Clocks and Guests

Clocks and Guests

Noel Laflin

5-24-18

It’s a noisy house at the top of the hour here when four of our clocks strike their various notes.

My father’s hand built grandmother's clock chimes in at the top of the stairs, deep and melodic, first with the Westminster Chimes, followed by resonating bongs to note the hour. The sound reverberates throughout the house - even downstairs. I am reminded of dad every time, and on each quarter hour as well. I love hearing midnight strike most of all as I am drifting off to sleep.

Four little gold men then rise on their pedestals and proceed to strike their hammers on twinkling white bells. This clock can be found in the dining room. Their striking of the hour is then followed by one of six classical tunes. Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ is my favorite. When I have been drinking, I sing out loud to ‘Deutschland, Deutschland.’ Why that tune was placed in the repertoire, I am not sure. But there it is at four and ten each day and night. Usually it just reminds me that I’m out of beer.

The downstairs cuckoo clock has been going strong for over twenty years now. As I bought it used, I have no idea how long it has really been in play. It annoys some overnight guests, however, and out of kindness I will stop the pendulum upon request. I do miss the noting of the early morning hour when thus disengaged, not to mention the whirlwind renditions of either 'Laura's Theme' or 'Edelweiss.' But guests eventually do leave.

And lastly, there is the animal clock in the guest bedroom. I don’t disengage this clock as I like to surprise overnight sleepers with its wild elephant trumpet leading off at six each morning.

As I noted, guests do eventually leave – some, sooner than others.

Shake and Guess

Shake and Guess

Noel Laflin

5-20-18

My father always used to carry one of these for his change.

When we were young, and dad was in a generous mood, he'd shake the purse and ask my sister and me to guess the amount. 

If we were within three cents either way of the correct amount we got to split the winnings.

It was always under a buck.

But with practice you learned to listen for the distinct sound of a half dollar clunking around in there, which always spurned us on to guess high.

And sometimes we even nailed it to the penny.

Was a pretty big deal back then, and still a fond memory shared by both Susi and myself.

What the Other Side is Thinking

5-18-18

William Herndon, Abraham Lincoln’s law partner in Illinois, was astounded by the fact that Lincoln religiously read two of the most prominent Southern newspapers each day.

He asked his partner about it one time, knowing that Lincoln was vehemently anti-slavery, and that the Southern rags of the time proclaimed differently - frequently quoting scripture to bolster their point.

Lincoln calmly remarked that it was helpful to know what the other side was thinking.

I think the logic still holds true today.

Immerse yourself on all sides of a debate.

It’s helpful to know what the other side is thinking.

Just in Case

Just in Case

Noel Laflin

5-18-18

A few weeks back, my neighbor, Sharon Hayes, rescued a baby hummingbird that could not fly by placing it in a shoe box with the lid pulled back so that the mother could find the youngster and feed it.

A couple of days ago, my friend Maggie Bratcher – out in Arizona - replaced a nest with three baby verdin chicks – a nest that was accidentally cut down with a dead limb – also in a shoe box and returned box and chicks to the tree. The mother has also found them.

Sharon and Maggie both wondered if they had done enough.

I think the answer is obvious.

And if you are still wondering what that answer might be, I’m going to make sure that I always have an extra shoe box or two on hand – just in case.

A Fine Wine Would Be In Order

A Fine Wine Would Be In Order

Noel Laflin

5-17-18

I met a young man named Tom Pistulka, forty years ago today.

He was twenty and I was twenty-five in the spring of 1978.

Over the next eight years he taught me the finer points of gardening, pond and fountain building, caring for koi, and the importance of cross-pollinating to ensure a better plum crop.

In return, I guided him toward the pleasure of reading a good novel.  Up until then, he’d only read technical journals.  He would soon be out-reading me with the likes of Mary Renault and other great authors.

Our homes were always eclectic environments filled with large fish aquariums, bird aviaries, Tom’s artwork, and hundreds of orchids.  We held parties nearly every weekend.

 

We served a sacred punch on high holidays – like the winter and summer solstice and autumnal and spring equinoxes.

Tom was a little heathen at heart, but loved Christmas.  I adopted his pagan ways.

We’d go to the Old Spaghetti Factory on Balboa Island each May 17^th and order a bottle of Petite Sirah to accompany the meal – okay, perhaps two bottles of Petite Sirah - as that was the wine we drank upon our first meeting.

Like too many, we grew apart somewhere in the mid-eighties and became distant for a while.

But when he grew ill in the early nineties, we bonded once more.

I cared for his garden in Ojai when he could not summon the energy to do so.

I slowly walked with him when he wanted to show me a particular giant oak under which he wanted his ashes spread as his departure was drawing near. I was reminded of ‘The Little Prince’ about to summon the snake.  I did not share the thought with Tom.  I was too sad to do so.

I overheard him talking with Jesus when delirium was setting in.

And then Tom died way too soon at age thirty-five on the morning of Christmas Eve, perhaps the day he loved most.

