak.  I suddenly felt like the most obvious hypocrite in the world.  And, if it was not obvious to others, it was certainly apparent to God.  I stopped in mid-sentence, turned to my folks and said I had to leave.  My mother nodded and I quickly slipped away.  I walked to my car, lit a cigarette and drove away.  As I blew the smoke out the open window, I wondered aloud at what I had just done.  Was God disappointed?  Had I just failed some major theological test of faith?  Was I damned for walking out of the church of my youth?  I did not know.  But, I stopped believing something that day.

   

The man noticed that the singing had stopped at some point and that a tribute from one of Jackie’s kids was underway.  He listened intently to the words being spoken, the voice of the adult child being held in check – the emotion of the moment.  I’ve been in your shoes, the man thought.  I do not envy your task today.  Saying goodbye to your mother is a gut-wrencher.

He remembered the conversation he had with his mom later that Sunday in May some forty years prior.  He recalled her kindness in particular when he spoke to her of his new-found doubts.

I just don’t know if I believe any of it any more, mom, he told her quietly, leaning both arms against the kitchen sink as she dried a glass and put it in the cupboard.

I mean, how can we Christians claim to own the truth?  What makes us the sole inheritors of heaven?  Why is there ‘life everlasting’ only through the acceptance of Christ – and what makes him the only son of God – or God himself?  I don’t buy it any longer.  Why should good people of any other religion or no religion at all be denied heaven based solely on their not accepting Jesus?  It doesn’t make sense.  God would have to be one mean son of a gun to set such rules in place. It’s not fair.  And, I’m a hypocrite if I stand in any church again and confess otherwise.

The boy’s mother listened to her son and did not interrupt.  She never interrupted, the man thought; it was not in her character.  When he had finally run out of words she looked him in the eye and simply said:

You’ll find your way, son.  You have a good heart.  Take all the time you need to figure things out – that’s why God gave us free will.  Regardless, you are going to be fine.  Now, help me set the table will you please?  It’s Sunday and I’ve got chicken in the oven.

 

And, that was it, the man thought.  Mom knew how to deal with my melt down of faith.  She took it in stride.  She made no mention of my not returning to church thereafter, other than to be a gardener, while I worked my way through that last year of college.  She made no mention of it for the next thirty years.  But, she always knew that I would be fine.  And, she was right.

The service was winding down.  A sermon had been preached, but the man paid little attention to the verses the minister quoted.  The Bible no longer inspired nor scared him, as it once had.  A final song was announced: “How Great Thou Art.”

Ah, he thought, a classic.  Both mom and dad had always liked this one.  It’s almost as good as “Bless Be The Tie That Binds,” he mused.  He did not join in the singing, but he knew the words.  They no longer moved him as they once had in his youth, but they were nicely familiar – in an old comfortable shirt kind of way.  He thought of his mother.

As he had chosen a pew in the rear of the church, he and the retired pastor and his wife were some of the last to leave.  He asked them both if he could take a picture of the two of them and they agreed.  They went out and stood on the lawn that he had once tended during his younger gardener/college days – back when one of the sweetest women on Earth could be so easily forgiven for backing into his car – and he snapped a photo on his phone.

 

As the man headed back into the narthex of the church he was greeted by old friends, one mentioning just how  much  she missed his  mother.  The man knelt down, gently taking her  hand, and gave  thanks  for that sweet sentiment. 

Before making his final exit, the man edited the photo of pastor and  his wife so that he could send it to his sister.  The phone was blinking - reminding him that he had an unheard voice mail.  It was the pesky caller trying to interrupt the funeral.

 

The man stood in the empty chapel and had a listen.

Hello, Mr. Laflin, it’s Patricia from the surgery center.  I just wanted to let you know that we’ve received the results of your biopsy.  It looks good! No cancer cells present  We’ll see you in five years.  Have a great day!

The man stared across the backs of the empty pews and looked at the altar, which had not changed in appearance in more than five decades.

He whispered, thanks, and began to sing aloud – as there was no one present – “Blest Be The Tie That Binds.”  

