Mighty Winds Make Mighty Good Neighbors

Mighty Winds Make Mighty Good Neighbors

Noel Laflin

12-4-16

The wind came whipping Friday past,

And struck our tree with quite a blast.

Neighbors came with saws and grit,

And cleared the path that took the hit.

Here’s to great neighbors who took it upon themselves to deal with this downed pepper tree when we were not home.  The strong Santa Ana winds took it down late Friday night.  The neighbor to our left called at 11 pm to tell us about it.  My long-time neighbor to the right took this picture early Saturday morning and sent it my way, informing me that both the water and gas lines were intact.  A third  neighbor called a short time later to see if we were aware of the situation, and a fourth neighbor kept us apprised of the progress being made by two wonderful  other neighbors who showed up with chain saws and went to work.  Up until then, all I could visualize was breaking out the old buck saw and having at it today.  Instead, the driveway was cleared and we could park.

And some folks wonder as to why I’ve lived here for more than half my life. 

Christmas Eve Blues

Christmas Eve Blues

Noel Laflin

11-30-16

The Christmas Eve spirit flew out the chimney the moment the talk turned dark and conspiratorial.

Someone had mentioned the Holocaust.  And looking back on it, it may have been me. I was about to turn sixteen in two days.
  

“They exaggerated the numbers,” said old man Erik, lighting another Chesterfield and downing his beer. “There were no six million killed.  It wasn’t possible,” he concluded confidently.

“Roosevelt and the Jews saw to that,” replied Rudy, snuggled smug in his chair, legs stretched out across our old linoleum family room floor.

I looked at my father sitting to my right.  He was simmering with rage.

Slowly, he rose from his chair and left the room.  He was back in a moment with a tattered, black photo album clutched to his chest.

“I was at Dachau just weeks after liberation,” he said with a trembling voice.  There had been no time to clean up the place. I took pictures.  Would you like to see them?” he asked our two guests.

There was silence for a moment, before Rudy answered.
 

“It doesn’t change a thing,” he said.  The numbers were faked to break the German spirit.

“Ja,” whispered Erik, the tone of confidence wavering a bit.

My father walked over to the two men and set the old album on the coffee table.  He then went to the chair, removed his jacket and left his own home on Christmas Eve rather then ask his guests to leave.

He went for a long walk around the block – several times. 

Wishing for Whales

Wishing for Whales

Noel Laflin

11-16-16

Several magnificent pods of gray whales swimming and spouting close to shore stopped the Laguna Beach Rotary meeting dead in its tracks one fine winter day some forty years ago.  Because of that sudden and unexpected sight, as witnessed by those of us standing and watching through the large bay windows of the elegant, old banquet room, it is, consequently, the only Rotary meeting that I can ever really recall.  It was a most memorable distraction.

Oh, sure, there was the time I attended a different civic club meeting down in San Juan Capistrano when a couple of drunken Kiwanians pushed the button to open the sliding roof at the El Adobe Restaurant during a howling rain storm.  Now, that was memorable too just for the mayhem that quickly ensued; but nothing as so fondly remembered as the spouting of twenty whales a few hundred yards off-shore in a landmark establishment once haunted by the likes of Bogart and Bacall, Madam Modjeska, a prince of Russia, and Myrna Loy.  Catalina Island beckoning just twenty-six miles beyond that provided a pretty stunning backdrop as well.

I got to thinking about this sight, back when I was a much younger man, as a couple of youngsters that I have known for nearly than half their lives are going to be married at the Hotel Laguna a couple of days before Christmas. Those two kids are now about the age I was when I attended that Rotary meeting there so long ago.

And aside from wishing them much happiness of course, I also hope a few whales are spotted during the ceremony.  It leaves one with a lasting impression. 

Last Seen Heading West

Last Seen Heading West

Noel Laflin

9-14-16

Thick bamboo framed our kite,

A bedspread covered all,

It stood six feet from tip to top,

Criminee! It was tall.

No fragile string would hold this beast,

So fishing line was sought,

‘It ought to hold,’ we said aloud,

And kept our fingers crossed.

Then four young boys from Flower Street,

Did launch their falcon off,

And so it soared to rapid heights,

On hidden winds aloft.

We laughed with glee at neighbors who,

Had scoffed at our attempt,

But neighbors had the final say,

As line first broke – then went …

Of last we saw, this kite of ours,

It sallied forth due west,

Freed from the grip of those four boys,

Who’d lost their youthful quest.

Stealing Hearts

Stealing Hearts

Noel Laflin

7-2-16

Let's play some cards, we would say, 
On dreamy summer nights,
Brother, sister, mom and dad,
A game of hearts in sight.

