Forgetting the Trees

Forgetting the Trees

Noel Laflin

8-27-14

Jack Trent came to breakfast one fine August morning looking exhausted.  He nearly missed chow altogether as he was very late.  His uniform was crumpled and his hair in disarray by the time he tried to nonchalantly slide into a table filled with other staff members. There was a wild and distant look about him, which actually wasn’t unusual for Jack lately.  He just looked a bit wilder that day as he absently brushed a few pine needles off his shoulder.

“I dreamed that I forgot to put out all of the trees this morning,” he mused, playing with the rock-hard oatmeal sitting before him.  “I can’t believe that I did that.  Man, were people pissed off.”

I looked out the old dining hall windows just to make certain that the forest was still there. Giant oaks and pines greeted my gaze all across the parade ground.

“Jack,” I began, “everything seems to be in place out there.”

 

“I know,” he hissed, trying valiantly to break apart his cereal.  “I did get most of camp done - got a few outlying areas to finish up though. I just need some calories here to keep me going and then head out to finish the job.  Pass the coffee there, will ya?”

“So, your dream job,” passing the coffee pot over to my friend, “is to put out all of the trees every day before anyone notices?” I chuckled, pushing aside my own cereal and while trying to butter some very cold toast instead.

“Yeah,” he said a little distractedly. ”This dream is starting to hit me every night lately – it’s always the same: take in all the trees each evening and then put them back out the next morning before the campers wake up.  But today I over slept and was suddenly awakened by these kids tapping on my tent, demanding to know where their part of the forest had gone.  They were pretty mad too.  Hey, hand me the sugar, will ya?”

Jack was taking his ecology conservation directorship pretty seriously this summer and I believe it was starting to show.  He’d even recently moved his sleeping quarters just outside the old nature center.  Said it put him closer to the action. But, poor Jack was starting to become a little delusional by my way of thinking. He was just in need of a few nights of good sleep, minus the dreaming I figured.

“Well, Jack,” I said, trying my best to humor him.  “I’m sure you’ll get the job done.  Would sure be tough trying to find our way to Deep Creek today if the woods were all screwed up?  How would we spot the trail markers, huh?”

Jack suddenly looked pained.

“Deep Creek,” he moaned.  “Shoot! I gotta run.”

And with that, the man bolted out of the old mess hall and made a bee line due west.

A group of campers and I missed lunch that day.

It seems we got lost on the way to my favorite swimming hole.  It took forever to find our way there and back.  Half the trail-marked trees seemed to have disappeared overnight.

Behind Drawer Number Four

Behind Drawer Number Four

Noel Laflin

8-25-14

There is an old desk in our bedroom that should have been retired years ago.  But, as I have had it since my childhood - remembering the coloring, scribbling and typing that took place upon its well-worn surface - well, sentimentality always wins out. And thus this relic from my past has followed me wherever I’ve lived - which has been here in this home, for exactly half my life now.  

And, I am glad it has because each time a drawer is opened, a surprise to the olfactory receptors is just a sniff away. It’s a magical desk that can take me far away at the merest tug of an old wooden handle.

When the small top left drawer is pulled opened, for example, I am pleasantly overwhelmed by the smell of incense and a remembrance of the friend who gave it to me long ago. The petite cardboard box is still half-full of small, thick brown logs of “Chandan Dhoop – Highly recommended for all religious ceremonies and social function in Hindu temples, churches, musjids, agairies. Produces very good fragrance.”  The Mysore Sugandhi Dhoop Factory of old Bombay was not wrong in its description.  The fragrance is both heady and exotic.  The smell of sandalwood quickly permeates the room.  I leave the drawer open longer than necessary usually.  I might have been searching for an old magnifying glass or a replacement bulb for the bathroom night light – but, it’s the fragrance of a far off land that I have yet to visit that grabs my attention.  I like to open this drawer frequently.

As the very bottom drawer is the deepest, it holds the most items.  There are small hammers and screwdrivers, garden gloves, extension cords, spare parts for pond pumps and fountain fixtures.  When this heavy, wobbly drawer is opened, it wants to come off its old single wooden track.  But once it is carefully pried loose, scents of the garden – but 20 feet away – spring forth.  There is a united army of musk and mint – pond and bark all fighting to return through the open bedroom sliding glass door and be reunited with their comrades.  These earthy scents do not camouflage themselves very well.  And, they do not care.  They are the four elements, bursting forth to reclaim their small land.  It is a heady, powerful smell.