I wish he were still around so that he might come by – today of all days – so that we might reminisce and he could see our garden – the one he laid out some thirty-five years ago.  I’d show him the hummingbird nest in the acacia tree we planted that first year.  He’d be amazed how big that tree is now.

I would tell him how the wild raccoons still pester the koi.  I would ask  his opinion on several gardening questions and plant identification. I would want to know what his latest art projects entailed and how his own, no doubt fabulous, garden was faring.

In return, I’d recommend some good books and show him lots of hummingbird pictures – especially ones taken in the acacia tree.

We’d be two old friends toasting fine memories in the shade of that tree.  A good bottle of Petite Sirah, would be in order.

Elections

Elections

Noel Laflin

5-16-18

Primary election ballots have arrived and I am reminded of how some of my childhood neighbors would seek my mother’s counsel regarding elections past.

Old man Art, a tobacco-spitting cranky racist came to my mother for just such advice some fifty years ago.

“Vi,” he said, “you’re the smartest person I know. Would you kindly mark up my sample ballot for me? I have no idea who these people are.”

So my mother did as requested and marked his sample ballot as she intended to vote.

Art was grateful and followed my mom's suggestions to a tee.

Had he known he’d just voted for the first black man in his life, a fellow running for higher state office – in the field of education, as I recall – Art might have not sought out my mother’s help.

And he was most likely the first Democrat Art ever voted for as well - in fact he voted for a whole bunch of them.

When My Turn Comes

When My Turn Comes

Noel Laflin

5-8-18

When I go, I’d like to leave this world like my old friend, Robin.

She battled cancer armed with some of the most amazing faith, hope, and love I have ever witnessed, knowing full well that her days were numbered.

This did not stop her from positive posts on social media, phone calls to friends across the country, and a deluge of encouraging card-filled words to hundreds across the land.

We became friends at age five when we met in kindergarten but lost track of one another until the age of email.

But I am grateful for the memories both young and old.

Some will know her as Roberta Lynn Brazzle, but I asked her once if I could still call her by the name I came to love sixty years ago, Robin, as Robins are such pretty birds.

She just laughed, and said of course.

Robin would call and send beautiful cards my way, as she did for so many. I have kept them all, knowing that she would be leaving us soon.

In return, I would dedicate pretty bird photos her way, and tried my best to sound as upbeat in my correspondence back her way.

I don’t know if I can ever match her faith or amazingly positive attitude facing an all-too-certain outcome.

But by her unflinching example, I will certainly try, if given the chance, when my turn comes.

Chronicling a Launch

Chronicling a Launch

Noel Laflin

5-5-18

Now it’s true that the launch this early morning of the Mars InSight rocket may not have been as spectacular as the Vandenberg rocket that lit up the California sunset last December. A friend reminded me of that fact about four-fifteen this morning as he too was up at an ungodly hour. But what made this viewing so important to me is that this launch is the first interplanetary mission ever to depart from the West Coast.

And, it’s heading to Mars!

So break out ‘The Martian Chronicles,’ and your Andy Wier – we are heading back to the Red Planet once more to further dig up its secrets.

As Bradbury once borrowed from Whitman, and in turn I now borrow from both gentlemen, ‘I sing the body electric!’ For that is exactly how I felt watching that rocket roar across the dark, passing directly in my sight line of Venus before beginning to climb, and climb, until it was just a red shimmering blip in the heavens – mimicking the very planet it will land upon six months hence.

Penmanship - or the Lack Thereof

Penmanship – or the Lack Thereof

Noel Laflin

May 1, 2018

In reviewing old letters written by my folks, I noted to my sister what fine penmanship they both had – something she inherited, but something that my brother and I did not, sadly.

Case in point: I returned home late from work one evening – some forty two years ago – and found my folks’ house dark and empty.

There was a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table – left there by my brother, which was unusual as he did not live there any longer.

Now, Bobby’s handwriting rivals that of any doctor, but on this occasion it was even worse.

However, what I could make out was that there had been an accident at woodshop – something my dad and brother attended twice a week at the local high school – and that they’d taken my dad to the hospital.

There was more to that note, but I’ll be damned if I could make it out. So there I was, in the dark as to both the nature of the accident as well as to which hospital they’d taken him. I assumed my mom had gone along as well. That was probably in the note too.

Knowing my dad, he probably resisted wanting to go to the hospital, and was thus driven home. My mom must have talked sense into him at that point. Again, these were all speculations on my part, but it accounted for my brother having been at the house. I thought I was getting somewhere.

I eventually found my mother and brother in the waiting room of the third hospital I visited that night. The doctor was just explaining to them, via x-rays, how the surgery to my father’s shattered wrist had gone. It seems a chopping block had gotten stuck in a wood-planer, kicked itself free and then smashed into my dad’s right arm. He would be setting off metal detectors for the rest of his life, but he was mending well, the surgeon assured us.

I was happy with the outcome, but vexed with my brother of course.

However, I should have known straight off which hospital he’d go to in a situation like this, as it was the same one he’d driven me to eight years earlier after I’d broken my leg.

Thus, despite his penmanship, he – like a doctor - is still a good guy to have around in an emergency.