Wednesdays With Wes

Wednesdays With Wes

Noel Laflin

5-7-19

For Paula

When I was a much younger man I would spend Wednesday mornings in Leisure World with old Wes Klusman and his wife, Gertrude. They were wonderful mornings, as Gertrude would whip up pancakes, bacon, eggs, juice, coffee – the works.  In hindsight, as with time spent with my own parents and other beloved elders, the only thing missing was a portable tape recorder.  Oh, Jesus, how I wish I had brought a tape recorder and a pocketful of cassettes.

They was supposed to be working breakfasts between the eighty-year-old volunteer Scouter and the young, cocky professional -  but would, with just a little prodding from me, turn into story time – Wes’ stories about meeting Gertrude as they picked fruit together in the World War I era – their courtship, marriage, the starting of a family; what California was like at that time; how Wes became a shaker and mover of the early national Boy Scout movement taking place in the United States –  what Dan Beard was like - how Wes loved to sing and went on to write the official songbook for the BSA; how he formed a national troop to take to the 1937 World Scout Jamboree in the Netherlands, but scrapped the trip when it was learned that they would be traveling through Germany en route to the event and feared for the well being of one of their Scouts, as he was Jewish.

The stories went on like this for nearly fifty Wednesdays.  Then one warm Sunday morning Wes bent over to tie his shoe laces and died of a massive heart attack before he even hit the carpet of his bedroom.  He was getting ready for church, according to Gertrude.

Not a bad way to go out, I have often thought.

And if I had been thinking back then, I would have brought a tape recorder to every one of those breakfast meetings. I have no recollection of what we spoke of regarding the business end of things, but oh, how I loved the stories. I only wish now that I had the narrative of Wes’ voice – and maybe a song or two – to refresh my memory.

Intoxicating

Intoxicating

Noel Laflin

5-4-19

Mr. Lincoln was laid to rest in Springfield, Illinois on this day in 1865.

I thought of the anniversary as I sprayed water from a forceful nozzle up into the climbing rose bush, a variety also named Mr. Lincoln. It was the name that led me to choose the bare root rose so long ago - as well as the scent. Those blooms, and there are so many right now, are beautifully intoxicating. The water trick is how I cheat at removing spent leaves and blossoms. I could not do that last summer as a hummingbird decided to make a nest at the top of Mr. Lincoln. But since there is no sign of that this spring, the hose was put back in service.

I watched as blood-red petals and rainbow-infused sprays of water rained back down upon both me and the garden.

That rose bush is thirty years old now, and taller than me by twice my height. Heck, it’s even taller than the original Mr. Lincoln himself – and he was a giant among men.

But the treatment was effective in removing brown leaves and spent flowers. And the scent of all those falling blood-red petals was intoxicating.

And there was no hummingbird's home to worry about either.

Anniversaries

Anniversaries

Noel Laflin

5-4-19

It’s the anniversary of the Kent State shootings forty-nine years ago today.

You know how you can recall being in a particular place when hearing bad news? For me, it was a 5th grade classroom when learning of the Kennedy assassination - the teacher left the room mumbling how he'd not voted for the man; standing in the living room when Krysten’s mom calls to tell me to turn on the TV on a September morning in 2001 - Krys was still asleep on the couch; sitting in a chair at work when news of the Challenger disaster broke - I went to my car to listen to the radio and cry; or awaking to my folks staring blankly in front of the old black and white television learning about a man named Sirhan Sirhan in early June of 1968 - it my mother’s birthday that morning.

And so I vividly remember being in my best friend’s living room when the news of Kent State hit the airwaves. I was 17 and Kris was 19. We had grown up just three doors down from one another, shared childhood and adolescence together, and I had seen him in some angry moods before, but never like this. His rage was intense.

I guess we were at an age where we could relate to those kids in Ohio. And although it was not mentioned at the time, I think that my old best friend and I suddenly realized that our childhood was no more.

No Hammer Required

No Hammer Required

Noel Laflin

5-2-19

It's my folks' 77th wedding anniversary.

They married in secret so my mother could keep her job as a teacher.

A month later my father reported to boot camp and did not see my mother again for the next three and a half years.

They corresponded to one another fiendishly (I wonder if they would approve of that adverb... probably) throughout the entire separation and left behind a treasure-trove of letters.

I have mentioned all of this before, but just wanted to let you know, I still have a boatload of reading to do.

It’s sort of like breaking into a piggy bank, pulling out one old penny at a time. As my dad was fond of old coins, he'd like this analogy. And my mother once gave me a nice ceramic piggy bank which I destroyed with a hammer in order to extract the contents. So there is that image too. But give me some slack on that episode as I was only seven, and broke at the time.

