Humbled & Bumbled

Humbled & Bumbled

Noel Laflin

8-23-15

Illustration from 'The Tales of Peter Rabbit,' by Beatrix Potter

A colony of bumblebees has taken up residency under part of the old wooden deck in our small garden here in El Modena.  They moved in stealthily enough this past spring and have been multiplying ever since. Their comings and goings, like brightly painted small black and yellow hovercraft, is pretty interesting to watch – from a distance. It only took one small sting to the forehead to drill that into my brain. 

Now, the deck butts up against some large rocks lying adjacent to one of the ponds.  It’s probably an old rodent hole, according to every bumblebee site referenced thus far.  Better bees than rodents I suppose. 

Anyway, I have been reading up on bumble/humble/dumblebees for the better part of two days, trying to determine just how long they might stay. I don’t want to be an ungracious host, especially since these guys and their queen are doing nature’s calling with pollinating, etc. And although there are varying opinions, more than one expert assures me that the colony will peter out come the fall and cooler weather.

But as the summer wears on and the multiplying continues, making it all the more perilous to work at that end of the garden, well, autumn can’t come soon enough. I now empathize with Mrs. Tittlemouse, of Peter Rabbit fame, who once remarked to Babbity Bumble: “I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!”

Intrusion or not, one bumble bee web site emphasizes just how fortunate I should feel that these majestic, fuzzy, humblebees have chosen my land as their new home. 

I should feel so humbled and honored.

Meanwhile, I’m secretly cheering for cooler weather.

Just don’t tell the bees.

  

Lost Time

Lost Time

Noel Laflin

8-19-15

I lost my last working wristwatch on the evening of January 7, 2015 in the Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport.  Don’t press me as to what time it was precisely, as I no longer had a watch.  But I’m certain it was nighttime, at least in that part of the world. 

All I can surmise is that it must have fallen out of my jacket pocket, where it had been hastily stashed just prior to passing through the security checkpoint.   And although I had always been fond of that old, inexpensive Swiss Army watch, since it had traveled with me as far west as Asia and as far east as Africa when I was a younger man, I got over it.   After all I reasoned, I had at least a dozen other watches back home.

However, I have yet to strap any one of them back on.  Glancing at my wrist, I now take pride in noting even skin tone on both arms; not a tan line in sight.

The fact that each and every one of those watches scattered throughout my home is in need of a new battery is the most convenient excuse for no longer wearing a timepiece.  But the simple truth of the matter is, I no longer need a watch.  I have no pressing appointments with clients nowadays, having retired that time-consuming life a year ago; nor do I really need to know the time as I wander or bike through the neighborhood shooting photos or talking back to noisy parrots.  Like ancient man, or even the wild, colorful parrots perhaps, the sun is now my time keeper - as is my belly.  I head home when I am either hungry, hot, cold, or out of daylight.

Now, I did find a very cool old pocket watch lying at the bottom of a box of knickknacks out in the garage.  It’s pictured here, as a matter of record.  But it too no longer runs.  It probably stopped working half a century ago.  In fact, I can’t even recall how I came into procession of the ancient timepiece.  It could spell me a story or two if it could talk I reckon and probably has a nice loud ticking sound to accompany its telling of timeless tales if it did work.  But alas, it does not.  And even if I did fix it, where would I place it?  I’d need both a snazzy fob and a sharp looking vest for starters, and just how ridiculous would I look dressed in nothing more than cargo shorts, flip flops and fancy fob and vest?  No, I think not.  That old teller of timeless tales is staying at the bottom of the box in the garage.

Meanwhile, the man with no tell-tale sign of a wristwatch tan line on either arm has already left the premises, peddling aimlessly out of the garage, down the driveway and off in search of something interesting to photograph.  He’ll be back when either the sun goes down or his stomach begins to rumble.

You can watch for him then.

Conspiring with Parrots

Conspiring with Parrots

Noel Laflin

8-12-15

“A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wings in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.” 

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

As I walk the old neighborhoods of El Modena, I am frequently struck by the melodic chirping and singing of caged birds. Listen carefully and you too will also hear the chattering of parakeets, the singing of canaries, the squawking of parrots, and the screech of cockatiels. Often times I will stop mid step along the sidewalk and look for the source of the melody, squeal, shriek, or holler.  Sometimes I am not alone in my curiosity.  Looking up I will frequently find wild parrots sitting attentively on a phone line above me, their heads cocked, zeroing in on the same song or cry. And like my wild green feathered friends above, or so I sometimes fantasize, I wish I could open some cage doors and set their pals free.

Maybe it’s just the lingering memory from the stage play, Mary Poppins that has put me in such a wistful mood.    Mary sets free a caged lark near the end of the show, after the bird has told her of his two-year captivity.   He flies away happily whilst his captor is eventually caged herself and put away in some dark closet. It’s a crowd pleaser of a scene every time - true karma at its best.

 

Or perhaps,  it’s just the  fact that  I am usually coming back from another  birding expedition down  at the small  pond, trying  my  damndest  to catch a  graceful egret,  hawk, falcon, bluebird, kingfisher, hummingbird, phoebe, dove or heron in flight.  Catching sight and capturing a frame or two of the magnificent Pin-tailed Whydah, descendents of escaped caged pets imported from sub-Sahara Africa decades ago, are a particular thrill.  There are at least two males and a host of females claiming the southern portion of the pond as their territory now.  They have made it in the wild just fine.  And they too like to sit atop the phone lines.  I wonder to whose song they might be tuning in.

