Shirts

Shirts

Noel Laflin

7-29-18

I can’t remember the last time I bought myself a shirt.

And despite the annual culling of clothes over the years, I still have a closet-full.

There are the former button-down collar varieties from days of working past – most still in thin plastic protectors placed by the once-frequented neighborhood dry cleaner. I have not seen that nice lady who used to work there in four years now.  I think it’s maybe time to donate or recycle these guys.  I will keep a couple of the white ones just in case there’s a wedding or funeral in the future.

There are the nice shirts that David, Krysten, and my sister-in-law give to me as gifts. These I save for special occasions, like going out for dinner – or Christmas Day.

Those that I have acquired on my own over the last twenty years are now stained with daily forays into the garden.  The garden leaves some permanent reminders of battles both won and lost.  Holes and blood stains permeate most of them.

But as old and ratty as they may be, I find parting with some of them to be hard.

Because they are white – or once were, before blood, sweat, and tears marred the fabric, I wear them on hot days especially, since they better reflect sunlight and keep me cooler - and that is good when out shooting photos for hours at a time.

I also know that I’m just going to trash any new shirt in quick order once I wear it into the backyard jungle.

But mostly, I find parting with these last, well-worn ancient pieces of garb difficult to do, as they remind me of old friends, and worthy causes past.

Crappy Day

Crappy Day

Noel Laflin

7-28-18

“I’ve had a crappy day,” Brian said, stopping by my driveway last evening.  He straddled his bike and sighed.

“How so?” I enquired, always comfortable around this good-hearted neighbor of several decades.

“Well, I was installing a shower door at a client’s house this afternoon and broke the darn thing.  It was an eight hundred dollar door.  This was a first for me.  All I did was gently tap the edge of it for the final alignment and it shattered, cascading down around me like a million tiny stars.”

“Ouch!” I replied in consolation, suddenly recalling a time when an old glass table top unexpectedly exploded on me while carefully moving it from house to garage. I had tiny beads of glass in my hair for days.

“So on my way to the hardware store to find a temporary shower rod and curtain, a lady flags me down and says she has locked her keys in her car and that her baby is in the back seat.  Thinking right off, it might be a con, I was suspicious.  But then I thought what if it’s true?  I finally told her alright, I’ll take a look.”

“And …” I prompted.

“Sure enough, there was a crying baby in a car seat in the back seat of her locked car.”

“What did you do?” I asked, thoroughly engrossed in the new turn of events.

“At first I tried the coat hanger trick, and had the keys all the way to the top of the window before they slipped off and fell between the door and the seat.  Then I grabbed a hammer from the truck and attempted to break a window.  But the darn glass wouldn’t even crack!  I mean, I can break a shower door with a slight tap and can’t break a car window with repeated hammer blows?  The irony of that, huh? And then the kid stopped crying, at which point I told the lady that perhaps we should call the fire department ASAP."

I was beginning to fear that his crappy day was about to get worse.

“But, I went back to the coat hanger and finally snagged the keys and got them through the window.  The baby was fine; the lady threw me a hurried thanks, and drove off.  I still have the shower mess to contend with.  Thus, ends my crappy day.”

I stood there during this unexpected driveway moment and looked at Brian with sudden admiration.

“How can you say this was a crappy day?  You saved a kid, my friend!  Shower doors can be replaced, but this …”

“Well, I guess I hadn’t looked at it quite that way,” he shyly conceded, smiled, said good bye, and pedaled on home.

We should all have such crappy days – minus the breaking of an eight hundred dollar shower door of course.

In Box Number Two

I have opened a second box of letters from my folks.  The first box contained well over a hundred correspondences – there are probably another six hundred or more letters to read.

There’s no chronology to these intimate insights, but that doesn’t matter really. That can come later.  For now, I just read, and read, and read – sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes cringing …

The top batch is from 1945, mostly from my mother.  The third letter down had me spitting out a drink, much the way Back to the Future’s Marty McFly does in the ‘parked car’ scene with his mother when he sees her lighting a cigarette and says, “Jesus! You smoke too?”

In a July 23, 1945 letter my mom writes back an answer to a car question posed by my dad:

“Trying to get a station wagon after the war is a good idea.  I remember you always talked of one. It surely would solve a lot of problems. You and I should have had one during our ‘courting days.  The back seat would have been big enough then!!!”

