The Bells of St. Mary's

The Bells of St. Mary’s

Noel Laflin

12-25-17

There’s a scene from the classic movie, ‘The Bells of St. Mary’s,’ where Ingrid Bergman’s character buys a book on boxing by former 1920’s heavyweight champion, Gene Tunney.  Bergman plays a nun – to Bing Crosby’s portrayal of Father O’Malley – so that she can teach one of her students how to box.  The boy needs to deal with a bully and the good sister becomes his new manager on the art of gentlemanly fisticuffs.

I know all of this as I caught the movie last night.  I had never seen it all the way through before.

When the Tunney reference came up I suddenly flashed to election night, November 1970.  I was in an elevator with the legendary, Gene Tunney.

We were at the Ambassador Hotel, having just watched his son, the newly elected junior senator from California give his victory speech.  He gave it in the same room where Robert Kennedy had delivered his victory speech just two years prior.  It was a strange moment to be in that room with a young senator clearly on the move up the political rungs.

Having worked for the Tunney campaign, I was granted a place at the Ambassador that night.

And when we were on our way down, in that elevator a short time later, there I was with the senator’s father, the former champ.  He was in a jocular mood.  It probably ranked right up there with defeating Jack Dempsey – twice.

The new senator would only serve one term, and the champ, his dad, would pass away eight years later.

A legendary Swedish actress, portraying a nun in a 1945 classic, brought to light the memory of a different kind of victory all these years later.

Never Too Late

Never Too Late

Noel Laflin

12-25-17

A friend recently remarked that she wished she had been journaling more of her life.

My advice to her was to just start doing so now, as it’s never too late.

I started to write down my stories/remembrances/ musings right about the time I turned fifty. I did so primarily because I feared forgetfulness.

As I read back on some older entries, I realize that this was a pretty wise decision on my part because I am not sure if I would be able to tell that same particular story now with the same detail that I possessed at the time of the telling. Like I said, I feared, and continue to fear forgetfulness.

But taking the time, at any age, to reflect on our youth magnifies everything, doesn't it?

Ah, nostalgia ... whether it be for beloved friends, lovers, family, old neighbors, teachers, pets or the sweet aroma of butterscotch and vanilla cast about the forest by giant Jeffrey pines on a warm summer day. It all blends and blurs the past quite nicely for me.

Thus, remembrances evolve over time, taking the sharp corners off some unpleasant memories or unearthing a forgotten kindness and showing it the light of day. Consequently, there are some thoughts you just have to try and put into words, even when you know in advance that mere words will most likely fail you.

Christmas Eve 2017

Christmas Eve 2017

Noel Laflin

Memories of early childhood involved the unwrapping of just one gift on Christmas Eve, candlelight church services, and playing the part of a Wise Man – with faded striped towel over the head and staff in hand.

Later, there was the year that I was disappointed when I did not get the fancy, newfangled pair of roller skates that I had requested. I wish I could travel back in time and wipe that disappointment off my face, as my mother clearly saw it.

Two doors down the street, German neighbors taught me how to toast many a Christmas Eve with dark beer laced with raspberry syrup. They were also the beloved couple desperately trying to get through jammed long- distance phone lines to relatives trapped in mid-sixties East Berlin. Some years they were successful and sometimes not. I was their gardener for many years and was paid in real silver half dollars each week. There was always a silver dollar for Christmas as well. I have every one to this day.

And there was the Christmas Eve that I helped a young hitchhiking runaway with his escape from juvenile hall. I then bought him a parting meal at McDonald's before he hit the road once more, just trying to get home for Christmas.

There was also the Christmas Eve, when I was so broke, that all of my Christmas gifts to family and friends were used books wrapped in the Sunday comics. But they were good books, all personally read by me. My lover and I set a limit of five dollars each as our Christmas gift giving budget for one another that year. That same young man would die on Christmas Eve thirteen years later. But I still have the Rod Steward album that he gave me for Christmas, 1979. It remains one of the most memorable times of my life.

Some loves would come and stay for awhile. Sometimes they left sooner than later, and Christmas Eves were a bit lonelier.

Over time there would be family Christmas Eve celebrations with first a nephew, and then nieces. Eventually a daughter would be tearing through the wrapping paper on Christmas Eve. That daughter now has a husband and I, in turn, now have a wonderful son-in-law.

