Owed to KENO

Owed to KENO

Noel Laflin

12-19-15

KENO is a game of chance
Where numbers flash 
And red squares dance. 
Place 'em high, 
Hide 'em low,
Hold your breath, 
And start the show. 
But Lady Luck can be quite fickle,
As I've lost another nickel.

Christmas in August

Christmas in August

Noel Laflin

12-14-15

 An impromptu Christmas in August gathering at Green Valley Lake, 8-2-15

Sometime in the early 1970’s, the traditional end of the year staff party switched from being a date night with girlfriends, held in the cozy old Scoutmaster’s lounge, to a Christmas in August themed affair in the mess hall – just for staff.

The heretofore parties marking the end of camp, the buttoning down for the off-season, and the final farewells to old and new friends alike took on a distinctively differ feeling with the change in venue – a change that I was grateful for as I never had a girlfriend to invite to camp anyway.

In the old days, the lounge was hastily cleaned and a stack of firewood was laid within the ancient stone fireplace.  The soda machine was moved from the trading post and placed beneath the covered patio; the drinks were free.

Girlfriends or wives would begin to show up about the time guys were still fighting over the single sink and mirror in the old head on staff hill - trying to get in a last minute shave or tame a troublesome cowlick.

Meanwhile, Fred La Velle wondered if his invited date, Trisha Nixon, would show for the party in 1969.

She did not unfortunately.  Just as well, as all of those Secret Service fellows would have put a damper on couples attempting to take a stroll in the woods no doubt.

Tommy James and the Shondells, The Animals, Herman’s Hermits, and The Beach Boys could be heard coming from someone’s reel-to-reel, now moved into the old lounge – the beat-up furniture having been pushed up against the pale white walls so a small dance floor could be had in front of an inviting fire.

And those of us without girlfriends would shyly make our way to the soda machine, maybe take a peek inside where couples danced, and eventually slink away to the pool steps and hold council amongst ourselves – retelling favorite anecdotes from the summer, sneaking in a smoke or two, and being content with a cool summer night, bright stars above, and thoughts of the long drive home in the morning.

All of this changed, however, when someone had the idea of making the year-end gathering a Christmas party; the rationale being that we were a family bereft of actually gathering together in December, so why not do it early – Christmas in August, as it became known.  I am pretty certain that it was Gene Bergner’s idea.

And so the mess hall was decked out with fresh cut boughs of evergreens, and a perfect young white fir selected and then sacrificed to be our fully decorated Christmas tree. A fire was laid in the fireplace and Christmas tunes emanated from someone's borrowed stereo or eight track.

The cooks and kitchen staff labored all day with the food preparations.  Turkeys were roasted, drippings saved and thickened into gravy, potatoes peeled then mashed, day old bread turned into stuffing, cranberries cooked, pumpkin pies baked.

There was a feast, followed by awards for some, presents for all, and testimonials from many.

By the end of the night we said our last goodbyes and headed out into the cool mountain air, thinking about the long drive home in the morning.

The party theme may have morphed over the decades, but the final thoughts of camp rarely did. 

The Christmas Call

The Christmas Call

Noel Laflin

12-14-15

Each year our elderly neighbors from two doors down the street would join us on Christmas Day - but not until they had first spoken, or attempted to speak, to their nieces and nephews in East Germany. It was a hit or miss scenario every year as the few lines into communist-held land were jam packed with folks from across the globe, as well as Germans living but a kilometer away in the West, desperately trying to get through to family trapped in Eastern provinces - especially on Christmas Day.

Whether the Christmas call was successful or not, there were always tears afterwards; tears of joy or sadness, tears of loneliness or guilt, tears of missing family so very far away.

And although I was just a kid, I understood those tears streaming across the cheeks of these two beloved neighbors when they did eventually shuffle down the street and join us for festivities in our home.  If they arrived early in the day, we knew the call had been successful.  If they put in a later appearance - well, it was best not to ask, but to merely make sure that there was plenty of wine and schnapps on hand - and see to it that their glasses were never empty. 

Not Forgotten

Not Forgotten

Noel Laflin

December 1, 2015

On this, the 28th anniversary of the World AIDS Day Observance:

Why I lived, while so many others did not –
I will never know for certain.
Is there survivor's guilt, you ask.
Yes. 
But I have tried to replace it - over time - with fond remembrance,
As I am here to still bear witness, a quarter of a century later,
That they indeed did live and breathe,
Love, contribute, care and create -
If only, for a limited life engagement.
So here’s to the memory of Tom, Jeremy, Rick, David, John, 
Lane, Doug, Jerry, Jim ...
And oh, so many more to recall.
But you all live in memory lads - you are not forgotten.

