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.