Most recently, my attention has been drawn to the evening skies as massive flocks of wild Mexican parrots swarm, twist, turn and noisily land in the numerous oaks or sycamores that permeate our neck of the woods. Often they will take over long stretches of phone lines, out-conversing Ma Bell herself.  They are an amature photographer’s delight.

 

So, whether successful in the daily photo attempts or not, the wild parrots and I continue to conspire as I walk, stop and all too often listen to a mournful tune.

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill,
of things unknown, but longed for still, 
and his tune is heard on the distant hill, 
for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

Maya Angelou

Men of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff

Men of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff

Noel Laflin

8-6-15

Folks came from far and wide to attend the Camp Ahwahnee staff reunion on Sunday, August 2nd. The event coordinator flew in from Chicago. Some caught flights from the Northwest, while others drove down from Napa and surrounding regions. Fellows and their wives came in from Las Vegas, Arizona, the Inland Empire, San Diego, LA, and Orange County.

By one in the afternoon, the old camp parking lot was filled with silver-haired Eagles chomping at the proverbial bit to renew old friendships, spread their wings, and tour the land of their youth.

Calvary Chapel Christian Camp played gracious host. The four hundred and fifty acre site, once known as Ahwahnee, has been in their care for the past quarter of a century.  And it should be noted that by day’s end, there was unanimity in the fact that these folks have proven to be very fine stewards of the property.  The camp is green, serene and beautiful to behold.  Developers spared no expense when it came to magnificent log structures for both staff and campers, paved roads, and an immaculate grassy parade ground stretching before one of the largest log dining halls to be found anywhere in the state.  And yes, they even built a lake.  And yet, the forest is still intact.  They took great care with their building, sparing ancient trees at every turn.  In response, the forest has thrived.

The Scouts actually first acquired a small portion of the camp sixty years ago this summer, and hosted the first troops in July, 1955.  Over time more acreage was added and boys soon had a massive playground to call their own.  The high altitude ensured a forest teeming with wildlife, evergreens and the sweet smell of vanilla/butterscotch wafting off of majestic Jeffrey Pines, the Christmassy smell of white firs, and the familiar comforting aroma of incense cedars.  In short, a beautiful mountain getaway was now only a ninety minute drive from the heart of Orange County.  Build it and they will come?  Indeed they did … for the next twenty-five years.

Thus an Ahwahnee staff was created that very first summer season, growing as the land was increased and the campers and Scouters spread the word.  By 1960, upwards of two hundred boys a week roamed those woods and there was a seasonal staff of forty.  The camping season was increased to eight weeks per summer.  There was barely time to close and secure the camp each season before staff members headed back to school in early September, all the while dreaming of the next summer.

Fast forward six decades to Sunday last where old friendships were rekindled, new introductions made, and a walking tour of the property ensued.  Old staffers and former campers, some having brought their children, wives and significant others to see this magical place they once called home for a week or a summer, pointed out where structures once stood and daily events took place.  The main road through camp still headed out past the newer parade ground, but yet, a very familiar looking pool still glistened and beckoned, clearly whispering, ‘come find a buddy and take a dip.’   The old road followed the same path as the days of yore when narrow gauge logging trains first chugged their way through the once virgin forest – their tracks having been long dismantled a century before, but their path still indelibly imprinted upon the land.

Out and further out the former youngsters roamed, noting where a camp store, handicraft, camp craft, nature area, rifle and archery range all once stood.  But the surrounding forest, including the oldest tree on the property – a white fir some four hundred years old – still stood, looking green and inviting; the forest floor carpeted in thick pine needles, fallen cones, and swatches of vibrant red scarlet bugler blossoms dotting the hillsides.  If you closed your eyes and breathed in the cool mountain air - inhaled the overlapping, competing aromas of incense cedar, Jeffrey pine, fir and dogwood – well, the years simply melted away.

To Inspiration Point and Chapel in the Pines the old-timers headed, marveling at the small lake the newer caretakers of the land had created some twenty years ago.

And then the climb to the Point and the view of the Southland some sixty-seven hundred feet below …

The devastating Running Springs fire of 2007 had charred much of the forest below – burned giants now bore silent witness to the inferno that roared up the steep rugged terrain.  But where other camps down below lost everything, the new Calvary/old Ahwahnee was spared.  The fire stopped at this very point.

As the afternoon wore down, folks reluctantly headed back to the parking lot.  Some took diversionary pathways, seeking out one last favorite haunt, pointing out one last feature of the land, telling one last tale.

Later, one revered senior member would write, “The reunion allowed for 'Magic' to unfurl. Such a diverse assembly of middle-aged ‘servants to youth' testified to scouting ideals gone successfully.”

Another fellow stated, “I had tears in my eyes when I first saw many that I once looked up to, remembering how I had no hope of ever emulating them. So many young men that did so very much with so very little - I can say no more, other than thank you all.”

But perhaps the most poignant conversation took place between a father and his fourteen-year-old son.  The man recorded the following:

“As we drove home from the reunion my son said, ‘I wish the camp was around now so that I could attend.’  He also commented, as we walked from Inspiration Point earlier in the day, ‘It must have been hard to leave the camp each time.’  I said it was.  And looking out from Inspiration Point I now note that same feeling once again”