Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye
Noel Laflin
12-31-14
As it is New Year's Eve, I shall raise a double toast tonight - and then drink deep to their individual memories.
And thank them both for finding me an ocean away.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye
As it is New Year's Eve, I shall raise a double toast tonight - and then drink deep to their individual memories.
And thank them both for finding me an ocean away.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Solstice Cheer
Solstice Cheer
Noel Laflin
December 21, 2014
I learned the secret to a great solstice punch way back in the summer of 1978. And I've been making it in my kitchen - twice a season - ever since.
The basic ingredients call for apple cider, white grape juice, cinnamon sticks, orange slices, apple slices, allspice and golden raisins - lots and lots of raisins. You just throw all of the above into a large kettle, set the heat on low and let that baby simmer away. If need be you can also throw all of those ingredients into a large coffee maker - you know - the kind that serves fifty cups. Just plug that sucker in and let it perk away.
If it's a tea totaling crowd, you can stop right there and just serve when hot. You'll be the hit of every office and church party from here on out - especially on cold winter days.
But if your intention is to really liven up the crowd, you need to add alcohol - and lot's of it.
A bottle of dark rum along with an equal amount of brandy is good for starters. A dash of Grand Marnier and cognac and even
amaretto have been known to make it into many of my batches. In the old days we used to throw in some kind of forgotten liqueur only obtained in Mexico. It was known to have aphrodisiac qualities. It made for some very interesting parties. The FDA never did allow its import into the United States.
amaretto have been known to make it into many of my batches. In the old days we used to throw in some kind of forgotten liqueur only obtained in Mexico. It was known to have aphrodisiac qualities. It made for some very interesting parties. The FDA never did allow its import into the United States.
Now, in my youth, I would often stuff a large tea ball with marijuana leaves, stems and seeds - letting it dangle in the brew for hours on end. I did not often share this final ingredient with all of
the guests, which frequently included my parents. But my folks,
when present, were always hanging out in the kitchen filling one another's cup with the sacred punch and remarking on its rather addicting taste and mellowing afterglow.
the guests, which frequently included my parents. But my folks,
when present, were always hanging out in the kitchen filling one another's cup with the sacred punch and remarking on its rather addicting taste and mellowing afterglow.
When in his waning years, my father once remarked that he regretted not ever having tried pot. He had always wondered, he lamented aloud, what the fuss was all about. He was in his mid-eighties at the time.
I smiled, turning to my father and said, "Well, let me put your mind to rest about that one, dad."
Cheers and Happy Solstice.
I smiled, turning to my father and said, "Well, let me put your mind to rest about that one, dad."
Cheers and Happy Solstice.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
To This Tale There Is No More
‘To
This Tale There Is No More’
Noel
Laflin
12-3-14
September 1978
There was the usual pre-grumbling as staff quarter
assignments were about to be announced. Since
the summer season was now officially over and the last of the campers and staff
had departed for all points down the hill, it was time to house those staying
over for the winter. The old ranger was prepared for the haranguing he’d be in
for and was ready to compromise when necessary. It had been going on for years
now. It was always a tough job keeping
this lot happy. But here he was – one more time.
“If I can have your attention please,” the man in the khaki
shorts, red jacket, long green socks, dark leather boots and brown Smokey-the-Bear
hat shouted - trying to be heard over the racket in the old tin-roofed mess
hall.
“Bible folks, you’ll be sharing staff cabins one, two
and three again this year. Adam, Eve,
Sampson and Delilah – cabin one. Shadrach,
Meshach and Abednego are in cabin two. Daniel, Satan, Noah and Salome – cabin three.”
“Oh, hell,” moaned Satan, just once I’d like a place of
my own.”
“Quit being such a whiner,” replied the old man, “or
you’re bunking with the lions. Can we
please get on with things now?”
Satan sulked a bit, but held his tongue. Noah and Daniel were not known to be big
partiers, but that dancing girl might liven things up a bit, he thought.
