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.