"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 
Under my head till morning; but the rain 
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh 
Upon the glass and listen for reply, 
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain 
For unremembered lads that not again 
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. 
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, 
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, 
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: 
I cannot say what loves have come and gone, 
I only know that summer sang in me 
A little while, that in me sings no more."
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Strange Loot - Naked Truth

Strange Loot - Naked Truth

Noel Laflin

11-29-15

When my dad returned from the war in Europe seventy years ago, he brought home some unsavory mementos. 

As a kid I was fascinated with both the German Luger as well as the shiny S.S. dagger in its fancy case. We were only allowed to examine these weapons under his supervision, even though there were no bullets in the handgun. But that very long sharp knife could have done some real damage if mishandled. 

There was a German helmet that he did allow us to manhandle. I can still feel its heavy weight on my young head when we played our neighborhood war games. Losers always had to be the Germans of course. 

There was a chunk of marble that made its way home from Adolf Hitler's fireplace in Berchtesgaden and a chrome-plated hook that held a toilet bowl brush in Herman Goering's private bathroom. It, along with the piece of fireplace marble, was liberated by my father when he and his company were allowed to pillage the village.  All of the really interesting souvenirs had already been looted by other G.I.'s, according to my dad. Everyone had overlooked the toilet bowl brush holder, however. But my inquisitive father spotted it behind the porcelain throne that once bore the weight of a very fat man's ass, and with the aid of an army knife loosened and pocketed the strange keepsake. 

Over the course of seven decades, the gun and dagger were either given away or sold off apparently. This is just as well, I suppose. The chunk of marble and helmet have been mislaid or lost as well. 

All that remains is the chrome-plated toilet bowl brush hook. It was always in my possession as my father had put it on the back of the closet door in my bedroom when I was a kid.  I used to hang my pajamas on it. As I grew old enough to understand such things, he told me of its origin. I went to the library and looked up Hitler's second in command. I shuddered as I read his biography and ultimate demise. 

I removed the hook from the back of the door shortly thereafter and stopped wearing pajamas altogether from that day on.

Where are the Bedrooms?

Where are the Bedrooms?

Noel Laflin

Thanksgiving Day, 2015

When I first entered the house that would eventually become my home for the next three decades, I was confused.

As I stood with hand upon a stair rail - the steps leading downward - and scanned the open floor plan of a high-vaulted living room, dining room, and kitchen, I wondered aloud where the bedrooms were.

It was quickly pointed out to me that the stair rail, upon which my hand rested, might be a clue. 

I have never claimed to be too bright.

But I figured it out pretty quickly after that – this was an upside down house – not in the sense of a messed up mortgage – just the layout of the place.

And I loved it.

Said I’d take it, on the spot.

Been here ever since the move in day, that week of Thanksgiving, 1983.

Now, the great advantage of living in an upside down home, especially in the grip of any hot summer, is the cooler night air that flows off the garden and into the bedrooms sitting below grade.  It’s a constant twelve degrees cooler as a matter of fact.  This usually means a fine night’s sleep. Maybe the feather comforter is drawn just a bit more snugly in the winter, of course, but as the summers continue to warm each year, I’ll take the trade off any day.

Besides, after thirty years, the place is paid for.

And that’s an upside to an upside down house on any level.

Bell Ringing

Bell Ringing

Noel Laflin

11-15-15

Gladis and Gene Bergner

There was a tradition at the old Scout office on Bear Street, way back in the 1970’s, of ringing a rather large, loud bell when a new Cub pack, Scout troop, or Explorer post was formed.

When that bell sounded, folks stopped what they were doing and went on over to congratulate the guy responsible for making all the noise.

Numbers were important to professional Scouting, as it ensured gainful employment.  The ringing of that bell signified further job security as a new pack, troop, or post meant new members, which then meant matching funds from the United Way, which ultimately meant the continuation of our council and the professionals keeping their jobs.  Hearing that bell ring for the first time in the fall of 1976 was my first life lesson in Sales 101: you wanted to be the guy ringing it on a fairly regular basis.