“OK, in cabin four I’ve got Sam McGee, Fabersham, the
sleeping farm boy and John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.”
“I can sleep on a windy night,” the farmer boy
interjected, smiling sheepishly.”
“Yeah, but we won’t,” responded the frozen 49’er from
Lake Labarge,” You snore something awful.”
“Hey, maybe McGee could swap with the ark builder,”
Satan suggested. I can keep those fires
going that he’s been missing so much – it’ll be just like your old barge. What say you, you old cold stiff?”
“Sam, Noah - you want to make the swap?” the man with
the clipboard asked.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Sam. “I ain’t been warm
since I left my home in Plumtree, Tennessee!”
“I’ve got quite a menagerie I’ll be bringing along with
me, if that’s okay with you,” said Noah.
“Fine, fine,” said the man in charge. “Moving along now, we’ve got Mazooki, Gorum,
Motorcycle Bill and Johnny Verbeck in cabin five.”
“I prefer my cave, if it’s all the same to you,” hissed
Mazooki.”
“And, I’d be more comfortable up on Gorgonio,” said the
giant.”
“I’d kinda like the cook’s trailer back,” the drunken
biker slurred.
“Well, that’s just tough,” said the old man. “You’re all staying close in case of an impromptu
campfire some weekend. What kind of an
emcee would I be if your story came up and you were nowhere to be found, huh? And, Bill, the bike and Lloyds' back bar are
off limits. Comprendo?”
The old dead cook got to unsteady feet and headed for the
kitchen. He’d hidden a bottle back there
somewhere in ’69 and he was going to track it down one way or another.
“I miss my cave,” Mazooki lamented. “Got me some tender young bones buried back
there.”
“I’ll make you some fine sausages, my friend,” said the
old Dutchman, trying to calm things down.
“Soon as the wife gets back we'll give that old crank a yank.”
Mazooki nodded his assent and the meeting moved on.
“Okay, I’ve got the football player, cook, sports
announcer and Little Red staying in cabin six,” the man in the mess hall
announced. We good there, TV folks?”
There was no response from the group as they had
already made the move and were busily installing a new antenna on cabin six.
“Right. Well,
that leaves cabin seven.” The old ranger
flipped a page and found what he was looking for.
“So, in cabin seven we’ve got the keen-and-bright paddling
guy, an Indian maiden, Auki-Aukie Oomba, and the walrus.”
“I am the walrus,” crooned the fat mass in the corner hording
a large bowl of stinky fish - flipping several into his mouth and hoping for a
laugh.
“But seriously,” the big guy with the giant whiskers
continued, “tell Auki to leave the spear outside this year, OK? And quit aiming
that gun at me all the time too, Ranger Rick.
It gets on my nerves.”
“Deal,” said the Eskimo boy. But the kayak stays.”
The man in charge hefted an imaginary blunderbuss,
crouched into position and aimed it at the walrus. The big guy in the corner gave him the
flipper. The camp director smiled and resumed to the business at hand.
“Alright, if that’s settled, let’s move on, shall we?”
“In cabin nine – I’ve got Luigi, Crazy U-kum-ber
Conductor, Old Mother Leary and the drunk deacon.”
“First dibs on a bottom bunk,” shouted Luigi. “And maybe
somebody can lend me a hand or two with the move?” he added.
“That crazy kraut has got to promise not to conduct at
night,” insisted Old Mother Leary.
“Ya, dat fine,” responded the German. “But tell dat old voman to turn off dat
cursed lantern and take dat blasted cow outside too den!”
The deacon had no comment whatsoever as he’d already
headed down to cabin nine’s cellar to pray.
As he’d taken his jug with him, he was expected to stay all day.
“Well, okie-dokie then,” said the ranger. That concludes staff hill bunk
assignments. Any questions?”
Satan raised his hand.