He continued to sing and think of his mother all the drive home.

He was fine after all.

  

Plum Tired

Plum Tired

Noel Laflin

7-23-13

I am going to have to take down the old Satsuma plum tree soon – and I am not happy about it.

You see, this particular old friend has been providing us with some of the most succulent purple fruit one could ever hope to bite into for the past thirty years.  And, even when summer is laid to rest each year, there’s still the promise of tartly sweet plum jam to get one through successive autumns, winters and springs.  Oh, just bring forth those hot English Muffins smothered with melted butter glistening within every hidden nook & cranny and topped off with a generous spoonful or two of our plum jam!

But there is one other reason that I lament the eventual taking down of this quiet backyard horn-of-plenty; it will erase yet one more touchstone to the past. 

“We should plant two plum trees,” Tom declared, as we labored to till the land of our newly acquired small and rocky backyard.  It was early December – 1983; we had just moved into the new condo in the old Paloma neighborhood in Orange over the long Thanksgiving weekend.

“If we have two trees, we’ll have better chances of pollination,” Tom continued, as we struggled to lift one more heavy rock from the hard-as-clay soil.  In fact, it was hard clay mostly, as I recall.  Tom said that gypsum would help break it down over time.  And like all things related to gardening, he was right about that idea too.

“I suggest we go with two varieties – a Santa Rosa and a Satsuma.  You remember that Satsuma tree in Jim’s backyard?  Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  I’ve never tasted a sweeter plum,” Tom said, as he closed his eyes, wet his lips and clicked his tongue in remembrance.

“Yeah, that was a pretty good plum,” I agreed, leaning hard into the shovel as Tom wedged the pick ax under a massive boulder we were attempting to dislodge from the middle of the yard.

 

“I grew up on Santa Rosas,” I continued, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.  “You can make great jam from Santa Rosas, Tom.  I watched my mother do it for most of my life.  You’ve tasted her jam.  It’s still legendary in my folks’ old neighborhood.  I bought a lot of favors from old neighbors if I showed up with any half pint of my mother’s plum, peach or apricot jam.”  Now, it was my turn to momentarily close my eyes and lick my lips in tribute to the thought.  “Yeah, we’ve got to plant plum trees for sure.” 

And, so we did.  The two trees were in the ground by Christmas.  Within two years we had our first small crop of Satsuma’s and Santa Rosa’s.  The trees were planted within just a few feet of one another and soon entangled their branches high above our heads. The rest of the garden burst forth in bloom under Tom’s green thumb as well. Koi ponds were dug and stocked and thrived under his supervision.  But the two young plum trees were the real treasures as they quickly grew reaching for the sky, producing exponentially year-by-year.

Ten years later, as twilight lingered just long enough, I was planting Tom’s ashes beneath a giant rock that buffeted one of the koi ponds.  The gypsum that he had insisted would help break down the hard clay had done its job apparently, as the digging was easy, even by hand.  Tom had come home to rest in the shade of two stately plum trees.  I had become an expert in the art of jam making by then.

 

Seventeen years later, the old Santa Rosa came to the end of its life and gave me one last crop of small, but tasty fruit.  I savored every one of those edible gems before taking down the gnarled old giant one fall afternoon.  I used a curved hand saw – never having liked the noise and disrespect a chain saw brought with it.  I apologized multiple times to every brittle limb before starting each cut.  I also thanked the tree for the thousands upon thousands of plums it had provided my family and friends for a quarter of a century.  Once the tree was disassembled, piece by painful piece – I went out and bought a new young sapling – a Satsuma - and planted it within feet of the remaining old plum tree of ‘83.  The youngster’s branches now reach for the sky as it too explores the realms of exponential fruit multiplication.

And so, now, I am faced with the sad fact that the last old remaining pioneer must come down, as soon as I harvest this last small crop.  The tree is three quarters dead you see.  The last of the fruit will be easy to gather.  I probably should have taken the old fellow down last fall, but could only bear to saw off a portion of my tired, brittle friend.  Just one more summer I thought; just one more crop.  Let’s make it an even thirty years, I reasoned.  The ghost of Tom nodded in agreement.