I have been fortunate enough to share the last seventeen Christmas Eves with Davy. Three years ago tonight we were hiking through a beautiful Taiwanese National Park, in search of a magnificent waterfall. We found it.

All in all, any Christmas Eve continues to be memorable.

Thank you for allowing me to share some of those memories with you.

Shortest Day - Longest Night

Shortest Day - Longest Night

Noel Laflin

12-21-17

My friend Ally could type like a fiend, cook like a pro, and build the most beautiful Christmas Village one could ever hope to lay eyes upon. Her laugh was infectious and the coffee pot was always brewing in her kitchen. What more could you ask for?

She made you feel welcome in both her home and garden; the first a tribute to good taste and tidiness - the second, a masterpiece in opulence and beauty.

And these were just a few of her talents.

Ally was one of the finest friends anyone could hope for - my good friend of thirty-six years.

She left us today - the shortest day of the year - and now, the longest night. I've got lines of Robert Frost bouncing around my noggin at present.

I have opened a bottle of wine and just may finish it - after all, it is the longest night of the year and I have a lot of toasting ahead of me.

Snippets

Snippets from ten consecutive years of the folks’ annual Christmas letters. Susi sent these to me the other day. They are a little goldmine into the past regarding goodbyes, longings, advancements, passing's, a wedding, retirement, and love. I clearly see my mother’s influence on my own writing style.

“Greetings from the California Laflins 1968

In February we said goodbye to Bobby, who left with a great many other Marines for Vietnam. We knew of his leaving only a few days in advance, and had only a few hours with him at camp before he left.  Naturally, there have been hours of anxiety during these past month, and much writing and receiving of letters.”

“Christmas Greetings 1969

Last year our Christmas extended well into February, when we welcomed Bobby back from a year in Vietnam and rejoiced with him as he made the transition from Marine to civilian shortly after his return.”

“Holiday Wishes to Family and Friends 1970

This year Susie (a sophomore) and Noel are back at the same school – Anaheim High.  Noel, who is a senior still finds journalism tops – and is enjoying all phases of writing.”

“Anaheim, California – Christmas 1971

May each of you find some time during these busy days to get away from all the stress of preparation for Christmas – and hear the angels sing.”

“December 1972

Noel dreams of completing a log cabin begun last summer at Boy Scout camp and another summer living and working among the pines high in the San Bernardino Mountains.”

“Let Us Keep Christmas – 1973

Bob had another trip back to St. Paul during the Thanksgiving holidays.  Best of all, it gave him an opportunity to visit with his mother, who will be 90 years old December 30^th.

“To Members of our Family and our Many Good Friends – 1974

Bob was happy to visit with so many of you last summer and again in September when he flew back to the Lake City- St. Paul area because of the death of his mother.  He was grateful for his good visit with her last summer when she was still able to enjoy people and the happenings about her.”

“Christmas 1975

In our quiet mood of reflection we remember old friends – many of whom we keep in touch with only through a Christmas card or letter. Many times pictures or snaps make us realize how quickly the little ones have become teenagers or young adults.  Bob and I are still working – but look forward to retirement in a few years. And we are wondering where to retire – here in our own home which means much to us, but which is becoming too large and is too much to take care of.”

“Christmas is Remembering – 1976

Either the house is over-flowing with people or Bob, the dog and I roam through vacant rooms.  The family becomes smaller each year.”

“Christmas 1977

Since our last Christmas letter we have gained a daughter. Bobby was married last month in a beautiful ceremony and we welcomed with much pleasure and pride his bride into our family.

Son number two, Noel, has advanced to a new and more challenging district as Boy Scout executive.

Susie, with a college degree under her belt since last May, is giving the business world a whirl.

Last June I retired as a teacher aide.  Bob is looking forward to his retirement next month.  For the time being we shall keep our present residence of over twenty-six years as our home base.

A VERY MERY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND A GREAT NEW YEAR.

Bob and Vi”

New Neighbors

New Neighbors

Noel Laflin

12-17-17

With just the slightest amount of trepidation, I walked next door to welcome our new neighbors.

They were sorting through their recently delivered belongings, stacked high in the garage. I could see that progress was being made.

Turns out to be an older couple, somewhere near my age I guess. Wow, just pairing 'older couple' with 'near my age' is something I've never owned up to before.

Regardless, they are extremely nice folks.

Praise sweet baby Jesus & all the saints! I may not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination – but there just might be a god after all.