In closing, if I may be so bold as to speculate, I will probably be as old as this anniversary date today before I am finished reading all of those letters.

But, I'll be all the richer for the experience, one precious letter at a time. And this time, no hammer required.

Give Me Mr. Webb

Give Me Mr. Webb

Noel Laflin

4-20-19

It was Thornton Wilder’s birthday earlier this week and the anniversary got me to thinking about ‘Our Town'. Actually, I think a lot about Grover’s Corners and its characters as it was probably the first play that I can ever remember seeing. I was twelve years old and pretty impressionable. Fortunately, that first impression has stuck around for the last half century – and then some.

I always thought it would wonderful to be the Stage Manager – but he has a lot of lines to memorize as he plays so many roles. I am certain that I could never memorize so much material. I have a hard enough time trying to remember what day it is, let alone pages of monologue and remembering what character I am supposed to be on stage.

So I decided early on that perhaps I would be Simon Stimson instead – the choir director, church organist, and town drunk. His character is funny, sad, sarcastic, and has many fewer lines to deliver. I thought he stole the show at times and got the biggest laughs. Yeah, he was going to be my guy if the opportunity ever presented itself.

And then I came across this bit by Mr. Webb – Emily's father. I had never paid attention to it before. But it grabbed me today for obvious reasons. He is responding to a question from a lady in the audience when he says:

“Well, ma’am, there ain’t much culture or love of beauty in Grover’s Corners— not in the sense you mean. Come to think of it, there’s some girls that play the piano at High School Commencement; but they ain’t happy about it. No, ma’am, there isn’t much culture; but maybe this is the place to tell you that we’ve got a lot of pleasures of a kind here: we like the sun comin’ up over the mountain in the morning, and we all notice a good deal about the birds. We pay a lot of attention to them. And we watch the change of the seasons; yes, everybody knows about them. But those other things-you’re right, ma’am, -there ain’t much.”

So, when the opportunity comes, I’m now ready to play Mr. Webb. I believe I can speak to the importance of sunrises, birds, and change of seasons. And the icing on the cake? He's editor of the town's newspaper. This former journalism major is definitely ready for this role.

But I think I'd be happiest when he is talking about birds.

Running Amok

Running Amok

Noel Laflin

4-19-20

They ran wild through brambles, trees and creek, bare of shoes (although one wore sandals), muddy, dusty feet barley touching the ground – impervious to rocks and oak leaves sharp.

We crossed paths several times and I marveled at their mothers’ wisdom to just let them be kids as they shouted, cheered, and generally ran amok in the water, muck, and dust - and studied insects great and small.

They carried sticks, climbed rock walls, and waged mock wars.
 
And not a single electronic device could be either seen or heard.

Lazy Man's Photography

Lazy Man’s Photography

or

Cherubs, Chair, Camera, and Coffee
Noel Laflin
4-6-19

I joke with my good friend, Jay Spring, that most folks think that in order to get a decent picture of any kind of wildlife one must first venture into the wild. And that is certainly true for the most part. As it’s getting harder and harder to find actual wild lands nowadays, however, I usually just stick to parks close at hand. God knows I have become a fan of Irvine Park since retiring a few years back. And as it’s only a ten minute drive from where I live in Orange, I am there frequently. It’s also my excuse for getting in a good walk multiple times a week.

But sometimes I have the best luck in getting a fun shot just by wandering the backyard garden, front walkway, or standing on the balcony – camera in one hand, coffee mug in the other.

And from a really lazy perspective, sometimes I get a good shot or two from the comfort of my favorite chair – camera on one side, coffee mug on the other.

When my old mate Tom bought the sleek looking Eames chair some thirty-six years ago, it set him back a considerable sum. But he got a decent discount on the piece as he worked in the furniture department of Robinson's-May as a salesperson at the time.

The chair, along with a new couch – also obtained via the employee discount - were the only two new pieces of furniture purchased for our new condo back in 1983. I did not even own a camera of any sort back then. But there was always a coffee mug at hand sitting by that chair.

The couch bit the dust decades ago, but I still have the Eames chair. And from this chair I have a direct view of our balcony. And on that balcony sits a small cherub bird bath. And to that bird bath come both birds and squirrels. And occasionally I get a shot of them as they perch, drink, or bathe there. It was one of the reasons I shelled out fourteen bucks for those little angels – enticement.

And so the investment of the chair by Tom, so long ago, has definitely paid off, as has the relatively inexpensive one sitting on the balcony. And never once have I confused the coffee mug for the camera. But I bet it’s bound to happen one of these days.