I was sampling from a lower limb at twilight just a short while ago and smiled at the familiar first bite – that first tang of sweet and tart that hits one’s taste buds – the taste of summer itself. 

Of Mice and Beans

OF MICE AND BEANS

Noel Laflin

7-10-13

It was early August 1966 and I was on the hunt for at least one more merit badge. 

So, I set my sights on a newly needed round of cloth in order to qualify for the rank of Eagle Scout. It was called Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.

The thin paperback Scout pamphlet spoke of a dozen things I needed to learn about nature and conserving our natural resources, but first led off with the following:

“Experiments and Explanations for the Conservation of Natural Resources Merit Badge.

The Boy Scout must perform one task from each of the following categories.

1. Carry on an experiment examining how organisms respond to environmental changes and discuss the findings with your counselor.

2. Explain how an ecosystem survives in nature.”

Piece of cake, thought I.  There was just one hitch; we were leaving on vacation for Minnesota early the next morning.  How was I going to carry out any nature experiments in the family Ford?

“Why don’t you plant a bean seed in a coffee tin,” my father suggested. “Beans will sprout damn near anywhere as long as you water them and keep that can in the sun as much as possible.  Sun won’t be a problem where we’re headed.  That plant ought to be half a foot tall by the time we get back.  It will make a good story for your counselor as well.”

So it was that a single pinto bean seed in a Folgers coffee can, stuffed with backyard dirt and moistened with Anaheim tap water, was packed with the rest of the luggage in the old Country Squire station wagon.  It had a place of honor atop a suitcase or two so that it could bask in the sunshine of ten different states. 

And, sure as shootin’, my dad was right – the top of the soil began to crack somewhere around Gallop and a curled green sprout announced its arrival close to Minneapolis.  Dang, thought I, beans do grow in the strangest of ecosystems.

I faithfully carried my coffee can from lake shore cabin to suburban St. Paul home to Midwest farm, all the while explaining to grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins as to just what the hell I was doing.  Some marveled at the astonishing rate of growth of said bean plant.  I quoted frequently from my Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge booklet, trying to sound important.  Grandparents, elderly aunts and uncles looked impressed, for the most part.  My farm-raised cousins were not; as they had seen a million kernels of corn perform the same trick in their daddy’s fields year after year.

By the end of our week long stay in the land of ten thousand lakes, the bean plant stood at least four inches high; my father had predicted that kind of growth.  As I had also read my merit badge pamphlet from cover to cover at least a dozen times, I knew I was ready to ace whatever questions the counselor might quiz me on once we were home.  And so, home we headed.

My father drove all the way to Jackson Hole, Wyoming that day.  We had brought camping gear and decided to rough it that evening at the base of the Tetons.  It was downright frigid by the time we had cooked supper and zipped ourselves into the family tent.

Come Sunday morning, we saw exactly just how cold it had gotten as frost covered everything.  We shivered in our summer shorts and tee-shirts waiting for the sun to break over the mountains as we ate breakfast and then broke camp.  My dad wanted an early start as he had to be at work Monday and intended to make the eight hundred mile drive in one stint.  

My father tossed me the keys to the car and told me to start making room for the gear.  The Ford gleamed with frost.  I lifted the back window and laid down the tailgate.  And, then I saw it.  My plant had died of frostbite.  The once proud, green bean pole was now ashen grey and drooped over the lip of the Folgers’s can.  It was a sad sight indeed to see what this unexpected environmental change had brought about.

“Just one more story for the counselor,” my dad noted as we hauled the tent, camp stove, sleeping bags and air mattresses into the back of our portable lab on wheels.  I tucked the coffee can in a corner and figured I would deal with explanations later.

I suppose it was somewhere in Utah when my father and I heard the screams coming from the back seat where my mother and sister had been drowsing in the mid afternoon sun.