But the best memory of that clapper striking metal happened the morning after Gene and Gladis Bergner came to town and lent me a hand in the formation of a new Cub Scout Pack.  You can always count on Ahwahnee folk to get a job done right.
 

It wasn’t planned – but that’s the joy and surprise in happenstance - that, and a bottle of cheap wine.

You see, prior to meeting of a room full of squirrely eight and nine-year-olds later that evening, the Bergners had dinner at my apartment.  I have no idea what I prepared, but there was wine - I do remember the cheap wine.  And Gene and I had just a bit too much.

Now, I had not planned on asking my old friend to accompany me to the meeting, but he jumped at the chance when he learned that there was an audience involved.

 

“Do you think they’d like the Walrus Hunt song?” Gene asked excitedly.

“Most definitely, boss,” I replied.

“Great!” Gene shouted.  “Let’s go!”

The only problem was, he and I were too impaired to drive.

I was about to phone one of the district volunteers, informing them that they'd be on their on for this meeting, when Gladis - bless her heart - kindly spoke up and offered to chauffeur.

So, off we changed – Gene was always prepared as there was a spare uniform in their camper – and Gladis drove us to the meeting.

Now, I had done all of the needed preliminaries for this hoped-for Cub pack that would be sponsored by an elementary school in Lake Forest.  I had spoken to all of the second, third and fourth grade classes the day prior, and handed out fliers to every boy in every classroom.  The fliers were addressed to the parents, urging them to come to a meeting at the school on Wednesday night and learn about Cub Scouting.  It was the standard drill.  There were meetings like this at nearly every elementary school across the country, throughout the fall, as this was the primary time for number crunching and hitting your membership goals.

Well, folks turned out that night. And, as many of you well know, if you put Gene in front of any curious crowd, he’s going to win them over – Walrus Hunt song or not.  And that night, nearly forty years ago, was no different.

The folks of Lake Forest loved the song, by the way.

 

By the end of the evening we had a cub master, two assistants, committee members, four den leaders and forty-five kids signed up as Cub Scouts in this brand new pack.  There were even calls from the audience for Gene to be the cub master.  I thought he was going to accept at one point, until I reminded him that he lived a hundred miles away.  He then politely declined the proposed draft and went on with the jovial dog-and-pony show.

The ringing of the bell the next morning, despite the slight hangover, was music to my ears and a memory that I cherish.

The President's Back

The President’s Back

Noel Laflin

11-12-15

JFK in Salt Lake City September 26, 1963

My old friend, Bill, once told me a story about the time he was tasked with presidential guard duty for John F. Kennedy.

“I was so close I could have touched the man,” Bill recalled.  “But it would only have been his shoes, or maybe an ankle at most, had I been so inclined to reach out to him,” he concluded, a twinkle in his eye.

Bill was a cop in Salt Lake City when the president came to town in late September of 1963; his assigned area of patrol was the inside of the podium from which Kennedy addressed the assemblage.

“So, the podium was on a raised stage and curtained all around,” Bill outlined, “and my perch of concealment was standing beneath that platform with just my head sticking through a large square hole in the floor of the stage, which was hidden by the lectern.  My job was to keep an eye on the president’s back.  And although I had a good view of the dignitaries sitting behind him, as well as many of the folks in the balcony above, all I could see of the man himself were the pant legs of his suit and his shoes.  He had shiny black shoes,” Bill said with a smile.

“He spoke for about twenty minutes,” Bill continued, “and during all that time I did my job keeping a lookout for any bad guys who might have wanted to do any harm from behind.  I had his back!” he proclaimed with pride.

“But during that time,” Bill said with a wicked smile, “I kept toying with the idea of just how easy it would be to reach out and gently undo his shoelaces and then retie two of them - each to the opposite shoe.”

Bill paused at this point in the story and took a drag on his cigarette – the mischievous smile was suddenly gone.

“He went to Dallas two months later, of course,” Bill resumed, clearing his throat loudly, trying to hide the crack in his voice.

“I only wish there’d been a podium in that limo with a cop hiding at the base – just keeping an eye out for the bad guys.”

No Forwarding Address

No Forwarding Address

Noel Laflin

11-2-15

I met Rudy, a self-proclaimed man of the rails, after tripping over him late one Friday night nearly forty years ago.

It was not intentional - the tripping over of him, that is.  It’s just that I did not expect a man wrapped in a blanket to be sprawled out on our darkened hallway floor at two in the morning.

Turns out that he was the brother of my roommate and had shown up quite unexpectedly while I was out carousing that evening.