Move to the third drawer (the widest of them all) and you with encounter faint hints of sulfur, old brittle paper and, the cool refreshing scent of Arizona and Africa.

Books of matches snatched from favorite eateries and saved for three decades provide the senses with a distinct whiff of brimstone.  Hell fire is not part of the equation fortunately - just fond memories of a brother’s former restaurant or sizzling steaks eaten under two-hundred-year-old Trabuco oaks - or perhaps the gastronomically wonderful and seemingly endless buffet aboard a cruise ship bound for Mexico.

Notes from some of my mother’s memoirs remind me of vanilla and almonds.  The memory of her voice is brought back to life by the pleasant reminder of old writing tablets chemically altered to mimic her old spice cabinet.

The bag of small, smooth river stones brought back from the shores of both the Colorado and Zambezi Rivers recall the wet and dusty scent of petrichor, sage and crocodiles.  These last fragrances would be a stretch for anyone other than me.  But, when I open the plastic bag containing those stones so painstakingly selected over the course of thirty years, I merely close my eyes and the scents return, as if by magic – which it clearly is. 

The last drawer holds no secrets of lands either far nor near.  There is no hint of pond or river, croc or reed.  There is only the slightest memory of lemon polish and sixty-year old wood.  At times I swear the ghostly scents of crayons, number two pencils, thick rubber erasers and typing ribbons fight with one another to make themselves known.

I think the desk prefers to keep me anchored to childhood memories at times and thus reserves drawer number four all for itself.  That in itself is magical.

Physics

Physics

Noel Laflin

8-23-14

Scribbled notes and books are scattered across our old dining room table.  I grab one at random and try to decipher its meaning. 

As I am at a loss as to its origin, I consult the one whose handwriting I recognize.

“It’s physics, dad,” my daughter informs me.

“Oh,” I reply lamely.

The last time I had seen this much math spread across the old table was nearly a quarter century ago.  My scribbled equations from way back then were of a simpler form.  But, the math portion of the California Basic Education Skills Test (CBEST), for which I was preparing to take, might as well have been the study of rocket science.  The reading and writing portions of the test did not concern me much.  Heck, I was a journalism major holding a minor degree in English.  However, the math portion was most definitely a worry as I had never gone beyond basic geometry, and that had been some twenty years prior. I barely scraped by with a passing grade, but it was enough at the time.

   

So this accounted for the rubble of crumpled math solutions back in the summer of 1990.  I relearned basic algebra and geometry and ventured fourth into the murky waters of calculus and trigonometry. My study guide flew across the room in fits of frustrated rage on more than one occasion, especially when it came to solving the age old riddle of two trains leaving Baltimore at the same time but traveling at different speeds.  Had the preparation of physics also been on the agenda, I am not sure if I would have survived the summer. I might well have broken another lamp too.

 

However, the kid is on a higher trajectory than the old man ever was as she has spent the better part of this summer preparing for the Medical College Admission Test – simply referred to as MCAT.  It is a worthy objective and one for which the girl is giving it her all.  Our small family unit is rooting for her.  We see the stress she is under, although she tries to hide it.  She would rather reflect a sunny disposition – remaining positive and upbeat even as the test date draws neigh.  There is less than a month to go and much to review obviously.  The single page of physics equations is but a trifle of what she has scribbled down thus far.  What we can’t see is what is being calculated in that beautiful brain of hers as she scrolls through page after page of illuminated text via her ever-present laptop, ear buds firmly wedged in place.  One has to stand close to her and motion, in order to break her attention span.  She is completely absorbed in her study.  It’s going to be a brutal fight to the end.

 

But, I am very proud of her, regardless of the outcome.

And, not once has she thrown the laptop across the room in a frustrated fit of rage. 

The study of physics has taught her that it would break no doubt.

Fill in the Dash

Fill in the Dash

Noel Laflin

August 20, 2014

The speech tournament was a week away, and I was stuck.  I did not have a clue as to what to talk about.  Anxiety and the dread of failure had gotten the better of me. I was fresh out of ideas. 

