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.

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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?