Had I known of Rudy’s arrival and penchant for sleeping in darkened alcoves, I would have turned on the hallway light when I returned home and we could have met under better circumstances.

As it was, we became friends nonetheless.  I was enthralled with the man and his stories of cross country boxcar travel, scrapes with modern day railroad ‘bulls,’ law enforcement infractions, hobo-encampments, and quiet panhandling.  The man with the shaggy brown head of hair and matching unkempt beard bore an uncanny resemblance to the Zig-Zag Man; although it may have been too much acid that had led to his current state of mind and means of travel.  Regardless, he had been riding the rails in transcontinental fashion for years now, and had no immediate plans of settling down in any one location any time soon.

But, as he eventually found himself in close proximity to his one and only brother on the most recent excursion to the Southland, he thought he’d pay him a visit and get caught up on family matters.

That is what brought Rudy to our door.

He only stayed for a couple of days, but it gave us a chance to fatten him up a bit and provide him with a couple of showers and a nice hallway floor upon which to sleep. Rudy was a gentle soul and grateful for the hospitality.

But he was restless too and was soon upon his way.

I never saw him again.  But we did receive a thank you letter written upon a small, tattered, brown paper bag a few months later.  It was postmarked from Calgary, Canada.

Rudy said he’d bummed a stamp from someone and a piece of tape from another so that he could seal the letter.  Said he was doing fine and that trip up north had been a nice one.

Boxcar is the only way to travel, he concluded, and he hoped we would meet up again someday.

He left no forwarding address, however.

Allowances

Allowances

Noel Laflin

10-31-15

The fly-by-night carnival pulled into town early one Friday morning and was open for business by sunset.  The neighborhood was abuzz in anticipation as the old vacant lot at Lincoln and East was suddenly transformed into a city of light beckoning one and all - young and old - to come take a stroll down the hastily erected boardwalk, drop a dime, throw a dart, toss a ball, lift a hammer and ding a bell.

 

And we did.

It cost me nearly two week’s allowance to finally win a small iron horse at one of the arcades.  The game of chance had something to do with balls and hoops – or balls and bottles – or perhaps, it was balls and holes and tilting boards.  It’s all a blur now.  All I know for certain is that I finally won the smallest of prizes and declined the barker’s enticing promise of winning a bigger horse if only I would lay down just one more dime and toss, or throw, or roll another three balls.  And although I was only ten, I knew when I’d been coyly conned and nearly beaten out of my forty cents, and decided to put the small prize and my last dime in my pocket and walk away.

As there was just one coin left, I had the choice of either cotton candy or the Ferris wheel.  I chose to see my neighborhood from a higher viewpoint.

 

Once aloft, and circling about again and again, I saw the lay of the land as I’d never had before.

 

There were the tops of houses, including my own, rising and falling with every rotation of the swinging gondolas.  I had the cart all to myself.

‘Tequila,’ by the Champs, came blaring through tinny speakers down below.  The song would rise and fade with each revolution.

The old orange grove beside the vacant lot appeared to go on forever, but did eventually end at the block wall separating both it and the city’s ancient graveyard that lay just on the other side. The cemetery was dark and spooky, and the white marble angel with the broken arm was hard to spot.

 

And it was with more than just a bit of satisfaction that I was finally level with the tallest of the aged trees that shadowed the graves below.

I spied my school across the street and down the road a bit and marveled at the expanse of the playground and darkened ball field running south.

The faraway homes of friends, laid out in cookie cutter fashion, would come into focus and then disappear with every rotation.

 

Downtown lights flickered on and off with every rise and fall of the giant wheel.

And all too soon, the song was over, as was the ride.

As I was out of money I left the carnival and entered the grove I’d just viewed from above, and walked a path I’d walked a thousand times before.  I decided to take the long way home and hopped the old cemetery wall and ran the distance of the graveyard, as one just did not merely take a stroll through such a place alone and at night.

 

I climbed the ivy-covered chain link fence and dropped onto safer ground.  I was now at the end of the street that I called home and made a beeline for it.

And so the horse was taken from a pocket and placed upon a bedroom desk.  Over time, it found its way into a drawer and then eventually a box where it lay forgotten for decades to come.

I recently came across a small box within a box that had been residing on a dusty shelf buried deep in the garage.  A small iron horse lay within.

A memory regarding a game of chance – something to do with balls, and a foolishly spent allowance – suddenly came into focus.