“I haven’t seen Mr. ‘Rise and Shine’ Jesus for a while,
boss. What’s up with him anyway? He’s been awfully closed-lipped lately -
acting like he knows something that we don’t. Parading around like he owns the
place or something.”
The old ranger said he didn’t know, but not to worry
about it.
“He’ll show up again, I’m sure.”
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Gathering
The Gathering
Noel Laflin
11-29-14
The old man walked the woods from dawn till dusk - searching, scrapping, digging and
collecting. He had trampled down forgotten trails
and dusty back roads, covering a great deal of territory during those twelve
hours. He had gotten lost on three occasions and sworn in quiet frustration at
least a hundred times throughout his quest. But, he eventually found what he'd
come looking for at every stop - not right away in each case, but eventually,
yes.
As evening fell, he settled into a final resting spot and prepared a simple cold meal. He leaned against a large, familiar looking rock and drank from an ancient canteen, filled with ice cold spring water sampled earlier in the day. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes and dreamed a bit - haunting, lucid visions. The old man heard whispered voices drawing closer. He awoke with a start and glanced about. The place was dark and silent. A blanket of stars had crept into place while he slept providing the only light. It was enough. It's time, he thought.
He took a small trowel from his backpack - the one that had served him so well throughout the day - and began to dig at a darkened spot not far from where he'd dosed. Within a minute, he struck pay dirt. He smiled as he lifted fine shards of dark charred wood from the shallow hole and placed them in a much worn leather pouch. The man set the trowel down and weighed the bag reverently as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He could feel the crunch of brittle wood remains from nine very recent excavations. He set it aside as he made the final preparations.
He hefted eight blackened rocks from the well-worn backpack - these also claimed at each site visited today while digging for ashes of fires past – some were minor, lonely places long gone from any map. Major points of the compass had been covered in his wanderings - all boundaries of the land had been accounted for in his methodical scavenging of former gathering spots; the sites of storytelling and songs, tall tales and fellowship long forgotten by many. But the old man remembered.
He laid, by the aid of starlight, the eight fire-christened rocks in a circle atop the darkened ground. His gaze then fell upon a large, rough, blackened stone a few feet away from where he squatted. Perfect he thought, as he reached and lugged it into place it with the others - completing the ring.
The old man scooped together dried pine needles and kindling, laying it within the small makeshift fire ring. He raised himself stiffly and walked beneath the old familiar trees gathering an armful of dried branches. He tilted them carefully atop the kindling, teepee-style. Eyeing his surroundings, he began to brush away the immediate area about the ring, sweeping it clean of unwanted fuel.
He brushed the dust from his hands and reached into the old backpack one more time, bringing forth a small box of wooden matches. He struck one against the fine sandpaper and watched it flame to life. Shielding it carefully he laid it at the base of the small wooden structure and watched as the flame greedily sought out the dried tinder. The fire took hold within seconds.
As the twigs and larger branches caught on, small sparks wafted into the air. The old man watched them lift, float briefly and die away; he took note that the area was still suitable for a fire, even now. After all, it had been host to thousands of campfires long ago. It had always been a safe, comfortable ravine.
He gazed at the hillside immediately in front of him – a gentle slope where many had once sat, week in and week out – year in and year out – decades upon decades ago. There used to be logs terraced there, he mused- good seats. But no more. They have all rotted or been called away for other uses he thought. It's all right he reasoned - my guests tonight, should they decide to show, will not need the seating.
With that thought in mind, the former Scout reached for the much-worn leather pouch containing the soft, charred wood of communions past – delicate touchstones of nine sacred sites - and untied the rawhide laces.
He gently shook the blackened pieces – created in his youth - into a hand now spotted, scarred, and weathered with age. The old fellow stiffly rose and cupped his hands above the fire. The warmth of the flames gave comfort to arthritic fingers. He shot a glance heavenward and closed his eyes in silent supplication. He opened his hands and let the memories of so long ago fall into the fire.