Mother'd boldly lead the play,

And steal the Queen of Sin,
Running tricks for every heart,
And slyly she would win.

Shared Pleasure

Shared Pleasure

Noel Laflin

5-19-16

Mom kept small gifts in the old, squat dresser,

In the event the grandkids might show.

And the kids knew exactly where those gifts were stored

When they came to visit my folks,

(Which, was often) -

Racing from a parent’s car,

Across the lawn, through the door,

Down the hall, and to the spare room where the

Small, squat dresser held the horde.

It never got tiresome, the watching of that race,

The pleasure shared by young and old alike.

Penny Hunt

Penny Hunt

Noel Laflin

5-16-16

Friday nights were frequently penny hunt nights,

And dad relied upon young eyes to help in the search

Of elusive Wheat Back Lincolns with evasive mint dates.

That’s when my sister and I were suddenly in demand.

My father would clear the kitchen table and dump

A newly acquired batch of pennies dead center.

The bright blue coin folder was fetched from the hall closet,

An old magnifying glass was liberated from a kitchen drawer,

And a bright reading lamp was moved to the table

As Susi and I would begin to flip the coins to a heads up position.

Then the hunt would begin in earnest.

“I’m still in need of a 1914 D,” my father would say,

Time and again -  “and a 1922, no mint mark while you’re at it,”

He’d remind us - session after session - hunt after hunt.

Alas, those two, along with a scattering of other highly prized dates

Were never found.
I’ve got a faded blue penny folder to prove the point,
Along with the same old magnifying glass which,
Now resides in my kitchen drawer.

But the hunt continues on these many decades later,

As we  still glance at change, especially pennies,

Before it goes into the Betty Boop piggy bank.

And, as David’s eyes are younger than mine – 

He knows the drill.

Cup Waving

Cup Waving

Noel Laflin

5-16-16

I had a vision of my dad just now,
Seated in his favorite chair, waving an empty coffee cup in the air.
I suppose the vision came about as it was me 
Who did the cup waving this time.
You see, my cup was empty and I, 
Having a nice warm computer in my lap,
Couldn’t resist the urge of being waited upon –
Let alone losing the warmth of that laptop.
My dad, minus the computer, did the cup waving routine
On a regular basis his last few years.
But he was an old man by then,
Bent low with age, bad eyes, bad knees –
He deserved being waited upon.
And while you were refilling his cup –
(He did in a pot or two of the hot, black brew for ninety years) –
Dad would ask if there were any cookies lying about.
I am not to that point yet –

As my recent cup waving was done purely out of laziness.

But I should have asked for cookies nonetheless.

And Pecan Pie for Dessert

And Pecan Pie for Dessert

Noel Laflin

5-2-16

Bob Laflin and Vi Glasrud snuck out of town 74 years ago today, drove over the state line, found a justice of the peace, had the man’s wife stand in as a witness, and got quietly hitched.

 

On the way back from Wisconsin to the small town of Lake City, Minnesota, they stopped at a diner and ordered hamburgers and coffee.  They had pecan pie for dessert.

Only the immediate family was aware of the marriage, as Vi was a high school teacher, and Minnesota law at the time did not allow for married female teachers.  So they stayed mum on the issue for the next four years.

A few weeks after that quiet Wisconsin ceremony, Bob Laflin reported to army boot camp, was promptly shipped off by train to Riverside, California for infantry training, then rode the rails back across the country, boarded a ship out of New York bound for North Africa, and along with a few thousand other GI’s and Brits, chased Field Marshal Rommel around the desert before heading off to the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and eventually France, Belgium, Luxemburg, and Germany itself.

He addressed all of his correspondence to his wife, by using her maiden name.  They used a secret, prearranged code so she might know where he really was at any given time.  He would send tiny packets of soil, wrapped in cellophane, within many of the letters, so that she could also ‘feel’ for herself the land from which he wrote.

There is so much more that could be said, and perhaps will be when their Diamond Anniversary rolls around at this time a year from now.

Suffice to say for the present, I wish they were still here to celebrate these milestones – but alas, they are celebrating elsewhere no doubt.  And if there is a heaven, I am sure it serves hamburgers, coffee, and pecan pie for dessert - the traditional anniversary dinner we all craved each May 2nd.

I am glad that I listened to some of their tales growing up.  I only regret not having taken notes at the time.

Love you, Mom and Dad.  Happy Anniversary.

 

Can you see this cup of coffee raised in salute?

I just wish that I had a slice of pecan pie to go with it.