I can say this plainly enough as the last tenants were young drunken buffoons in love with massive sound systems.

When they finally left a couple of months back, I turned my stereo up, just ever so slightly, popped a nice bottle of wine, and toasted our new found peace with the Hallelujah Chorus.

But then I began to worry as to who would take their place since it’s been hit or miss when it comes to tenants in this unit over the years.

However, it looks like Christmas came early, as I have just left the garage next door, not having seen a single woofer speaker anywhere in sight.

Fireflies

Fireflies

Noel Laflin

12-15-17

Two boys sat on a log watching twilight turn to dark.

The younger one had been quietly crying – while the other, his best friend and neighbor from three doors down back home, tried to cheer him; thus far, to no avail.  The pair had wandered away from the rest of the kids after dinner, taking refuge on a fallen tree, listening to a nearby creek make its way downstream.

Suddenly, tiny glowing specks began to flicker at the edge of the woods.

“Fireflies!” Kris gasped.

“Really?” asked his friend, wiping away a tear.  It was his first night at summer camp and he was already terribly homesick.

 

“Dang, no one is going to believe this,” Kris said, jumping up and dancing with excitement.

“I’ve never seen one,” said the younger boy, tears now gone.

“Me neither; they’re not supposed to be here,” the older, wiser of the two explained.  At fifteen, he ought to know, thought the other boy.  As he’d known him all his life, if he said something was true, well, that was proof enough for him.

“I have always been told they don’t come west of the Rockies,” Kris said, taking off his cap, swatting madly, trying to trap one of the twinkling bugs.

“I bet they’ve come to cheer you up – take your mind off of things,” he concluded.  “We’d never have seen these if we’d stayed at home!”

And there was truth in that too, I thought, now laughing and dancing crazily about, trying to capture a little fire in my hands.

Their unexpected, glowing arrival had already warmed my heart, dried the tears, and chased thoughts of home far away.

Overdue Thank You

Overdue Thank You

Noel Laflin

October, 2017

I’d like to find Bob Kirkpatrick again.

Being a few years older than me, and much cooler, he was one of the guys I looked up to during my early years at Camp Ahwahnee.
He was running the Senior Patrol Leader area in 1969, up until he had some sort of disagreement with management and left the mountain. I missed him upon his leaving.

However, before he left, I clearly remember the two of us walking on the road above the camp craft area one day. We stopped to watch some kids lashing together a monkey bridge.

Turning to me, he told me about his impending departure and how he really only had one regret at that point. He regretted that he would never have a chance to direct pioneering merit badge candidates in the building of a real log cabin.

“Think of it,” Bob said, “kids getting the chance to build their own cabin! It would probably take all summer, but it could be done. They’d carve their names in the logs, along with the date, and drag their folks over to see their handiwork every Saturday morning before they headed down the hill. It would sure beat the lashing together of a monkey bridge or tower.”

Bob was gone by the next day, but his words to me that afternoon took root.

Isn’t it funny how one passing comment by a long lost friend can stick with you for a length of time and then become your own dream later on?

I owe so much to a host of staff mentors at Ahwahnee. And I have been able to thank most of them over the decades.

 
But I never did see Bob again unfortunately.

 
Should our paths ever cross once more, however, boy do I have a story for him – not to mention a long overdue, ‘Thank You.’

I'll Shoot for Christmas

I’ll Shoot for Christmas

Noel Laflin

12-13-17

Its two days before Christmas – and my Colorado godparents have just motored into town in their old VW Bug. Boogle, the dog, is riding shotgun.

Within an hour of their arrival, the elderly German couple two doors down have joined the welcoming committee.  It is our annual celebration of family, friendship, and food.

We are soon off to the German deli way across the city and are quickly filling a shopping cart with the likes of Gouda, brie, and stinky cheese.  Various boxes of crackers are tossed alongside cellophane packages of German cookies, and freshly baked loaves of rye bread.  Dark bottles of cloudy, sediment-laden Berliner Weisse beer clink against tins of sardines and oysters packed in oil. Butcher paper covered slabs of cold cuts, and spooky jars of pickled herring soon join the food melee brewing in our cart.

As we near the checkout counter, one of the adults remembers the raspberries.

Along the way home, there is a stop at See’s Candy – and the food pilgrimage is complete.

