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.