Final Hymn

Final Hymn

Noel Laflin

4-16-16

I attended the memorial service for an old family friend this morning.

Pete died just one day shy of his 90^th birthday.  But as his daughters thoughtfully remarked upon his passing, had it not been a leap year he would have officially been a nonagenarian.

The service was held at a Methodist church in Anaheim – a part of town that was my old stomping grounds growing up.  In fact, my old church, the one I attended until I was seventeen, is right down the street.   It was comforting to go back to this era of nostalgia.

As it tends to happen at such gatherings, I met up with friends that I have known nearly my entire life – a taste of ‘Our Town’ – only for real.

And then the minister spoke both warmly and sincerely.

Susan, the youngest daughter, wrote and delivered an amazing remembrance for her father.

Her mother graciously – and with great dignity – publically thanked the congregants for attending.

There was punch and cookies afterward.

And the choir sang in perfect harmony.

I could not help but reflect on that choir, as it got me to thinking about my own mortality.

For although I have made it plain that when my time in my imaginary Grover’s Corner of a life is up, I do not wish to have a church service, nor a minister present, as there is no minister who could speak knowingly of me.

However, I wouldn’t mind that choir sending me off.  They were that good.

And of course, if you know your Thornton Wilder, the song would have to be, ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds.’

I see that it’s listed as hymn number 557 in the official Methodist hymnal.

And although I can't ever recall having sung this fine old tune in our church, this former, fallen altar boy wouldn’t mind it in the least.

Sadie Hawkins

Sadie Hawkins

Noel Laflin

4/9/16

Young Sadie Hawkins called one night
And asked if I could dance -
I choked a bit but said, 'I do' -
She said, 'I'll take the chance. '

So off we went in cast-me-offs,
Fake freckles, chewing hay -
We looked the part, I'll give you that -
Li'l Abners gone astray.

She paid my way when we arrived
And steered me to the floor -
Where music played and couples swayed -
I proved to be no bore.

As night wore on, we then were hitched,
At 'Ye Old Hitching Post' -
Where preacher said, 'Now kiss or kick' -
We kissed, I'm here to boast.

Maybe

Maybe

Noel Laflin

                                 Friday the 13^{th  _} October 2000

Maybe it’s as good a day as any to start a journal – especially when travel, sanctuary, and healing are involved.

Maybe I’ll tell of the acquisition of the new journal itself – an oversized, spiral-bound book of thick, cream-colored pages, blank within – the raised, embossed silver cover bearing the likeness of Michelangelo’s ‘Creation’ placed front and center, calling me to take it home – which I did - shelling out thirty bucks to the store proprietor’s eight-year-old daughter perched high atop a stool behind the register.  She sang sweetly from her perch as she rang up the sale.

Maybe I will even speak of the inner peace that finally came over me while spending time with two fine friends as we wandered enchanted neighborhoods along the Central Coast and spied on secret gardens.

 

Maybe I will then elaborate further upon the story of how the younger of my two companions, and I, imbibed in Mother Nature, becoming more than just a little stoned by the ancient ruins of Lime Kiln, tripping out on the beauty of the ferns, redwoods, and creek that cascaded down to the rocky shores of the Pacific.

Maybe I’ll dwell more in regard to the hunt for polished jade glinting in the sunlight at low tide.

Maybe I’ll describe the clarity of the Channel Islands beckoning across the sea – appearing so close that one felt the need to reach out and touch them.

Maybe I will finally get it right someday, and try to explain how Paul Simon sang to us about the girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoes as we drove up and down the coast of Big Sur, mesmerized by the rise of a blood moon illuminating a castle high above San Simeon.

Maybe I shall mention that this was a trip of escape from the confines of a long hospital vigil – the place where my father had battled for his very life but days before.  Now on the mend, I had passed over the reins of watch to my brother, promising to return in a matter of days.

Maybe I will finally admit that had I stayed in town but one more day, I’d be the one next admitted – diagnosis: ‘He was close to cracking.’

Maybe I will describe the trip more fully at another time. And perhaps a story will even come of it.

Maybe it already has.

Something to Stew About

Something to Stew About

Noel Laflin

2-18-16

As it is pouring rain at the moment, I cannot go outside to play.

And as I finished reading the latest novel, just last night, there is no great book on hand to while away the morning.  And it was a damn fine story too – the kind you hate to see end.

So it is that I will tell a short tale to fill the time until the sun breaks through once more, and I can wander off in old tennis shoes, camera in hand, that do not mind muddy conditions – the shoes that is – not the camera – just to be clear. They, the shoes, already sit upon the front porch, soaking wet from the overnight drizzle, and now sudden downpour.  I should have moved them indoors before the storm, but it’s too late now.  Hell, they’re just going to get wet and muddy anyway.