And so did a Ferris wheel, a hit song of the late fifties, a view of a neighborhood now much changed, and a nighttime run through a graveyard.

Like that night of long ago, I see it all from a slightly different level now.

And from this new viewpoint, I also see that perhaps some allowances need to be made for seemingly foolish childhood decisions of the past.

Some Band-Aids Required

Some Band-Aids Required

Noel Laflin

10-27-15

El Nino is coming – and I am preparing.  Just ask Big Bird.

The once colossal, highly prickly, and dangerously leaning crown of thorns cactus  that threatened to pull down a backyard side fence has been carefully tamed to just three feet high now and no longer posses a really nasty cleanup scenario should a heavy wind and water event actually take place.  And, I only bled for a little while during the pruning, chopping and removal.  Some Band-Aids and carpet cleaner were required afterward, however, as I rushed through the downstairs bedroom and into the bathroom in search of flushing cold water, rubbing alcohol, and clean gauze.

Our climbing rose bush jungle has been thinned out considerably.  Again, I only bled for a little while during the procedure, and avoided dripping blood anywhere indoors as I headed from the balcony, across the living room and into the upstairs bathroom to once again flush out the wounds.  A few Band-Aids later, and I was good as new.

The old acacia tree even got a very recent, early, heavy pruning.  My shorts and tee-shirt were bloodied only a tad when I reached into the pocket containing the Band-Aids. A garden hose served nicely when it came to flushing the blood away from both limb and clothing.

Two giant, towering pencil plants have been cut down to half their former height. No Band-Aids were required – just a quick, half-blind run to the kitchen sink so that I could flush out my right eye.  You don’t want to mess with the white sticky sap that oozes out of this plant as it can blind.  Note to self, next time wear protective eye gear.

Should the garage floor flood, as it is known to do even during moderate rain, only the car tires should get wet as all other items have now been relocated off of ground level and safely stashed out of harm’s way.  No Band-Aids were required for the marathon cleaning – just a bit of Advil.

Rain gutters are now free of debris.  Neither Band-Aids nor Advil were necessary afterward – not even an eye flushing.

So I guess I am getting better at this El Nino preparation thing.

 

But, I am stocking up on Band-Aids and Advil just in case.  

And if I am in need of a flush of an eye, finger, hand, arm, elbow, or any other bodily part for that matter, all I'll have to do is walk outside.

Golden Men with Hammers

Golden Men with Hammers

Noel Laflin

10-20-15

Friends pitched in together some twenty years ago and bought me a birthday gift that I’d had my eye on for quite some time. It’s one of those Small World Rhythm clocks that dings, and chimes, and does a few other tricks.  At the top of each hour, an upbeat ditty plays as four little golden men – all decked out in top hats and fancy old fashioned garb - start the process by rising on individual pedestals. With tiny hammers in hand, the boys then strike bells that light up, as they keep rhythm with a familiar classical tune.  The bells continue to light as the little men then sound out the hour with their tiny hammers.  When it’s all over, the pedestals descend back into place – as the little ditty plays again - and the golden gentlemen patiently wait to do it all over again at the top of the next hour, all the while keeping a firm grasp on those tiny hammers.

So, precisely at six each morning, if the illumination is bright enough to activate the clock’s light sensor, a Mozart serenade rings in the day.  An hour later, a thirty-second tidbit from Mr. Pachelbel’s Canon chimes in.  A ballet piece dances in at eight. Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,’ stirs the soul at nine, only to be followed by Haydn’s ‘Deutschlandied’ at ten.   The eleven o’clock chiming of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons tells me that the morning is drawing to a close.

Then the procession begins anew with Mozart kicking off the noon hour, Pachelbel announcing one o’clock, a ballet dance at two, etc.  This continues well nigh into the afternoon and throughout the evening - up until when all the lights upstairs are eventually extinguished, I go to bed, and the little men can finally catch a break from all of that rising and hammering of the bells.

I did some calculations just now.  It seems those guys have risen to the task of bringing in lovely tunes nearly one hundred seventeen-thousand times over the last two decades.

They have me beat, when it comes to rising each day for that same period of time, by a factor of about one hundred and fifty percent.  And I never go to bed with a hammer in hand, let alone rise with a classical tune in my head.

I feel like such a slacker at times like this.

I should never have done the math.

As it is, I think I will just sit here and wait for the next tune to play, then turn off the lights and let the guys get some rest.