There seems to be no set eating schedule in the short time leading up to Christmas.   Instead, the old kitchen table is in constant motion as all of the German delicacies fight for space alongside my mother’s Norwegian leftse and kringle.  Half a dozen different types of homemade Christmas cookies, creamy fudge, and boxes of See’s candy are crammed next to platters of pickles, olives, sliced carrots, celery, and blue cheese dressing – which seemingly goes with just about everything.

And the coffee pot is always percolating.

After mom’s traditional Christmas feast of roast turkey, with all the sides, we eventually make our way over to the old German couple’s home where the Berliner Weisse beer is ceremoniously poured into giant glass steins.  At the bottom of each glass sits a generous amount of raspberry syrup.  The foam, a bright raspberry-red, overflows the glasses.  Toasts in English, German, and Norwegian are made as the heavy steins are raised and clinked.

Even the kids are allowed a slurp.  Raspberry foam drips from the tip of my nose.

In the play ‘Our Town,’ the protagonist, Emily, is given the chance to choose any day in which to relive.  She chooses her twelfth birthday, but soon regrets her decision and returns to the cemetery disappointed that people live their lives without appreciating or sharing the moment of living.

And as much as I love Thornton Wilder, if I am ever given such an opportunity to choose a day (or night) to relive, I’ll shoot for Christmas in Anaheim, circa 1965, and belatedly return to the graveyard very full, and probably slightly tipsy, but most appreciative for the moment of living.

Prepare to be Awarded!

“Prepare to be Awarded!”

Noel Laflin

12-9-17

Publisher’s Clearing House is on a roll and I am growing more excited by the day.

My inbox is bursting with their barrage of assurances that I am but just one more step away from having the PCH Prize Patrol show up at my door three days before Christmas with an over-sized check bearing my name!

Yes, I do need to click the ‘search button’ just once more in order to qualify.  Thus, I randomly choose a new category each time.  Consequently I know much more about dental implants, home delivered meals for old and young alike, screen doors, anti-wrinkle cream, home fitness equipment, diet plans, remodeling sites, job postings, and email marketing.

Although those last two searches seem a bit ironic, it’ll all be worth it come December 22!

Like a dreamy-eyed Clark Griswold, I have, in my mind, already spent my five thousand dollars-a-week-for-life future fortune.

So, those guys had better show up - and with balloons and flowers too.

For, like a Christmas Vacation ending, it would be pretty disappointing to end up with nothing more than a Jelly of the Month membership.

Shoot, I had better click on that sweet site too, just to cover my bases.

Murmurs Past

Murmurs Past

Noel Laflin

12-7-17

It’s Pearl Harbor Day, and I am reminded of my father recalling how he attempted to enlist in the military shortly thereafter.

An Army doctor determined that he had a heart murmur, and was thus turned away.

A few months later, he married my mom.

Then a draft notice arrived.

The war in both the Pacific as well as in Europe was not going well for the Allies at that point.

The doctor who listened to my father’s heart at the next medical examination could find nothing wrong whatsoever.  My dad was suddenly a soldier.

My father always marveled at the advance in medicine in just a few months time.

When he died at the age of 91, his heart was not the issue.   It was beating strong up until the very end.

I guess he was right about the marvels of medicine – not to mention the need for a lot more soldiers.

Aunt Julia's Gifts

Aunt Julia’s Gifts

Noel Laflin

12-4-17

We shook every package each time we spied the tree.

 

‘Will the day never get here?’ we asked one another repeatedly.

And then Christmas Eve would arrive, and one – and only one gift could be opened that night. The rest, along with whatever Santa might deliver had to wait until morning.

I always went for Aunt Julia’s present first.

From far away Minnesota came the likes of wonderful toys each year: a windup, cymbal-clanging monkey; a child-sized hurdy-gurdy cranking out tinny tunes; a new teddy bear …

As the years went by, and we entered our teens, Aunt Julia’s gifts kept coming.

But the presents arriving during the late 1960’s were still meant for children of an age now passed: kids books; brightly colored Christmas socks that could only fit an eight-year-old; stuffed animals …

We had not aged in her eyes.

Her gifts were tested by a touch, and when it was apparent that another pair of squishy-feeling Christmas socks had been sent, her tokens of love were pushed to the back of the tree and opened last.

Begrudgingly, at the urging of parents, I sent the required thank you card nonetheless.

While on a summer trip to visit grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins – back in 1970, Aunt Julia died.  I was seventeen.