---

Circumstances were such that my mom and dad were married for over three years, and yet, due to my dad having to report to boot camp a month after their wedding, they had never had a chance to celebrate either of their birthdays in person during that time. I did not realize this until I came upon this letter tonight.

“Detroit Lakes, Minn.
June 5, 1945 (my mother’s 30th birthday)

My Darling Husband,
It’s a funny thing. A few years ago I considered 30 rather much like old age, but now when I have reached it I feel as young as ever.
Good night now. I wish you were her to give me a birthday kiss. I’ve never had one from you.
Forever yours,
Vi”

---

I just discovered in a 1945 letter from my mom to my dad that she envisioned having four kids - named: Mary Elizabeth, Marcia Suzanne, Stephen, and Peter.
They ended up with three - named: Robert Allen, Noel Christopher, and Susanne Elizabeth. 
Score a partial win for Susi anyway.

Thunderbolt

Thunderbolt

Noel Laflin

7-25-18

It’s a hot, sultry summer day and there’s a sudden fire racing up the slopes to Idyllwild. I’m watching and listening to news helicopter pilots describe the smoky scene as folks are being evacuated and large planes make run after run across the mountain, dropping red fire retardant across the rugged terrain.

I witnessed a fire just outside of that town once, as a sudden summer storm moved in out of nowhere and lightning blasted a large pine tree standing just feet from the old Kiwanis Lodge, the one in which a hundred Cub Scouts and their dads were staying for the weekend. The coming to that old lodge, the one that could sleep and feed a hundred kids and their dads quite comfortably, was an annual event - and usually a fun one.

But the monstrous thunderclap accompanying the strike was so loud and so very close that day that it knocked a few of us standing on the steps of the old lodge right to the ground. With ears still ringing, we watched as volunteer firemen from Idyllwild raced in and jumped into action.

It was high drama for eight-and-nine-year-old kids like us.

Several men aimed a hose high into the air in order to quench the flames riding up the tree.

Then one man dropped to the ground, clutching his chest.

A hundred Cub Scouts and their dads watched as the man died on the scene from a heart attack.

Some of the crew held onto the snake-like hose to make sure the fire was under control, while others attended to their comrade.

But it was too late, as the attack was sudden and lightning quick, just like the thunderbolt that struck our quiet neck of the woods that hot, sultry summer day of long ago.

Lack The Knife

Lack The Knife

Noel Laflin

7-21-18

It’s been so long that I last attended an Angel’s ballgame, that I was not aware of the security screening now in place. Kinda like the airport, only out in the warm sunshine. And just like the airport, I had to forfeit yet another little Swiss Army knife – the one Krysten gave me for Christmas years ago – which was the replacement she had given me for the one I had to forfeit at John Wayne Airport six years ago – the one so small, it attaches to a key chain - so small that I always forget it's on my key chain, until I need to open an envelope, cut away something, or pick at my teeth with the built-in plastic toothpick. Coincidentally, the fellow ahead of me lost his miniature Swiss Army knife as well. His was black - mine red. If we had any smarts we would have raided a particular trash can after the game. Lord only knows what else we'd have found.

Now, the last time I attended an Angel’s game, the only suspicious item in my pocket was a sandwich, which upon a verbal description by me alone, they let me keep. Thank God, as I was hungry.

So, Krysten NewComer, if you are reading this, never fear, I have just ordered a replacement and it will be here on Monday.

I guess you’re still on the hook for deciding a new Christmas gift for 2018, however – unless I am surprised, between now and then, at some new security check point - like at Albertsons or something.

*Update: The replacement knife arrived a day early.  I am back in business.

Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

Dad Takes a Bath and Other Observations

In a letter to my mom, dated nearly 75 years ago, my dad describes a long overdue bath.
I may never take hot water for granted again. But good to know when severe water rationing comes our way.