'There You Are'

‘There You Are’

Noel Laflin

10-16-15

If we’d had our collective druthers, and just a bit of magic at our disposal, I think many of us would have stayed for the remainder of the summer - or maybe even forever.  As it was, however, we only had the reality of three short hours together before the day ended and we drove back down the hill, returning to our homes, families, and the present.

Most of us had not seen one another in decades.  But that is the purpose of a reunion after all – that bringing together of old friends, the swapping of memories, the telling of lies, and the opportunity to relive the past just a little bit.   And so it was for this gathering of former boys now turned middle aged and beyond – the once youthful bodies that belonged to kids from another century now moving a little slower and being a bit freer of hair.

But like that remarkable scene in the movie, Hook, where the youngest of the legendary Lost Boys finally recognizes his old pal, Pan, and then declares: 'There you are, Peter!' so most of us found friends of our youth merely hiding in grownup bodies now.

Jewel Tea Man

Jewel Tea Man

Noel Laflin

 Oct. 15, 2015

There sits atop an old vanity in my bedroom a beautiful Autumn Leaf water pitcher and matching bowl.  They were my mother’s, bought some fifty years ago through the Jewel Tea Company.  The stamp on the bottom of each piece confirms their authenticity.  You can find them and a dozen other Autumn Leaf cups, saucers, flour sifters, bowls, cookie jars, tea sets, etc. in antique stores and on EBay. There are a jillion of them out there, but the real ones were made exclusively for the Jewel Tea Company.   Knockoffs will not have the unique stamp on the bottom.   Mom had the real stuff of course and as a sentimental adult nowadays, I am happy to see them still around my house.

Now, when I was a kid I always looked forward to visits from our very own Jewel Tea man for entirely different reasons.  I could have cared less for pitchers and bowls when I was seven.

And although the guy who showed up every week or two at our home in his familiar brown company truck was a neighbor who lived just one street over, when he crossed our threshold with delivery basket in hand, I could have sworn it was Santa himself coming through our door.

I recently asked my sister if she remembered the name of this neighbor, as she usually has a good memory for this sort of thing.

She said she did not.  And although she did remember him coming to our house for years, she had always thought he was called the Joe Tea Man back then.

The Jewel Tea Company catalogue listed everything from those Autumn Leaf pieces to fresh ground coffee, school supplies, clothing, small appliances, cleansers, and gift cards - none of which was of any interest to me when I was a child of the 1950’s.

No, what always caught my eye were the pictures and descriptions of the toys, chips, and candy they had to offer.  And as my mother did not drive, I believe she was somewhat dependant on the Jewel Tea man to report to Santa directly when it came to my Christmas and birthday wish list.

It’s just a shame that old catalogue didn’t list puppies.

Resume Building

Resume Building

Noel Laflin

10-12-15

I wasn’t sure that I was amounting to much in life until the day I overheard my father talking with our old neighbor, Ralph.  I was twenty years old at the time, half-way through an undeclared major at college, riding a bike to campus when there was no money to fill the gas tank, living at home as I was too broke to live anywhere else, and trying to repay that courtesy by helping my father with the constant gardening upkeep.  I had been assisting him in that outdoor endeavor ever since I was old enough to push a mower, handle a pair of pruning shears, and master a short-handled hoe.  In fact, I had been a manual laborer by choice since earliest childhood. Gardening skills were about all I could boast of back then.

 

As far as a life's resume at this point, had I even known what the word meant, I had little to show.

 

Come summertime, however, my dad was pretty much on his own, as I would head up to the mountains and play camp counselor for the next two months.  It had been going on this way for six years.  But my folks approved of the arrangement, and I was grateful for the break from both school and chores.

And so my life as a staff member at Scout camp was also somewhat predictable until the summer of my nineteenth year when I took it into head to build a log cabin.  The timing coincided with a new-found love of photography which worked out well for documenting those fledgling pioneering skills. My folks took interest at the progress of the cabin’s construction when they came to visit periodically that summer, as did the parents of a hundred other teenagers who partook in the chopping, hauling, sawing, lifting, chinking, and hammering into place homemade wooden shutters and shakes. If my folks couldn’t physically see the off-season weekend progress being made, they were constantly bombarded with the black and white photos that I produced from a tiny closet-turned-darkroom back home.

My blossoming resume would have to now include knowledge of proper axe handling, two man sawing skills, and Photography 101; still not much to brag of, however.