I remember having a twinge of guilt as my cousins and I helped carry her casket from the church to the graveyard, wishing I had written more sincere thank you cards.

And I’d give a lot nowadays to wind up a long lost clanging monkey and listen to him crazily bang those cymbals together just once more.

Hitchhiking Karma

Hitchhiking Karma

Noel Laflin

12-3-17

I could see the plumes of frosty breath as I came around the curve.

The young man shivering by the side of the road, the one in a thin flannel shirt and dingy sweat pants had his thumb out.

It was the very early morning of Christmas Eve, 1970. Richard Nixon was president, Vietnam was still sending home body bags, and I would be turning eighteen in two days. My name would soon be added to next year’s Selective Service lottery. I was looking for all the good karma I could gather on that particular early morning drive home from chilly Lake Elsinore.

Pulling over, I rolled down the window and told the kid to hop in.

As he slid into the passenger seat, I noticed that he was not wearing any shoes. His sweat socks were caked in mud and grime. He saw me looking at his feet and immediately apologized for the mess oozing onto the floor mat.

“I had to leave in a hurry,” he said by way of explanation. “They take our shoes away from us at night so we won’t run away. I ran anyway.”

Turning up the heater and sliding the lever to foot level, I saw the kid move his feet to the lower vent where the warm air flowed. He leaned back in the seat and shivered.

Once we had cleared a few miles down the lonely tree-lined road, he opened up some more about his current shoe-less, jacket-less circumstances. He had just escaped a juvenile detention center and was heading home for Christmas, he told me matter-of-factually. As home was an uncle’s house, and me being of an age that admired both initiative and defiance, as well as being in need of good future karma (especially being Christmas Eve and all), well, I was happy to be the getaway guy.

We made it into town about seven that morning, passing the time in silence mostly. He had thawed out pretty well by then.

We pulled through a Mac Donald’s and I ordered him a couple of cheeseburgers, an order of fries and a hot coffee. You could get all that for less than a buck back then, which was good, as that was about all the money I had on me. I knew that I had a warm meal waiting for me once I got home.

The last I saw of the young shoe-less escapee, he was heading down the street, balancing a hot cup of coffee and a Mac Donald’s bag in one hand, and greedily chowing down on a cheeseburger. His thumb was out between bites.

I trust he made it to his uncle's house for Christmas. I hope there would be new socks, shoes, and a warm jacket waiting for him under the tree.

As luck would have it later, my lottery number turned out being a safe one.

And, twice later in my life, I’d be rescued by good Samaritans offering me lifts as I stood by the side of desolate roads, thumb extended, no questions asked, just a nod to get in.

I was fortunate enough, both times, to be wearing shoes.

Christmas Cards

Christmas Cards

Noel Laflin

11-27-17

The first Christmas cards have begun to arrive.

Inevitably, there will be those filled with smiling family members, and updates on the latest travel, achievements, graduations, marriages, passing’s, etc.

My mom and dad were into homemade cards – back in the day.  It became a family project what with all of the cutting, pasting, typing, and hand addressing of all those envelopes.

One year, we all traipsed off to the Silhouette Shop on Disneyland s Main Street in order to have our portraits made.  I wanted to stay the day of course, but that didn’t happen unfortunately.  We had to go home and start making copies of our new silhouettes.  Then we all had to sign or print our names beneath our individual portraits.  I must have been about seven or eight at the time, so my printing was pretty horrendous.  It hasn’t improved much over the years, according to family and friends.

Another year, my dad and I scoured the city looking for miniature harmonicas that were to be tied, ever so tediously, with red ribbon to each card.  As the harmonicas were only about half an inch long, they did not carry much of a tune.

I recall a card where the latest family achievements were typed out in the form of a Christmas tree.  Now, that took some doing on the part of my folks.  It probably fell to my dad to do all that typing as he was a whiz on the old family upright Smith Corona.

But at some point in time, the homemade family card production went out of business.

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

I just came across a snap shot taken a couple of years back at my brother’s house.  I remember sharing it in an email with my sister-in-law afterward.

“Honey,” she responded in a follow-up email, “don’t you have any normal pictures of our family?”

“Sarah,” I replied back, “this is as good as it gets.”

Now, I understand why we rarely used family photos on all of those homemade cards.

500 Miles

500 Miles

Noel Laflin

11-25-17

Rudimentary estimates put us at five hundred miles walking together over the last year and a half. It could be more or less, but as we never keep close tabs on the distances, five hundred it is for now.