With every intent of dropping out of the speech team, I went to our advisor late one afternoon after school and broached the subject.

“I don’t have a topic, Mr. Reich,” I stammered.  “You might want to replace me.”

Ed Reich looked at me, pathetically slouched in the classroom chair, and walked to the blackboard.  He picked up a piece of chalk and outlined a crude headstone.

He wrote a name along with two dates, side-by-side, directly beneath it.

“What do you see, Noel?” he asked, dusting the chalk off his hands.

   

“Well, it looks like a tombstone, I guess,” I said, slightly intrigued.

“What else do you see,” he probed.

“Ah, well, a name and dates – year born and died,” I summed up.

“Good.  But, what’s missing?  Forget about epitaphs and Bible verses.  There is something key that I omitted.  Do you see it?”

I looked at the drawing for another second.  It struck me immediately.

“There’s no dash between the dates!” I shouted.  “There’s no small line, Mr. Reich. Every grave marker has that symbol separating the dates.”

“Bingo!” he said, and a wide smile crept across his tired face.  He grabbed the chalk and added the missing piece of the puzzle. He then circled and circled it until the chalk broke in his hand. 

“So, what does that tiny, insignificant little line signify,” he asked, looking me directly in the eye.

“An entire life,” I said, surprising myself.

 

“Right!” he replied.  “That small dash represents an existence - the summation to a life - eventually a symbol that will stand in for all of us.  And to think, it’s all represented by the smallest of lines."  

"How often do we overlook the obvious?" he asked. "How many times do we miss what really counts - as represented by that dash between two dates? You know, Michelangelo once said: ‘I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’  Well, I’m handing you a chisel.”

My ninth grade speech advisor put the chalk back beneath the board, turned and dusted his hands once again. I swear the dust was that of marble.

“Well,” he asked, “do you still want to quit?”

“No,” I replied quietly.  “No way, sir.”

I raised myself from the chair and slowly walked to the door.  There was another anxious student waiting outside hoping to have a word with our coach.

“Heading home?” he asked slyly, while he erased the board. “You'll probably pass the old cemetery down the road, won't you?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, in answer to both questions.  But my head was already spinning with the very idea of that unplanned stop along the way. 

“I’ve got a speech to write," I said, turning to my coach with a smile two miles wide.  

And with that, I dashed out the door.

Sketchy Thoughts

Sketchy Thoughts

Noel Laflin

8-15-14

My daughter likes to doodle. 

She left this particular one sitting next to the downstairs computer years ago. I think she was bored while having to complete some tedious school paper and decided to divert her attention for a minute or two.  She probably did, as I am doing right now, and turn in the old swivel chair and gaze into the garden.  The gentle sound of water softly falling into the three small ponds must have stolen her attention.  I am glad it did as I have always liked what she captured on that small piece of paper that day.  I like it for a few sentimental reasons:

First, it’s a good sketch.  I base this partially on the fact that I can’t even produce credible stick figures.

Secondly, it focuses primarily on our old plum tree.  It's a nice reminder of the garden’s constant evolution as that tree stood for nearly 30 years.  It provided us with a thousand pints of jam, eighteen bottles of wine and yet just one more excuse to go into the garden and pick a gift from mother earth on any given June or July day for nearly three decades.  I gave silent thanks to the tree when I had to finally bring it down.  A newer plum tree was quickly planted not far from where this one once stood. It's growing nicely now.

Thirdly, Krysten included the old log cabin birdhouse, which always sat high in the tree. It was a birthday gift to me, from her, when she was nine or ten.  We spotted it at Michael’s one day while on some school supply run.  She knew my fondness for log cabins and wondered aloud if it might be a suitable birthday present.  I said that I would like nothing better.  She surprised me with two log cabin birdhouses that year – both painstakingly painted by hand.  They each hung high in the trees for years.  I climbed a tall ladder and carefully removed this particular one before sawing down the plum tree.  It nearly crumbled to my touch.  But, the remains of old nests were clearly visible within. 