Thus it is that I am reminded of the time that Tom Early and I were tapped to be cooks for a large crowd of folks attending a weekend, ‘Theater in the Wild’ experience at O’Neill Park – some thirty-five years ago.

Why we ever said yes to the request is still a mystery.  But, people do strange things for theater friends.  Shoot, I even convinced my own sister to join in the festivities. 

So, we decided to prepare a hearty stew at my home in Costa Mesa – and transport it to the campground, some forty miles away, in large pots.

 

The pots were still warm when we placed them in my little sports car.  As space was tight, one even sat in the passenger seat, bumping up against my right shoulder, making the shifting of manual gears a challenge.  That pot would be the one that sloshed considerably when I hit a speed bump in the park of course.  But, I wear beef stew rather well.

And then the unexpected rain storm came, dampening our fires in the campground, and forcing us to serve lukewarm stew to wet and grumpy folks who’d been wandering the oaks all day, watching and partaking in their soggy outdoor theatrical experience – now hoping for a hot meal at least.

In a desperate move, young Tom is sent to Cook's Corner, the local biker bar to enquire as to their allowing us to host our feast.  The bikers say no.

One damp and hungry participant, a woman who had survived the recent Mt. St. Helen's eruption, sums up the day and cold stew by proclaiming that 'we were worse.'

By the end of the afternoon, and many apologies later, my sister, whose task it was to serenade folks with her magic flute, had failed to come back to camp.  She had driven her car up a dirt road, prior to the storm, so as to better position herself to play for the wandering theater-goers.

I went in search of her, soon discovering that her car was stuck in the mud.  With a lucky rope at hand we were able to free her from the quagmire and get her on her way home.

And then there were all of those dirty pots to clean and untouched gelatinous stew to toss. 

To say that the day was an utter disaster would be incorrect, however, as I do have this tale to share.

Well, I see that the rain here has now passed.  I believe it is time try on those soaked sneakers and head off in search of birds and turtles – my own theater in the wild.

And when I return, I believe I’ll have a nice grilled cheese sandwich, some hot soup, or anything warm to restore my wandering soul.

Anything but stew. 

Baker's Surprise

Baker's Surprise

Noel Laflin

2-17-16

Fifty years ago this summer, a hitchhiking field mouse snuck into our car in a Jackson Hole, Wyoming campsite and drove all the way with us to Baker, California.

Can you imagine the surprise on his tiny face – this descendent of cool and hardy Teton rodents - when he jumped from the backseat of our old Ford and hit the hot rocks of the Mojave Desert?

I witnessed the escape, but not his face, as it was near midnight and dimly lit in front of the old diner off Baker Boulevard – the one that beckoned to weary humans, such as us, with its promise of air conditioning and ice cold malted milkshakes.   But as it was still a hundred plus degrees that stifling August night, half a century ago, I can only imagine the shock and dismay that must have wilted the whiskers on our diminutive traveling companion as he scampered off into the sagebrush and cactus – a thousand miles from home – at the very Gateway to Death Valley itself.

I have often thought of him over the decades – especially when we pass through the town of Baker.

Chances are that he was toast by morning.

But then again, I like to think that he not only survived, but thrived – and has since spawned a hardy race of mountain-desert mice – the very likes with which the tiny town of Baker still contends.

I’ll have to ask our favorite waitress about such mighty mice the next time we are drawn into the local Denny’s there off Baker Boulevard – the one with its promise of air conditioning and ice cold malted milkshakes.  For I believe it now sits where the old diner of long ago once beckoned to fellow travelers – four and two-legged alike.

Showstopper

Showstopper

Noel Laflin

2-10-16

Sammy Rodriguez and I were yammering away when the massive shadow glided across the grass, halting our conversation in mid-sentence.  It was a showstopper of a moment.

Out of the corner of my eye I spied a large black and white osprey swooping up the slope and landing atop a large sycamore standing directly before us. There are dozens of these beautiful shade trees scattered across the hillsides of our little park and pond out this way in East El Modena - and this fellow chose the tallest.

And there he stayed, the osprey that is, for the next fifteen minutes or so, as I quietly moved about the grass and pathway straining for the perfect photo.

Sam eventually headed for home and I made myself comfortable, squatting low with my back against the pond’s fence, still aiming up and away.  I clicked off a hundred frames, at least. There wasn't another soul in sight.  I reveled in my good fortune.