That's a nice round number to have walked beside a good friend.

And during all that walking, I bet at least a hundred thousand frames have been clicked on our two cameras. Again, another nice round number, despite the fact that most end up in the delete bin. But those we decide to keep, and in most instances share here with both new and old friends alike, make the photo journey all worthwhile.

But putting a numerical value on a forty-year friendship, and a shared love of nature, in all its glory, and with all its oddities, can't really be quantified.

So, here's to the next five hundred miles, Jay Spring.

And here's to finding out what awaits us around the next bend, and in yonder tree.

Hand Over the Monkey

Hand Over the Monkey

Noel Laflin

11-18-17

“Noel, it’s time to give the monkey to the nice lady,” urged our den mother.

 

“I think I want to keep him,” whispered eight-year-old me.

 

Joy Looney smiled at the nice lady holding a box full of homemade sock monkeys before returning her attention back my way.

 

“All of the other boys have given her their monkeys,” Mrs. Looney reasoned. “You know he’s going to be loved by someone very special,” she bartered.

 

“But I love him too,” I countered coyly as I had fondly taken to the soft red, brown, and cream creation that had taken me three Saturdays to cut, stitch and stuff during our weekly den meetings in Mrs. Looney’s garage.

 

And now, when it actually came time to hand over my proud masterpiece to the nice lady from the hospital – the one who would see to it that it made its way to some girl or boy who would benefit from the gift - I hesitated, chocked, blanched, and bargained.

 

It was only momentary hesitation, chocking, blanching, and bargaining on my part mind you, as you may have caught on by now, but there it all was nonetheless.

 

However, with the tact of Solomon and the patience of Job, Mrs. Looney eventually convinced me to put my monkey in the box with the others and led me back to my waiting mates.

 

No one teased me about the incident that I can recall.

 

I suspect some might have had similar thoughts of reluctance in handing over their monkeys as well.

Rib Eyes and Pumpkin Pie

Rib Eyes and Pumpkin Pie

Noel Laflin

11-15-17

After my mother’s death, my father and I would torment one another, reminiscing about, and at length, her fine cooking skills – especially around the holidays.

Thanksgiving Day was probably mom’s masterpiece as the food was fantastic, not to mention plentiful – plentiful enough that we frequently set the table for ten or more.  A revolving door of old-time neighbors, friends, former teachers, a beloved school janitor, and total strangers joined us year after year.  It is also what always brought me back home at least once a year.

But after mom died, we both realized that the traditional feast was never going to be the same again.

So, we did what guys do in such a situation and began a new tradition of barbecuing steaks on Thanksgiving.

Rib eyes and corn on the cob now took the place of turkey and stuffing.  Caesar salad and baked beans replaced cranberry relish and sweet potatoes. We toasted with ice cold beer instead of wine.

But, we stuck with pumpkin pie for dessert.

I mean, there are some traditions with which you just do not mess.

Small Victories

Small Victories

Noel Laflin

11-13-17

Sam calls me the prophet, and I call him the enforcer.

 

Between the two of us, along with others in the neighborhood, we keep an eye on our little pond – home to countless ducks, coots, turtles, and at least fifty species of birds that depend on this small water treatment reservoir in the heart of El Modena, at the far end of the city.

Over the years we have thrown out trespassing teenage fishermen – hoping to score selfies with their catches - scared the be-jesus out of rock-throwing children – aiming for ducks of course - and today staved off a small ecological disaster brought on by an unfortunate sewage spill into the pond some ten days ago.

As raw sewage rushed into the drains which feed the canal - which, in turn feed the pond - local agencies jumped into action, determining that the pond must be drained.  All two million gallons.

Water levels dropped to alarming levels.  By Thursday, hundreds of small feeder fish were beginning to die, due to lack of oxygen.  By today, larger fish were beginning to perish in the mudflats being left behind.  I was documenting it all with photos, and private messaging the local water agency with concern for the outcome.

 

The water district told me that it was the responsibility of the city to deal with the issue.  City workers were pointing fingers back at the water district for not providing updated water contamination reports.

All the while, the water level continued to drop and more fish were dying.  It wasn’t beginning to smell so swell downwind of the pond either.

It seemed to me that the draining needed to be stopped, and fresh water allowed to flow from the canal back into the pond in order to restore the needed balance.