“The Island of Sardinia
November 22, 1943
Must tell you about my newest method for heating water. I took a gallon can last night, and set it on a grate affair, and lit four candles under it, so the flame hit the can. In about ten minutes I had a can of good hot water, so I kept this up until I had shaved, washed my hair and took a complete bath. It surely felt fine too, as I haven’t had a bath since the one at the Navy in North Africa.”
---

California Dreamin’
Buried on page two in a long letter from my mother to my father - as he trained half way across the country at an army camp in Riverside County - my mother, who was teaching in Mankato, Minnesota, suggested the following:
March 2, 1943
“Nothing much happened today, except that our temperature dropped to ten below again this morning. I’m so tired of winter, and this one has seemed like such a long, dragged out one. From all that you’ve said about California, I think I’d love it. How about you picking out a nice spot for you and me to live some day?”
They did move to California within a couple of years of my father coming back from the war.
My father often took us on Sunday drives out to that old abandoned army camp - where it kind of all began.
---

My dad liked to hitchhike around Southern California when he had a pass and write a short note to my mom when he got his hands on free stationary.  Note his mention of the word ‘davenport’ here.  Growing up I thought davenport was the proper name for any couch.  Friends not from the Midwest never knew what I was talking about when I used the word.

“January 4, 1943

My Own Darling Vi –

Am in the USO here in L.A.  Had a pass for today and with nothing better to do, I came over to L.A.

Do I look like an Italian?  Some Italians picked me up & said I did!

There’s the cutest little sailor sleeping in the davenport alongside me.  He doesn’t even have any beard yet – just peach fuzz!

Just finished four sandwiches & two cups of coffee – I didn’t have any dinner yet.

Think I’ll be on my way back for camp soon.

It’s been a lot of fun just bumming around.

I love you!

Bob”

---

A constant lament in much of the correspondence written by my folks to one another during WWII was their struggling through a day without receiving a letter from the other.  I see it thru both their eyes as my mom fought loneliness living and teaching in small Minnesota towns, while my father, as he  trained first in California,  then departed by troop carrier from New York,  spent hot days and cold nights in North Africa,  Sardinia, France, Luxemburg, and Germany.  Letters were their lifeline as noted here in one from my mom early on in their war-torn separation:

“I was afraid I wasn’t going to get a letter from you today, but I found one waiting for me when I came home before supper.  It was an extra nice one, too, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without them.  This is our tenth month wedding anniversary.  A year ago today we were only talking about getting married, and the war, as far as we were concerned, was quite remote.  I wonder what another year will bring us??  I shall keep on hoping that you will come back the same crazy Bob I’ve always loved.  Don’t let anything spoil your sense of humor and your nice grin.”

---

March 1943
"I doubt if the letters I write you are of enough value to warrant your keeping them, Bob. Yours are daily reports from the army, but I don't believe mine have anything that need be saved for posterity ."

Seems mom got that one wrong, but in a good way.
---

Been reading a letter from my dad, where he's thanking my mom for the cribbage board she'd sent him. My dad was crazy about cribbage, so I went looking for his old set - not the one from the war - but the one I always remember him using. When I opened the box, here was the unopened deck of cards within.
Jeez, one can't seem to escape this Joker ...
---

Correspondence from the farm. Frank was my dad's nephew - my cousin. In a separate letter from Frank's mom, she too was pretty excited about finally having running water in the house.
---
I am reading a passage in a typed letter my dad sent my mom where he is gripping about military censors.
An unfamiliar, scrawled, hand-written note just below that typed line reads: "Poor censors, they always catch it - the censor."
---
Up In Smoke

In a letter from my dad to my mother, written in the fall of 1943, my father describes going to his first Ramadan celebration while in North Africa (he was stationed along the Mediterranean coast in Tunisia). He had befriended a “nice Arab fellow,” according to dad, and was invited to his house after sunset to eat, drink, talk, dance, and smoke “keef” (he meant kief - hashish).

My dad wrote about the “keefers” in several letters, saying they weren’t like the “dope addicts in America – they would just take a few puffs from the pipe, pass it around the room, and become very relaxed.” When the pipe came his way, my dad would always “pass” and say he preferred his own smoke, lighting up an American cigarette – even though he was a non-smoker. He said he was glad he brought several packs with him that night.

Instruments were then brought forth and men (“only men were invited,” he wrote - “there were about twenty present in the small room that night”) began to dance. They talked my father into dancing so he did an impromptu “foxtrot/Indian war dance,” as he put it – to great acclaim, he added.

My dad ended that letter by saying what a great time he had and how impressed he was for being invited and treated like a long lost friend by complete strangers. I contend that it was the keef.

In another letter, dad mentioned how he wanted to get his hands on a keef pipe to bring home.