“It’s a mouse!” they cried in unison, scrambling about the old bench seat, trying valiantly to keep their feet from touching the floorboard.  I caught sight of a fleeting flash of grey as the critter jumped the back seat and secreted himself away with all the luggage piled high behind us.

Yup, it was a mouse alright, I confided to my dad as he continued to speed down the Beehive highway.  “Looks like we must have packed him away with the gear this morning."
  
"He’s just a little field mouse," I said, turning to face my mom. "Nothing to be frightened of," I continued.  "He’s probably scared to death being trapped in here with us.  Kind of a cool stowaway, don’t you think?” 

Neither my mother nor my sister took much comfort in my keen observation.  And all the coaxing and luggage rearranging performed at our next brief rest stop could neither discover nor dislodge our tiny hitchhiker.  So, my dad drove on into the late afternoon sun where the heat of Nevada soon greeted us.

By the time we made Baker it was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening.  My father pulled off the highway for one last gas fill-up, quick bite to eat and bathroom break.  As we all opened the four doors of the old Ford I noticed a flash of grey leap out of the rear passenger’s side and hit the hot gravel of the parking lot.  The mouse had seen his chance and pounced.

I have often wondered what he thought as he raced across the desert.  He had been born and raised in the cool shade of the snow capped Tetons and suddenly found himself in hell.  Despite the time of night, it was still a hundred and five degrees outside. 

“Welcome to Baker,” I cried out.  “It’s the Gateway to Death Valley you know.”  With that I closed the car doors and followed my family into the small café attached to the filling station.  The rush of air conditioned air never felt so welcome.  If the mouse was smart, I thought, he would eventually make this discovery of his own. 

The discovery that we all made when we finally pulled into our own driveway three hours later was that the bean plant – frost bit and all – was no more.  It seems that the mouse had had it for dinner. 

“Now, this ought to make a good story for your counselor,” my dad chuckled as he handed me the barren coffee can.  “Help me haul this stuff out of here so we can get to bed.  I’ve got to be at work in a few hours.”

Two days later I found myself sitting opposite from Art Gray, my designated counselor for the Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.  I had in hand an old Folgers coffee can with a quarter inch stub of something dead poking out of the caked dirt within.

“So, what the heck is that Noel?”

“ Mr. Gray - you know how organisms are supposed to respond to environmental changes and how an ecosystem survives in nature?” I stammered.

“Yes,” he said as he leaned forward to get a better look at my coffee can.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty good story that ought to drive the point home.”

Fizzled Out

Fizzled Out

Noel Laflin

July 1, 2013

(Adapted from “Ahwahnee Hit Parade of ‘68”)

It was a spirited, rollicking and fairly patriotic campfire we put on that July 4^th night, back in 1968.  And, it was at the end of said festivities that our intrepid program director proposed that we all follow him up the Red Trail to Superstition Peak, grab a rock for a chair and await the splendid fireworks traditionally launched over Lake Arrowhead.  He assured us that the spectacular show would commence at precisely nine that evening.  And, like believing children following the pied piper, all of Camp Ahwahnee emptied and trailed the man out of the fire arena, crossed the highway and up the steep switchbacks, searching out red florescent trail markers from many an old tree stump and painted boulder.

It looked like a scene from an old Frankenstein movie - you know the part where the villagers are approaching the old castle with torches ablaze.  Well, our torches were merely flashlights and it was hardly a castle we were storming - just the top of old Superstition Peak, which loomed a good eight hundred feet above camp. But it would have the greatest view in the entire area of the fireworks, or so our guide said.  And so we continued up the dark, dusty trail - all two hundred of us.

We eventually made it to the top with a good twenty minutes to spare before the polytechnics would begin.  So, kids scrambled for a piece of granite, stared intently toward the arrowhead-shaped lake far off in the distance and waited impatiently for the show to start. 

Nine o’clock came and went - and we still waited. 

Maybe the time had been moved to nine-thirty or ten, the program director advised us. So we waited some more. 

