Breaking the Fall

Breaking the Fall

Noel Laflin

5-29-15

The evening would have been unremarkable and forgotten to memory altogether had I not been closely following a woman, watching her come to a sudden halt, hearing her softly exclaim with just the slightest hint of surprise, ‘I think I’m blacking out,’ and then witnessing her swoon - oh, so slowly and gently upon the old pathway - her sudden and unexpected decent eased by her husband’s arms quickly reaching out and breaking the fall.

 

It occurred on a warm spring night in La Palma Park following a Cub Scout event held in the old stone-terraced outdoor amphitheater.  It had been a night of relaxed revelry, songs, and newly acquired awards and patches.  I was eight years old.

There was a nurse among the crowd, a mother of one of my mates, who immediately attended to the woman on the ground.  Although there were no mobile devices back then, someone had the presence of mind to quickly find a pay phone and summon an ambulance in response.  But it was too late.

 

My parents later said that it had been a sudden heart attack or stroke apparently – I am fuzzy on that detail, as well as stumped regarding the woman’s identity.  And as my folks are no longer here to set me right, I may never have the answer to that last wondering.

But I will never forget the dimly lit pathway leading us back to our cars, the good natured camaraderie amongst friends and neighbors enjoying the pleasantry of a beautiful evening stroll, a woman’s sudden last words, the calmness in her voice, nor the unexpected swoon.

 

I might have only been a kid and I may never know her name, but I will forever remember how that man so quickly caught her, gently easing her to the ground, and breaking that hard and final fall.

Silent Sentry

Silent Sentry

Noel Laflin

5-21-15

There is a beautifully carved white marble angel standing atop a stone pedestal and supporting column, who looks for all the world as if she might have just flown in through the large mausoleum window long ago, and has stood in solemn, silent repose ever since. She will still be there, no doubt, come Memorial Day.

 

It will be uncharacteristically boisterous outside for an hour or two mid-morning, as speeches will be delivered just outside the old iron doors encasing this hallowed hall, and guns will be fired in remembrance of those who have fallen in service to their country.

But the crowds will then depart, the plethora of flags removed by end of day, and a returning sense of peace will prevail once again.

I like to visit the place during this latter part of the afternoon.  I’ll pay tribute to my folks, whose graves lie resting beneath a shady tree.  I’ll watch as a pickup truck slowly moves about the narrow lanes and volunteers recapture the last of the banners and reverently store them away until next year at this time.

Strolling across the grass-filled graveyard, I’ll end my visit to Loma Vista Cemetery by paying homage to the watcher within the mausoleum.  I discovered her years ago quite by accident and have been drawn to her ever since.

I will probably have the place all to myself, as so often happens each Memorial Day. This suits me just fine.  There will be no one there to see me salute this silent sentry – as that is a private moment of course. 

Inking in the Past

Inking in the Past

Noel Laflin

5-18-15

My nephew, Matt, has it in mind to get a tattoo of our family’s coat of arms.  He called me just the other day to discuss the matter.

“You know, Matt,” I began, once he’d outlined his intentions, “I don’t think our family really qualifies as one deserving a coat of arms, being that we are not of royal decent and all that.  And according to your great grandfather, the fact that the family’s roots in this country were originally planted here by a poor Scotsman brought to the New World as an indentured servant, probably doesn’t bode well for future inclusion into an aristocratic family as well.”

The boy conceded that - and then wondered whether there might be some old Scottish clan that we can trace back to.  There are some cool family crests out there, he bargained, hoping that wherever we landed, it might provide a nice tattoo design.

And, he is right about that.  After some quick and dirty research, there is a cool Scottish clan crest that we might claim by distant right.

But I cautioned my nephew to hold off for now as we need to be a little more certain that our name has its roots in Scotland versus Ireland, for the Irish Laflin crest is totally different and would require a lot more red ink.

 

And unless he intends to have the tattoo placed on his entire back, I don’t think there is enough room for the Irish version to go elsewhere.

I have contacted our cousin, Kathy, as she has done a lot of the Laflin family ancestry background already.  Here’s hoping that she can ink in the past more thoroughly than the scant information we currently have at hand.

After all, tattoo removal is not all that fun I’m told.

                    --------------------------------------------------------------

May 19, 2015

Post Script: After much research, thanks in large part to our cousin, it's now apparent that we Laflin's are of Irish descent.  And a coat of arms was actually used by our distant ancestor, Charles Laflin, once he reached the New World in 1740.  He chose a simple black fleur-de-lys on a light background - as we Laflin's were of French descent long before we were Irish. 