He later got a German luger, a fancy SS knife, and some old fashioned hand-carved Bavarian tobacco pipes, but I’ll be damned if I ever saw one that smelled of old hashish.

Wish I had. I would have put it back in use.

Anyway, here’s a faint sketch of the keef pipe drawn during that Ramadan celebration 75 years ago. I am guessing that pipe must have been about seven inches long.

That would have fit in his duffle bag quite easily.

Observations From A Chair

Observations From A Chair

By Armie Rest

7-14-18

His office and place of comfort is a 35-year-old Eames chair.

It beats any office or chair he may have ever inhabited before.

It was the first, and now the only original piece of furniture bought for the house in 1983.

Good money was spent on it at the time, but it was a solid investment, as it continues to function well - despite two missing buttons on the ottoman and very well-worn leather throughout.

It's still the most comfortable seat in the house.

The chair has been keeping record as to what’s gone on here over the decades. Here’s a partial rendering of its observations recently uncovered:

Hundreds of books were, and still are being read - some intently - others thrown across the room for lack of plot.

Thousands of photos edited – most deleted, but some shared.

Countless movies viewed. Laughs heard, tears noted.

Illnesses endured.

Sleep overtaking a weary man. Snores occasionally detected.

Arms reaching to the old rug below for a cup of coffee, glass of wine, a cold beer, or a chilled glass of lemonade - half a million times or more. Occasional spills ...

Stories written. Stories scrapped. Stories shared.

Pictures taken of balcony activity.  The man is fond of hummingbirds and squirrels.

Cookies dunked.

Dreams dreamed.

The man rarely gives it up to either family or guests.

The chair's conclusion:  Archie Bunker should have had such a place to rest.

Ahwahnee Memories

Ahwahnee Memories

Noel Laflin

June, 2018

I count myself fortunate to have first seen Camp Ahwahnee through the eyes of a child.  The memories are distant, as I was only seven years old at the time, but visions of tall pines, crystal clear blue skies, fresh mountain air, dusty dirt roads, tents on platforms, and older boys, including my brother, in green Scout uniforms and colorful neckerchiefs lugging large backpacks up steep trails will always remain.  Old family black and white photos noting the occasion are dated August, 1959.

Nine summers later I would find myself trudging up a steep trail with my own backpack, and soon claiming my own tent platform as home for the week.

The experiences of those first days in camp, despite the initial wave of homesickness, were enough to keep me coming back for the remainder of my teenage years and well into my early twenties.  I found myself hopelessly enchanted with the mountain and all of its mysteries.

I idolized older staff members and marveled at their ability to entertain two hundred others with a rousing song, a hilarious skit, or a really good campfire story. I so wanted to be like them.

My mentors included the likes of Greg Richards, Fred LaVelle, Bruce Moore, Alan Adler, Bill Herzberg, Jeff Sherwood, Jim Hirsch, Jack Moulton, the Trent brothers, and many others.

In time, Gene Bergner found his way to camp and inspired both young and old alike with a seemingly boundless source of energy and commitment to Scouting ideals.  His trust and friendship would become a cornerstone of my life.

Other friendships formed during my nine years on the Ahwahnee staff have proven to be the ties that bind.  Many of us are still in touch forty and fifty years later.  Our ranks may now be composed of retired teachers, ministers, firemen, career military, law enforcement, tradesmen, labor organizers, writers, landscape designers, salesmen, etc., but the spirit of young men from half a century ago is never far away.

 

And although the pay was lousy and the days long, there was no other place we longed to be each summer.

In my opinion, we were beautifully isolated from the world beneath, bathed in sunshine, crisp mountain air and the fragrant aroma of pine and fir.  We were more than a mile above our boring lives 'down below,' as we came to call anywhere but here.

  

Whether one stayed for the day, week or summer, Ahwahnee could enchant one’s soul.  It drew me back, year after year for a decade of summers and many winter weekends, when a snowy carpet transformed the landscape.  It still haunts my dreams these many years later.  Why do you think I need to write these words now, if not for its continued spiritual pull?  There are many a day and night when my entire being craves to return to this special place, the land of my youth, where star-filled heavens seemed to touch a boy’s outstretched hand and the water which flowed from deep within our mountain tasted sweeter than any wine on earth.