Once ten o’clock had come and gone, so were we. There were no fireworks that evening.  Turned out, we were to learn later, that they had been shot off the night before – or perhaps it was to be the night after - who knows?  For whatever reason, Arrowhead was on a different schedule from the rest of the nation.  Meanwhile, two hundred disgruntled young men trudged down the mountain, leaving just one guy still staring in disbelief at the darkened lake far below.

That one guy sheepishly came to breakfast the next morning sporting a handmade fake mustache and bearing a new identity via his staff name badge.  He insisted that we call him Rudy Begonia – a visiting international Scout from Italy.  He deftly took a seat in the old mess hall, grabbed a bowl of Cheerios and nonchalantly asked, “Hey! How-a-bout-a those Dodgers, huh?”

Disguise, banal banter and name change aside, our intrepid leader was quietly encircled by a score of outstretched hands and unceremoniously carried to the pool – into which he was promptly tossed. 

When the cheering was done, two hundred Scouts triumphantly returned to their seats in the old mess hall in order to finish their breakfast.

The new guy from Italy, along with a limply floating fake mustache, and altered name badge, had the pool all to himself.

Echoing laughter from the mess hall rebounded off the old mountain peak looming high above.

            

Star Witness

Star Witness

6-22-13

Noel Laflin

It was a last minute trip as I recall.  But then again, it was some forty four years ago.  We had driven up Highway 395 late one Friday night and swung into Death Valley from the Western entrance.  Dog tired from the long trip, we chose the first opportunity to pull off the road and roll out the sleeping bags.  It was well past one in the morning.

As the night was mild, we lay atop our bedrolls and sank into the blissful comfort of a large sand dune we had staked out as our own private mountain retreat.

There was neither moon nor artificial city light by which to dim the starry illumination all about us. As Death Valley stretches across such a low elevation, the sky above was truly dark.  Consequently, I have never seen so many celestial twinkling lights spread out across our universe.  The Milky Way never seemed so vast and yet so intimate.  We talked quietly among ourselves commenting on our good fortune of being the only ones out here to catch such a night - such a sight.  And, as the four of us gazed upward with arms behind our heads, lined up as we were atop our soft sandy mattress, the shooting star spectacular commenced. 

“Whoa…did you see that one!” a Scout cried out, bolting upright with excitement.

“There’s another one,” said lad number two.  “It just streaked the entire sky!”

“And there’s another,” whispered a third voice. 

“Two at the same time!” the last kid exclaimed.

So it began and so it continued for the next two hours as hundreds of bits of rock and dust entered our atmosphere at a gazillion miles an hour, burning their way across our vast field of view, zipping their way into eventual pulverization.   It occurred to the sixteen-year-old boy who drifted off to sleep atop that sand dune that the spectacle was in the witnessing.  He had never seen a darker sky nor counted a night so filled with speeding light.

The sixty-year-old man of today still marvels at the memory.

He thanks his young witness.

 

Our Town Remembers: Welcoming remarks for tribute to Jack Schlatter

June 1, 2013 - Knott's Berry Farm Banquet Hall

GOOD EVENING, GOOD EVENING, GOOD EVENING!

     MY NAME IS NOEL LAFLIN AND IT IS BOTH MY HONOR AND PRIVILEGE TO START THINGS TONIGHT BY FIRST WELCOMING ONE AND ALL – BOYS AND GIRLS – YOUNG AND OLD - FORMER STUDENT OR FRIEND – SPOUSE, PARENT, CHILD, SIBLING OR SIGNIFICANT OTHER PERHAPS GENTLY BRIBED HERE TONIGHT WITH THE PROMISE OF A CHICKEN DINNER.  AND IF YOU WERE NOT ACQUAINTED WITH THE GUEST OF HONOR BEFORE THIS EVENING – I GUARANTEE THAT YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO CALL HIM FRIEND BY THE CONCLUSION OF THESE FESTIVITIES!  

    

      You know, if Motel the tailor (of “Fiddler on the Roof” fame) had only been a student of a certain man, for whom we pay tribute to tonight – well, there just might have been some tweaking to one of his verses.  And it might have gone something like this:

“Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles!

God took a student by the hand.

Turned him around and miracle of miracles,

 Led him to Jack Schlatterland!”