I got off one last lucky shot as the bird prepared to jump, gracefully lifting itself into a smooth glide, heading due north.  He flew directly over the head of a fellow jogging up the path – the only other human to share in this magical moment. He later told me that it was the massive shadow that caused him to look skyward as well.

 

Now, I have seen Cooper’s hawks, an American kestrel, herons of all sorts, cormorants, and even egrets all land in this very tree – but never an osprey.

I have begun to picture the day when I’ll bear witness to a bald eagle landing in this old sycamore, checking out our little waterway.

 

One can only hope.

Africa Calling

Africa Calling

Noel Laflin

1-27-16

Johnnie and Bonnie, two charming lasses, came to Africa on a whim.

 

They told their boyfriends that they needed a holiday, just the two best friends, and that they’d be back at the end of the month.

They fell in love with the continent instead, and had already overstayed their promise of return by six months at the time of our meeting, some twenty years ago, in a remote national park in northern Zambia.

I was privy to their confession of adventure as we sat about a campfire late one September night listening to the call of lions on either side of our encampment.

“And then there was Tanzania, and the climb of Kilimanjaro,” Johnnie enthused, taking another swig from the bottle of wine we passed about one to another.

A lion roared in the distance.

“Noel,” you need to come back next year, after the rains, and promise that you’ll do the climb with us,” said Bonnie. “One can fall in love up there,” she sighed.

An answering bellow from across the ravine punctuated the impromptu invitation.

“We know the way now,” chimed Johnnie.

 

The call of the first big cat sounded closer now.

“We’ll still be here,” said Bonnie, taking hold of Johnnie’s hand.

The second cat’s roar was definitely closer too.

“What about your boyfriends?” I gently enquired, setting the empty bottle aside, and reaching for a new one.

“The lads can wait,” answered Bonnie, handing me a corkscrew.

Both lions let out such a deep and prolonged cry of distress - so close to our little fire – that I felt obliged to toss another branch or two upon the dwindling flames.

“You know,” sighed Johnnie, pulling Bonnie close, “we just may never go home again.”

The thundering silence from the dark was deafening.

Absent Friends

Absent Friends

Noel Laflin

1-22-16

A former school chum - perhaps one of my very first long-time pals in life - has alerted folks, some from as far back as elementary school, that a mutual classmate and friend has died.

The tributes and memories from an era long gone are pouring in, as they rightly should.

He was a popular boy - blessed with good looks, a keen sense of humor, an honest smile.  And he grew up to become a good man.

Should there be another formal class reunion, his name will appear on the memorial board that will greet us as we sign in and pick up our name tags – the ones bearing a grainy black and white photo of how we once looked nearly fifty years ago.

And then we’ll stop to ponder his name, along with the ever growing list of others placed upon that cold board, sadly updated over five and ten year increments.  There will be some audible gasps as we note a name and photo of a classmate for whom we were not aware of his or her passing - who was here – what, ten or was it really twenty years ago already …

When we were young we were instructed to answer ‘present’ at every class roll call.

If we did not respond, our teachers checked the ‘absent’ box next to our name on the clipboard.

There will be the pang of memory for the very ones that we had so much looked forward to seeing again – only to be told by this stark reminder of a different kind of checked box upon a very different type of board - that they would be absent this day.

My Father Taught

My Father Taught

Noel Laflin

January 13, 2016

(To note a 100^th birthday)

My father taught me right-from-wrong,

Mumbley-peg, and silly songs.

He built a clock when I was young;

I have it yet – and it still runs.

For this and more - I am quite glad,

Thank you father - miss you, dad.

Toward the End

Toward the End 

Noel Laflin

1-11-16

Toward the end of father’s life,

Ice cold water did suffice,

To quench the hunger, thirst, desire,

Of a life now low on fire.

There’d been a time when he burned,

With youthful flame and in return,

Drank from the cup we call full measure,

Thanking life for such a treasure.

But now his days were few in number,

As he slipped unencumbered,

Off to shores yet unseen,

Except of course in his dreams.

And so he had one last sip,
From the glass held to his lip,
He murmured thanks to those who held,
Elixirs cool - the thirst now quelled. 

.

Took the Hurt

Took the Hurt

Noel Laflin

1-10-16

A kind lad told me long ago,

Veiled in a cry, whispered low,

'I'd take a hurt - never give one.'

Soft the words from one so young.

I knew the fear, recalled a past

When love was lost in a lapse. 

And so I promised not to be,

The one to hurt - nor deceive. 

But I failed in this endeavor,

Losing trust altogether.

So now you know who cried the day,

He took the hurt - walked away.