Sam and I huddled briefly before approaching both city workers, as well as a representative from the water district. They stood by the pond, passively watching the water continue to flow out.  They all claimed to be middle men just following orders to drain the pond entirely.

We laid out our argument as to the folly of what they were doing, and demanded to know who they reported to respectively.  Names of supervisors, along with phone numbers for both the city and water district were eventually given to us, as it was apparent to all that we were not going to leave.

Sam, a true community organizer, got through to both fellows in charge and laid out our concerns.  He let both the city and water district know that we were prepared to go to the press immediately, with lots of photos in hand, and demand an explanation as to the inability of the two entities to work out their differences and avoid a very nasty ecological disaster.  No one, Sam assured them, wanted to see hundreds of dead fish and turtles in either the Times, Register or on social media, when it was all so unnecessary.

Within an hour, phones calls and private Face book messages from both the city and the water district were returned, assuring us that the pumping had been ordered to stop and that fresh water would be allowed to flow back into the reservoir.  By early afternoon, both things happened.  I called Sam with the good news that the pond was filling up once again.

Who says you can’t fight city hall – or a powerful water district for that matter?

Garden Glass

Garden Glass

10-23-17

Digging in the garden the other day, I came across a broken champagne glass hiding a couple of inches beneath a stepping stone.  There is not much to it – just its base and the stub of a stem.  It still has a pinkish hue.  I recognize it, as there used to be a set.  There is still one in the cupboard.

How it came to be here, however, I don’t recall.

Was it knocked from the balcony ledge by a tipsy, clumsy guest during some forgotten party?  Or for that matter, was the tipsy, clumsy guest the host?

Or, maybe we’d decided to bring in a new decade by tossing glasses against the fence at the stroke of midnight.  Naw, we always threw them into the fireplace.

Then again, I remember a New Year’s Eve party hosted by my daughter, while I was conveniently out of the country a number of years back; I still have household objects stained with remnants of spilled champagne.

Not knowing how the glass ended up in the garden is really all right by me, as small mysteries such as this inevitably lead to fine memories of good times past.

But as I just checked the cupboard once more, I now notice that all the former sets of champagne glasses are down to just one soldier each.

 

Consequently, from here on out, guests and hosts alike are relegated to Dixie cups.

Lost Secret

Lost Secret

Noel Laflin

10-19-17

We came upon the huge nest in early February.  It was a lone hawk flying into a tall, well hidden sycamore that told us we had potentially stumbled on to something special.

And special it was.  Over the next four months my friend Jay and I made numerous treks across Irvine Park’s Santiago Creek – sometimes flowing with water as La Nina blessed us with downpours – but often times dry as a bone; we entered the thick grove of sycamores, oaks, poison oak, and clinging fox tails, wound our way down an overlooked, narrow trail, and grew quiet as we neared our viewing spot.

Initially easy to locate, as there were few leaves in winter, the nest became more difficult to spot over time once new growth began to fill the woods – especially large green sycamore leaves.

We must have circled the tree a dozen times trying to find a vantage point by which to aim our cameras and spy up and into the leafy avian world above.  As it turned out, there was really only one place to shoot.  It was probably half the length of a football field away, and several stories up. But that is where we stood, aimed, and hoped for the best, week after week.

We kept the exact location of the nest very secret.  In fact, it was so well camouflaged that by the first day of spring we frequently lost sight of the secret altogether, even when standing directly beneath it.

By early May, we were rewarded with the sighting of a downy head popping up through the dense leaves in the dark mass, very well hidden, swaying in the breeze way above.  Jay had determined early on, with the numerous sightings of the parents, that this was a red-shouldered hawk family.  By mid month we had further determined that it was a family of five altogether – proud parents and their offspring.

The three youngsters all fledged and flew the nest by early June. We documented their individual flights of freedom for weeks.  We last saw one being fed in the center of the park, marveling at its rapid growth and curious nature.  As Jay noted, “It was amazing to watch nature and the interaction of the hawks.  It was especially amazing to watch the chicks grow, test their wings and finally fledge.”

The massive Canyon Two fire destroyed our secret location in October of 2017, along with much of the entire grove of lush oaks and sycamores that stretches along the creek bed.  Getting as close as the massive cordoned-off area allowed, we peered through our camera lenses, looking for anything familiar. We eventually saw the remains of a sycamore tree that was once difficult to find.  There was a dark charred spot, way up that tree, right about where a well-camouflaged nest once lay.