Lastly, the doodle was done on an old pad of paper bearing the name, address and phone number of a work place now also long gone.  That employer gave me the means to help raise our daughter and a place to share jam, and freshly picked plums with a multitude of friends.  I doubt that Krys realized just how perfect a choice she made when inspiration struck and this note pad was selected to be its simple canvas.  But, I am glad it turned out that way.  And, I am very glad that I have kept it tucked in the corner of the frame holding some old family photos, which sits next to the downstairs computer. 

I look away from the sketch and computer monitor and out into the ever changing garden.  The sound of softly falling water has stolen my attention. I find myself wishing that I could doodle half as well as a girl one third my age.

She is home this weekend for a quick visit.  I am going to ask for a new bird house, should I remember, before she flies away back to school and tedious papers yet to be composed upon her own computer.  My birthday is only a few months away and the younger plum tree looks like it could use some new tenants.

A Smile and a Shoeshine

A Smile and a Shoeshine

Noel Laflin

August 13, 2014

Playwright Arthur Miller wrote four famous lines, three years before I was born.

Now, before you attempt to do the math as to what year that might have been, let me save you the effort and tell you that it was a long time ago.

But despite the fact that they were written concurrent with the Truman Administration, I think that you’ll agree with me that they still hold up.

Listen closely:

“For a salesman, there’s no rock bottom to the life.

He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine.

He’s a man way out there in the blue riding on a smile and a shoeshine.

A salesman is got to dream boy, it comes with the territory.”*

I love those four lines as they so accurately describe the last 38 years of my life.  Although I swore, upon graduation from both high school and later college, that I would never take a job that required the wearing of a suit and tie nor would said job ever be in the field of sales … well, that’s exactly what happened.  I think the gods love irony.

 

Despite all of that, it has been my distinct privilege to have worked in the field of clinical laboratory sales for most of these past four decades.  I have made a lot of friends, learned a thing or two in the world of medicine and persevered in accepting both the highs and lows of trying to make a difference in folks’ lives.  It all came with the territory.

Now, let me let you all in on a little secret: for the longest time I always had this nagging feeling that I was ill-prepared for this profession.  To steal a quote from a former boss, who also admitted freely that he too knew nothing about the lab world when he first started, he’d frequently remind newcomers with the line, “I was so green, I couldn’t even spell CBC.”

Well, that pretty much applied to me for the first twenty years or so.  However, I kept that secret to myself.  Like the protagonist in Miller’s play, I many times left the house riding forth with nothing more than ‘a smile and a shoeshine.’  Anyone in sales knows what I’m talking about.

But, I learned enough to get by.  Over time I grew.  And, given even more time, I found myself eventually instructing new recruits, those who had metaphorically run away from home to join our circus. 

I could never have succeeded in lasting this long had it not been for the people around me, however.  And, I hope you’ll forgive me for quoting a line from a play even older than the last; that would be from “Harvey,” – you know, the one made famous by Jimmy Stewart and his invisible six-foot rabbit friend.  They liked to drink and philosophize together.  It’s pretty endearing.

In that play, and later movie, Elwood P. Dowd - the nicest guy in the world - confides in a psychiatrist with the following advice:  “Years ago my mother used to say to me, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart.  I recommend pleasant.  You may quote me.”

I always tried to make that my mantra when it came to interacting with any of my colleagues, clients, friends or family.  And, if I failed in the simple act of human kindness, day-in or day-out, well, what else would really matter in the long run?

But, it’s now time to close out this long and interesting chapter and move on to the next as retirement is nearly upon me. Although I sampled it – retirement that is – just four years ago, I find that it may really stick this time.  Family and friends tend to think it will suit me just fine - and so do I. To quote a good friend, also recently retired, “I’m going to let the universe be my guide.” Fair enough advice.  But, I remember how the gods do love irony.

Sleeping-in will be a first start.  Getting in some serious writing, reading, photography and garden time is next on the agenda. Visiting a lot of old friends and lending a hand where I can - or deciding to take off at an unplanned moment’s notice just to capture a thunderstorm raging atop Mt. San Jacinto will all be inviting prospects. I intend on sampling all of these and a hundred more.  In addition, there are weddings to officiate, old coins to track down, short and hopefully longer stories to be written, rivers to be run and travels to be made. Who knows what the future holds?  I have no clue for sure. But I am certain of one thing - I will always try to be pleasant while engaged in all of these endeavors.  It aces smart every time.

