The Letter

The Letter

Noel Laflin

6-14-18

My old friend, Joanie, called me this morning to tell me about a handwritten letter she had just uncovered. I had written it to her forty-one years ago this summer.

As she read it aloud, the time frame and circumstances hauntingly came into focus.

It was a long letter filled with encouragement and thanks. I was a young Scout Executive at the time, hitting every goal in sight - consequently, thriving on the professional adrenaline rush of success.

But I was smart enough to know, even back then, that most of that success was due to Joanie. She was a relentless recruiter, fundraiser, cheerleader when I despaired, and personal confidant. When I left the profession feeling down and out, she never wavered in her friendship.

I am glad that Joanie Gribble and I have remained close throughout the years and that she, like me, saves old letters.

But I am even more pleased to know that the younger me was kind enough to thank and praise her accomplishments so effusively in real time.

I have often wondered if I really had.

That old letter helped put the question to rest.

Thank you, dear friend.

Gratitude

Gratitude

Noel Laflin

6-13-18

We startled one another well enough, I reckon, when the young hawk, cloaked in twilight's last glimmer, leapt from the gutter and flew to the fence. We were no more than ten feet from each other when I surprised him, and him, me.

"Jesus!" I whispered.

A whoosh of flapping wings was his only reply.

The flight was not graceful as he carried a load in his razor sharp talons - it would prove to be his dinner.

The fence the raptor briefly rested upon borders a patch of green belt where I frequently sit beneath shady trees waiting for an up-until-recently elusive pin-tail whydah, and its mate, to fly down to a well-stocked feeder. They are easily recognized by both their song and and shiny red beaks.

But fast approaching nighttime had turned the idyllic spot into something darker, and suddenly less inviting.

The young Cooper's hawk eyed me with a steely gaze as I crept up closer to get a better look at both he and its prey.

There was something red resting on the fence.

"Oh no," I panicked; "He's grabbed that cocky whydah!"

I snapped a shaky photo on my cell phone. The flash got the hunter's attention. He rose awkwardly and sailed off, a dark silhouette flying low with it's load.

Returning home, I downloaded the blurry image from my phone and viewed it on a larger screen, zooming in on the red I had glimpsed just minutes before.

"That's no beak," I sighed with relief, grateful to Mother Nature that she had spared the bird of whom I'd recently become so fond.

But the bloodied rabbit in the blurry image probably would not have shared my gratitude.

Olallieberry Pie

Olallieberry Pie

Noel Laflin

6-3-18

It’s early June and we are already anticipating the arrival of fresh olallieberry pie any day now.

It’s a short-lived event in these parts as the only place around here serving fresh ones is Polly’s Pies – and they may only carry them for a week or two at best, depending on how plentiful the harvest up in the Pacific Northwest will be.

I was introduced to this variety of berry many years ago when I was wining and dining a group of nurses from a busy OBGYN practice.

When desert time rolled around they all clamored for this strange sounding berry pie. It seems they had already called ahead to make sure they had some and to reserve a few.

I had never heard of it.

“Oh, honey,” one nurse warned, “you’re gonna like this.”

And she was right.

As my father loved to go to the Polly’s location outside of Leisure World – primarily for the cinnamon rolls – I made sure that he too became a fan of the olallieberry pie when mid-June rolled around.

I can still picture my dad grabbing hold of chairs, booths, and the occasional bald head to help steady himself as he made his way to our table in the back.

“We’ll have olallieberry pie and coffee, please,” he informed the waitress.

“Two slices coming right up,” she replied, ready to turn heel and place the order.

“No,” my father gently corrected, “make that two plates, two forks, and one whole pie please.”

He was so sugared up by the time we left that he only grabbed two bald heads to steady himself on the way out.

From then on I made sure to stop by various Polly’s throughout the county each mid-June and pick up a few pies for both the nurses as well as my dad.

Although now long retired - and being minus of both nurses and a father who once steadied himself with the help of unsuspecting restaurant patrons  - I still stop by local Polly’s each June to grab one or two for David and me.

One year I missed out altogether and never forgave myself.

Consequently, I just had David call to see when the berries are expected.

Mid-June, we were told.

We’ll be calling another location tomorrow just to make sure.

And probably the day after that as well.

Change in Direction

Change in Direction

Noel Laflin

6-2-18

The funeral procession, led by a white hearse, which was followed by a black limousine, and then many cars – with headlights blazing - slowly traveled south down Hewes Street. Two motorcycle escorts zoomed by a moment later on their way to the upcoming intersection in order to block opposing traffic. That next intersection would be Fairhaven, the street bearing the same name as the local cemetery – their final destination I assumed.

I was sitting on a hillside in the park across the street from our home, under the shade of a small sycamore and on the phone with a friend when the procession passed me by. Blackbirds and crows sitting on the fence, in tall trees, and on telephone wires, took a sudden break from chasing one another across the pond as they too eyed the caravan. I could not help but notice that at least they were dressed appropriately enough for the occasion.

Still deep into conversation five minutes later, the very same funeral procession passed by once more, this time in the opposite direction. There they were, two harried motorcycle escorts followed by the same white hearse, black limo, multiple cars with headlights blazing – coming back up Hewes Street, this time heading north – now most likely on course for Holy Cross Cemetery, way out in the rolling foothills, out by Old Irvine Park.

I could not help but wonder about the change in direction.

Did the escorts have the wrong cemetery in mind?

Perhaps it was an error on the part of the mortuary driver.

Or maybe the deceased just had a sudden change of heart, and thought the open foothills to be a better resting spot.

Either way, the blackbirds and crows kept mum on the subject and went back to chasing one another across the pond once the last car had passed.