     Now, my own expedition into Schlatterland happened in the following fashion:

      You see, I was a scared, lanky, twelve-year-old when I chose my desk in seventh-grade American History class.  I looked about the classroom; signs of all sizes adorned the four walls: "When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going!” - "The Difficult We Do Immediately.  The Impossible Takes A Little Longer.”   

      "This is American History?" I mused.  I checked my class schedule again.

     The final bell rang and latecomers raced for unoccupied desks as we awaited adult tutelage.

     Suddenly the door burst open and a man, slightly disheveled in appearance, bound into our midst.  His thinning hair was askew, as was his narrow tie.  Black suit and white dress shirt were each in need of a press & tuck, respectively.  His boyish face radiated warmth and confidence.  Mischief flickered in his eyes.  "Welcome to Sycamore Junior High School.  My name is Jack Schlatter.  Is this history or drama?"

     He checked his own desk schedule, then winked.

     You see, Jack Schlatter drew people to his side, like moths to a flame.  I soon took every class he taught; speech, drama, summer school theater workshop.  I sought membership into one of the school clubs when I learned that he was the faculty advisor.  I was not alone.  On any given night one could walk down our school halls by just following the heady pipe aroma and find students, parents or faculty lingering outside his classroom spying on drama rehearsal for "Our Town,” "The Miracle Worker" or "Anne Frank.”  If we couldn't be part of the cast we'd volunteer for any related job, just to be around this man's energy.  He was tough but giving.  He was the most positive individual I had ever met.  When reverse mysteriously gave out on the transmission of his car, he merely said it was a reminder for him to always go forward, think ahead, never retreat, never be in a position of having to back up.  I don't think he ever fixed the problem with that car.  Because, as he so rightly reminded all of us, it was not a problem – but rather an opportunity.  But, hey, we were only fourteen years old so we believed him. 

     As Thornton Wilder’s stage manger so famously asks  in Our Town:

     “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?”

     Well, if they had ever had the privilege of being taught by the likes of you, Jack Schlatter, they probably just might have.

     Before I conclude, and pass along the proverbial baton to others, I need to first extend some kudos to a few folks who helped put this event together.  First and foremost, as she is far too modest to make it known publicly, we need to thank Toni Encheff, who initially approached me with the idea of creating this tribute.  Quite simply put, without her gentle persistence we would not be here this evening.  Pulled quickly into our conspiracy was Rosalie Schooler Smith and her daughter Amy.  Also joining in the fun were Carol Blackwood This, Marjie Blevins, Mark Till, Pamla Manzar (for the wonderful individual chocolates and place settings), Bill Beville,  Roxanne and Dave Hill as well as Melody Encheff.  We need to thank Danelle Till who worked from afar via the Our Town Remembers Face book page posting daily quotes for two months.   Additionally, there are a couple of young men with video cameras who have been roaming the room capturing the antics of many tonight.  Thank you, David (of Sonora High School) for volunteering at the last minute – or should I say thank you Marjie for bringing David to our attention.  And thank you Charles for being here at the last minute to film as well.  And for all the other unsung heroes who made the trek from afar – and that would include the Philippines, Alaska, Oregon, Northern California, etc. - just to be here tonight – THANK YOU!  THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

     Thus, like some of Jack’s magic pebbles or wonderful gifts found by the side of this road we mutually traveled just to be here tonight, the rekindled as well as newly made friendships turned into unexpected diamonds.

     So, why, you might ask have we gathered here this fine evening?

     I think that storyteller, Ray Bradbury, may have summed it up best when he read aloud the note that he’d written to himself and hidden away until rediscovered some forty years later in the poem ‘Remembrance’:

“Knowing (and I quote) one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small and fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.

What did it say (this note) that made me weep?

(it said)

I remember you.
I remember you.”

     You weren't fully aware of this production, till now, dear teacher.  But here's my belated report.  Your words and teachings still resound.  The teenage boy and middle-aged man have finally met.  Drama is reality after all.  Thank you for the unexpected gift.