The forest sighed and stirred; a sudden wind could be heard rushing down the mountain, filling the ravine with scents of alpines high and far away. The stars above moved in closer for a better look. A multitude of faintly glowing eyes peered curiously from behind fir and cedar - rock, pine and ancient oak. Ghostly figures stepped cautiously into the clearing – like legends freshly loosened from a forgotten tale or beloved, longed-for melodies set free once more.
As evening fell, he settled into a final resting spot and prepared a simple cold meal. He leaned against a large, familiar looking rock and drank from an ancient canteen, filled with ice cold spring water sampled earlier in the day. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes and dreamed a bit - haunting, lucid visions. The old man heard whispered voices drawing closer. He awoke with a start and glanced about. The place was dark and silent. A blanket of stars had crept into place while he slept providing the only light. It was enough. It's time, he thought.
He took a small trowel from his backpack - the one that had served him so well throughout the day - and began to dig at a darkened spot not far from where he'd dosed. Within a minute, he struck pay dirt. He smiled as he lifted fine shards of dark charred wood from the shallow hole and placed them in a much worn leather pouch. The man set the trowel down and weighed the bag reverently as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He could feel the crunch of brittle wood remains from nine very recent excavations. He set it aside as he made the final preparations.
He hefted eight blackened rocks from the well-worn backpack - these also claimed at each site visited today while digging for ashes of fires past – some were minor, lonely places long gone from any map. Major points of the compass had been covered in his wanderings - all boundaries of the land had been accounted for in his methodical scavenging of former gathering spots; the sites of storytelling and songs, tall tales and fellowship long forgotten by many. But the old man remembered.
He laid, by the aid of starlight, the eight fire-christened rocks in a circle atop the darkened ground. His gaze then fell upon a large, rough, blackened stone a few feet away from where he squatted. Perfect he thought, as he reached and lugged it into place it with the others - completing the ring.
The old man scooped together dried pine needles and kindling, laying it within the small makeshift fire ring. He raised himself stiffly and walked beneath the old familiar trees gathering an armful of dried branches. He tilted them carefully atop the kindling, teepee-style. Eyeing his surroundings, he began to brush away the immediate area about the ring, sweeping it clean of unwanted fuel.
He brushed the dust from his hands and reached into the old backpack one more time, bringing forth a small box of wooden matches. He struck one against the fine sandpaper and watched it flame to life. Shielding it carefully he laid it at the base of the small wooden structure and watched as the flame greedily sought out the dried tinder. The fire took hold within seconds.
As the twigs and larger branches caught on, small sparks wafted into the air. The old man watched them lift, float briefly and die away; he took note that the area was still suitable for a fire, even now. After all, it had been host to thousands of campfires long ago. It had always been a safe, comfortable ravine.
He gazed at the hillside immediately in front of him – a gentle slope where many had once sat, week in and week out – year in and year out – decades upon decades ago. There used to be logs terraced there, he mused- good seats. But no more. They have all rotted or been called away for other uses he thought. It's all right he reasoned - my guests tonight, should they decide to show, will not need the seating.
With that thought in mind, the former Scout reached for the much-worn leather pouch containing the soft, charred wood of communions past – delicate touchstones of nine sacred sites - and untied the rawhide laces.
He gently shook the blackened pieces – created in his youth - into a hand now spotted, scarred, and weathered with age. The old fellow stiffly rose and cupped his hands above the fire. The warmth of the flames gave comfort to arthritic fingers. He shot a glance heavenward and closed his eyes in silent supplication. He opened his hands and let the memories of so long ago fall into the fire.
The forest sighed and stirred; a sudden wind could be heard rushing down the mountain, filling the ravine with scents of alpines high and far away. The stars above moved in closer for a better look. A multitude of faintly glowing eyes peered curiously from behind fir and cedar - rock, pine and ancient oak. Ghostly figures stepped cautiously into the clearing – like legends freshly loosened from a forgotten tale or beloved, longed-for melodies set free once more.
The old man opened his eyes and smiled.
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