 

Oh, and I think I finally figured out how to spell CBC.  And, I even guessed the acronym.  If you never knew – (now gather close) - it really means: Civility Beats Cleverness.  And some folks thought it just had something to do with blood counts. 

Many thanks to those of you who helped keep me smiling throughout various stages of this ride ‘way out there in the blue.’ Those friendships continue to be the best commission any old salesman could ask for.  Who knew that it would also come with the territory?

And on that note, I’m definitely going to keep the smile but retire the shoeshine in favor of flip flops and a good pair of hiking boots.

Gotta go now.  There’s a very tall rabbit offering to buy me a drink and philosophize for just a bit.

It would be rude not to accept.

*Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, 1949

Sweating Customs

Sweating Customs

Noel Laflin

8-1-14

The Zambian customs agent flipped through my passport one more time and frowned.

"This is not properly stamped," she said in very precise, crisp English.  "How long have you been in our country and what have you been doing?" she asked accusingly.

I wiped a clammy hand across a sweating brow. I was burning up with fever and just wanted to make this flight home. Otherwise, I'd be stuck in Lusaka for another week. British Air only departed from here every Tuesday.  The flight was already boarding. 

Flipping open some much folded travel itinerary, I spread it across the counter. "I have been on a photo safari for the past ten days," I finally managed to say, wiping a stray bead of moisture about to make a run down my nose, pointing at the documents.

With the sweat glistening across my face, I must have appeared to have been lying. She smiled in cat-like fashion.

"According to the most recent stamp you entered our county fifteen days ago briefly and then departed that same day. How did you come to be here again without another entry noted?  There is clearly no stamp.”

My mind scrambled to do the math.

"Well," I began slowly, "I suppose that was when our river rafting party did cross over, briefly as you say, from Zimbabwe. It was only to resupply. We crossed back over the river that same day in order to complete our trip. I am guessing that my passport was overlooked when they were all being stamped again.”  I spread more documents across the counter regarding the ten-day river rafting expedition.  It was with a well-known, British-based organization.

"So you did not leave our country legally?" she said, leaning over the counter, ignoring the papers spread before her and waving my passport in the air.

"Not intentionally," I said. "It was a day filled with high drama. We had to portage a nasty waterfall, remain deathly still for half the day as we crossed through hippo alley and then save Todd," I pleaded.

"Portage, hippo alley, saving Todd?" she slowly repeated, as if trying to make sense of my rambling. "What do mean by all of this?

Two Americans in line behind me leaned in a little closer.

"This ought to be good," the man said to his wife.

"Well, there was a really tough spot on the Zambezi that is impossible to raft. It's a craggy thirty-foot drop. We had to disassemble all of the rafts and carefully walk them, along with all the gear, around this treacherous obstacle. That was the portage - it started the day."

"Wow," the man behind me said. "How long did that take? he asked.

"If you please, sir," the custom agent in the dark blue uniform scolded, "I will ask the questions here."

She turned to me once again, tugging her dark blue blazer smartly and asked, "How long did this take?"  She looked at the man behind me with an air of smugness.

I gave the matter little thought as I was starting to feel a chill take hold of me. I was definitely ill. It had started two days earlier. I was hoping that all of those malaria pills had truly done their job for the past thirty days. If not, I was in for a rough time.  Hopefully, it was just weariness finally catching up with me.  A few days of sleep – in my own bed at home – ought to cure it, I hoped.

"About two hours," I said.  "Would have been faster but Betty-Lou got wedged between two rocks while carrying the camp latrine bucket. It took us a while to free them both. It was no simple task as Betty-Lou is a big old Texas gal.  With all of the pulling and prying, we lost the lid to the bucket unfortunately.  And let me tell you, old Betty-Lou didn't smell any too great after that episode. It's just a good thing that she fell into the river once we got her unstuck. It cleaned her up considerably."

"Oh my goodness!" the wife behind me gasped. "Was she hurt?  Did she nearly drown?  Did the rapids take her over the falls?"

"Please, Miss," the agent across the counter reprimanded, "I'll do the interrogation."

The slender official, with skin the color of highly polished ebony, leaned in a little closer. She had the brightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen. "What became of the large woman from Texas?" she asked. 