 Well, who'd a thought ...

A fleur-de-lys will be a lovely tattoo - and much less body mass is needed as a canvas.

I just let nephew Matt know.  

Timing

Timing

Noel Lalfin

May 14, 2015

It’s amazing to realize now, but when I was a kid, I knew men who had served in the First World War.  Now, think about that for a moment as that conflict was already raging a hundred years ago.  And I actually interacted with some of those old fellows for years as my folks were active in the Disabled American Veterans (DAV) program.  These were men and women who met monthly, bringing their kids and grandkids to potlucks in the park, Christmas parties, and Memorial Day commemorations at local cemeteries each May. Some of the older folks still referred to the tradition as Decoration Day.  As kids, some of us would scamper to collect a brass shell casing or two as they were ejected from the rifles shot by veterans during the traditional gun salute at the old Anaheim, Santa Ana, and Fullerton cemeteries.

 

There were the younger guys who had served in Korea and slightly older men, like my dad, who were veterans of the Second World War.  Some were veterans of both wars. Viet Nam was not even on the radar at the time, but my brother would be there soon enough.

And sprinkled throughout the membership were those wonderful gray-haired grandfathers – some missing either an arm or a leg – who once wore the uniform of the American Doughboy and fought at Verdun.

I only wish that I had been older at the time as I now have so many questions that I should like to have asked of them.

 

But, they are all gone now.  The timing stinks.

 

Because aside from all of those unasked questions, I should also have liked to have thanked those gentlemen.

                             ----------------------------------------------------

There was a three gun salute during my father's graveside service at the old Fullerton cemetery some years ago.  He was ninety-one years old at the time of his passing.

The old World War Two veteran in charge of the elderly volunteers carefully bent down and collected the spent brass afterward. He presented them to my brother, sister, and me. One casing was set aside for my brother's son.  My nephew had shipped out to Iraq with the U.S. Army on the day his grandfather died.  

I remembered to thank the old veteran on his behalf.

I think I finally got the timing right this time.

Pondering Penelope’s Passing

Pondering Penelope’s Passing

Noel Laflin

5-11-15

Penelope, a domesticated white duck bearing a strong resemblance to its Aflac counterpart, is no more.

I got the lowdown on her disappearance while walking the neighborhood watering hole just this morning.  Looks to be an inside job by hungry coyotes, or so one might surmise after viewing the remains of nothing but white feathers scattered on the north shore of our small pond.

Penelope, as named by a couple of the neighborhood daily duck feeders, was dropped off at the old catch basin just a few months back.  A woman later confessed that she had done so in order to save the duck from her dog.

Rather than bonding with the other three domesticated birds at the south end of the pond, Penelope chose to be a loner at the opposite shore, keeping company only with the wild mallards, coots and occasional turtle.

But, she was well-fed and fairly fond of humans.  We hikers, bikers, and joggers got quite used to seeing her close to the chain link fence as we strode, rode or whizzed on by; Penelope was always on the lookout for another meal of seed, bread, bagels or mealy worms as she would eye us through the fence.  Small children loved to feed her by hand.    

However, late last week she just disappeared one night– leaving only pure white feathers behind by early morning.

Four of us were lamenting her loss as we leaned against the fence trading duck, geese, coot, turtle, coyote, and owl information this morning. 

Swimming silently up to shore, a pair of mallards paddled past us and nosed off into the underbrush.

The female saddled up to a nest containing six eggs, and sat herself down.  Her mate stood guard as sentry. 

I’m hoping the coyotes and owls stay clear of the south shore for a while, as four of us look forward to becoming godparents to a new brood of ducklings soon. 

As we were breaking up to go our separate ways, a beautiful white egret, followed closely by its equally beautiful, miniature offspring passed gracefully in flight overhead.

Life goes on at the old El Modena neighborhood watering hole.  

Bears

Bears

 Noel Laflin

  5-3-15

It was the large black bear and her cub slowly ambling across the Green Valley Lake Road that caused the old old camp ambulance to brake so suddenly.  The four tired occupants sat up and took keen notice of the unusual sight that night - oh, so long ago.

There had been rumors of a bear or two roaming the camp for the past couple of weeks. But no evidence was ever produced – neither a shaky, blurry photo nor even a single crude mold of a track ever surfaced or was triumphantly brought forward as proof. And until this moment, few thought the scuttlebutt regarding bears in Ahwahnee even credible. They were just no longer seen in this neck of the woods - at least not by the four witnessing the crossing at this late hour.