But, by late June of the following year, the cabin was nearly complete. It had four walls, a cobblestone floor, a hefty ridgepole now in place, and a roof over head.   I’d be moving into the structure with three of the original builders by week’s end so that we could fashion a door, bunk beds, loft, and call the place home. Camp would then be open for business once again and we four would have the coolest house on the mountain.

 

Thus, I was on the eve of my last hurrah helping my father with the mowing and trimming when I happened to overhear the back fence conversation one afternoon.

“Did I tell you about my grandson?” Ralph was saying as I was about to turn the corner of our old shed, hauling a metal trashcan filled with lawn trimmings.  I could tell by the tone of voice that he was in a boastful mood.  I knew the old man well, as I had also been his gardener for a number of years.  I had lifted our old push mower over that same rickety barrier the two men now leaned upon every Saturday for nearly a decade.

“No, I don’t think so,” my dad replied, resting against the fence that had separated our homes for the last twenty years.

“He just graduated from West Point! Can you imagine? Here, I brought a photo.”

“And my great-nephew just entered law school,” Ralph bore on, passing along another couple of snapshots.  “His sister just completed her doctorate in psychology.  Those kids are doing me proud,” he concluded boastfully.

“Say,” asked Ralph, after a lengthy pause, “what’s your boy been up to lately? I miss my young gardener. How’s he coming along in life?”

“He’s built himself a real log cabin,” my dad said with a smile.  “Hold on while I fetch some photos.”

I retired back to the other side of the shed unseen.

My newly hewed resume now included a father’s humble bragging rights and a son’s grateful heart.

Ineptitude Aptitude

Ineptitude Aptitude

Noel Laflin

10-11-15

I took an aptitude test nearly forty years ago. It came with the three week training course that I had to attend while working for the Boy Scouts of America. About the only thing I clearly remember of those three weeks were the test, the bitter cold of a New Jersey winter, and missing the warmth of California.

There were hundreds of questions and an equal number of little oval bubble answers by which to darken with our No. 2 pencils. It took a couple of hours to complete the exam. I had a headache by end of it all. 

When the results were in, I was informed by the computer-generated summary that I was most qualified to be a priest - Catholic, specifically.  The two runner up professions for me, as determined by my answers to the myriad of questions were, minister - Protestant, specifically, and youth counselor.

I was least qualified to be an accountant, according to the test. 

Whatever other potential professions were layered between celibacy and number-crunching has been lost to memory unfortunately. I wish I could remember where 'sales rep' for medical labs placed as that is what I eventually did for thirty-five years once I finished a three-year stint as a pitchman, recruiter, and fundraiser for the BSA.

But, back to those test results when I was a mere kid of twenty-four and had my whole life before me...

Despite the fact that I have never been, nor ever will be a Catholic, I did dress as a priest for Halloween on more than one occasion. 

Years later, I also became a minister (non-denominational) with an online outfit so that I could legally perform a wedding service for an old Scouting pal. Since then, I have actually officiated over four additional weddings and most recently a funeral. 

And I did work as a camp counselor for ten years prior to taking that exam.

So, all in all, I suppose that aptitude test of my youth did prove somewhat accurate after all. 

Now, if I could only figure out where the major math error occurred in my checking account a number of years back, I might even disprove the suggestion that I am least suited to being an accountant.

I may have to pray over that one.

Strong as an Oak

Strong as an Oak

Noel Laflin

10-9-15

Mature Coast Live Oak, Orange, Ca.

It was only in the last month that I learned that our country has a national tree – the oak.

But, I bet many of you already knew this.

I feel a little dumb for not knowing it sooner, as it was so designated by congress nearly eleven years ago after The National Arbor Day Foundation held a popular vote back in 2001.  The steadfast oak won hands down with over a hundred thousand votes, while the stately redwood placed second - some twenty thousand notches behind. Altogether, nearly half a million ballots were cast.

“People were invited to vote for one of 21 candidate trees,” the Arbor Day press release read back in April 2001, “based on broad tree categories (general) that included the state trees of all 50 states and the District of Columbia, or to write in any other tree selection.  The redwood, maple, pine, and dogwood rounded out the top five choices.”

It was the first time in our nation’s history where a popular vote of the people decided the outcome of a national symbol.

Finally … a vote of importance.

And I missed it.

But I probably would have voted for the redwood anyway.

Young Coast Live Oak, Orange, Ca.