"Well," I continued, “fortunately for her, she was wearing a life vest.  We all were, just in case of a fall-in.  A couple of us scrambled pretty quickly and lent her a hand.  With considerable effort we were able to haul her soggy butt back onto the rocks.  It all ended well - and her with nary a scratch – just a bit of a stench, you know.” 

“Oh, thank heavens!” the wife exclaimed.

“Way to go, kid,” the husband chimed in.

The custom agent cleared her throat, attempting to regain control of the investigation.

“And what precisely is ‘hippo alley?” she enquired.

“That,” I answered, “was a creepy experience.  After the portage we entered a very slow section of the river, totally devoid of rapids.  It was also filled with hundreds of hippos.  The boatmen said we had to be totally silent as we rowed on through.  Seems they, the hippos that is, don’t take kindly to anything baring their way.  They’ll walk across the bottom of the river in order to cross to the other side, you see, and if they notice anything foreign floating above them, they become aggressive.  They are a little near-sighted, I am told – and not too bright either.”

“Did they attack the rafts?” the wife asked, suddenly filled with alarm.

The agent forgave the question apparently and waited for my reply.

“No,” I said, reaching for the checkered bandanna loosely tied about my neck.  I was sweating profusely and starting to wonder when the questions would end.  “We made it through without incident.  But, I would not care to take on one of those guys any time soon - big teeth and all..."

“And, what of this ‘saving of Todd’ business?" asked the agent.  "Can you tell us – rather, tell me, what that means?”

“Well,” I began, after we got past all of those hippos, Todd broke out his kayak and decided to paddle on ahead of us all.  He was the photographer for the trip and was always looking for new stuff to shoot.  He didn’t see the crocodile coming toward him until it was nearly too late.”

“Oh, good lord!” the couple exclaimed in unison. They were now standing to either side of me.

“No, no, it turned out all right,” I said, taking the wife’s hand and gently patting it.  “Todd heard our yells and looked up in time to see that big old reptile making a beeline straight for him.  I am sure, in his pea-brained way of thinking – the croc’s that is - Todd looked to be no more than two feet tall, with his legs stretched out in the kayak and all.  He probably just looked like a nice appetizer to that big old guy.  He had to have been at least fifteen-sixteen feet long.”

“Well, anyway, once Todd caught sight of the crock, he set down that camera and began to paddle like crazy.  He put some quick distance between him and his pursuer, that’s for sure.  But, just when he stopped paddling, thinking he was in the clear, that crock put on the speed once again.  All we could see was a pair of hungry eyes, a snout and a tail barreling down on poor young Todd like a torpedo out of hell. Our yells got Todd’s attention once more and he laid into those paddles pretty damn quick.”

I had to gently un-pry the wife’s grip on my hands.

“I don’t think that Todd would have made it out of that pickle had the rafts not been as close as they were to him.  By the time he zoomed in beside us, so that we could haul both he and the kayak aboard, that crock was nearly upon him – maybe just a foot of two away.  He dived under the raft once he saw the jig was up.  But, it was a close one.  Todd decided he had enough film footage for one day and stayed aboard the raft until we all put ashore to get resupplied.  And that brings us around as to why we’d had a little drama that day and perhaps why my passport was overlooked in the stamping process.”

There was an announcement over the terminal loudspeaker. It was a last call for my flight. 

"So, what do you say," I asked, more than a tad feverish. 

For once the couple standing beside me held their thoughts to themselves    

"This is highly unusual and probably Ill-advised of me," said the no-nonsense lady now holding my fate in her hand. But with the dexterity of one accustomed to the theatrical, she stamped my passport and passed it over. 

"Have a safe journey home," she said with just the hint of a smile. “Next in line please!”

"Thank you," I replied gratefully, grabbing my back pack and duffel bag.The man beside me gave my hand a hearty shake; his wife embraced me. I turned and ran for the gate. 

I slid into the last seat on the plane. It was also in the last row, directly in front of the rear lavatories – cramped, claustrophobic and slightly-reeking coach accommodations. I felt as stuck as Betty-Lou.  It also smelled as if she were not far away.

The thought of dropping into a cool river, despite the peril of crushing falls, hippo alley or hungry crocs, was suddenly quite appealing.

Instead, I fell into a deep, fever-induced sleep.  It was my passport home.

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