The medic, the young staff man riding shotgun that evening, the boy with the still-warm plaster cast drying around his arm, and the boy's father all sat reverently mesmerized as the shaggy-haired pair disappeared from the truck's headlights and wandered down the camp's unpaved, lonely Wilderness Road.  It had been a long night, what with the broken arm incident, journey to medical care and back again.  It was close to two in the morning now.

"Do you think anyone will believe us?" asked the boy with the broken arm. It had been freshly repositioned at the mountain’s hospital less than an hour before.

"I thought the bears were all gone," replied his incredulous father.

"Just glad I didn't hit them," sighed the medic.

"Wish I had a camera," lamented the young staff man, knowing full well that their tale would be met with great skepticism otherwise – bereft of proof as it was.

"Maybe we should just keep this to ourselves," ventured the boy as he readjusted the sling about his neck, leaned back in the hard seat once more and closed his eyes. 

"If I was a bear, I'd just want to be left alone, you know?" he added sleepily.

They sat in silence for a bit, letting the old ambulance idle in the middle of the deserted highway, all the while digesting the youngster’s words.

"Think I'll visit the Wilderness area tomorrow and bring a broom," said the young staff man. "That road could use a good cleaning," he concluded.

"I'll lend you a hand," mumbled the medic, shifting the gears and letting out the clutch.

And with that they continued on down the dark road - driving, oh, so slowly back to camp.

Comfort Food

Comfort Food

Noel Laflin

May 2, 2015

John came to spend his last days with us as he could no longer care for himself. This was quite awhile ago, late in the summer of 1989. It was at the height of the AIDS epidemic and my childhood friend had more than an inkling that he might not make it to see the dawning of a new decade. 

He was right unfortunately. 

We tried to make John as comfortable as possible. I painted the spare room a soothing light blue/gray color just days prior to his arrival and told him to decorate in any fashion he preferred. He chose to mount several beautiful antique cameras on the wall above the bed. It was a simple nod to his love for photography and was quite striking in look.  The old Kodak’s, with their leather bellows extended and locked into place, looked as if they were ready to capture the likeness of all who stood at the foot of the bed in fine old black and white remembrance. 

He was then quick to change out all of the plain, cheap bathroom fixtures with warm wood and brass. His towels were of a Native American design pattern - white and tan in color. 

Exhausted, John then crawled into bed, picked up the phone and scheduled interviews with home health agencies. 

When some learned what ailed him, which was just about every AIDS-related disease possible at that point, they declined to work with us. 

Other nurses did eventually take the case. Most did not last beyond a day or two as John was a tough customer. But what he secretly longed for in his caregiver, was a great cook. 

And then Mil Haley showed up one day - and stayed. What secured her the job, other than her excellent nursing skills, was her fried chicken. 

Despite all of the indignities being visited upon John's ragged body, lack of appetite was not one - well, not some of the time anyway. And, as a fine meal was truly one of his only remaining pleasures, John took advantage when it came his way. Mil's fried chicken came our way early in her deployment. We all begged for an encore. 

So, with autumn nearly at an end, Mil acquiesced and promised a Thanksgiving feast. 

She clattered about our small kitchen for hours that Sunday as I dusted off and laid out the good china and dinnerware. Flour flew. Oil sizzled. Fluffy biscuits rose. Gravy was thickened. Potatoes were mashed.  Salads were tossed. Wine was uncorked. The smell of mouth watering chicken filled the house. The greatest comfort food ever devised by our mild-mannered cook, disguised as a nurse, was about to hit the finely laid out table. 

Friends and family assembled.  The guest of honor, fresh off a blood transfusion, looked well that day too - his appetite, like ours, finely honed. 

A festive group gathered late that afternoon and ate like there was no tomorrow - and for our young friend, John, that was pretty much the case as he left us three weeks later. 

The antique cameras were boxed and placed in the care of his sister.  But I have always left the nice wood and brass upgrades to the bathroom. Occasionally a faded old tan and white towel still hits the laundry basket. 

I used to get the occasional call from Mil, who eventually moved to North Carolina. I always praised her fried chicken recipe at least once before saying goodbye. We would both recall, and then remark upon, a lovely day and gathering back in the late fall of 1989. 

It's said that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach. 

Whoever first coined that observation must have once known a fine cook, perhaps disguised as a nurse.