Weighing In

Weighing In

Noel Laflin

8-29-18

Years ago, claims were made that if we were to weigh all the ants in the world, they would weigh as much as all the people of the world. I remember hearing the story and was both amazed and horrified by the thought.

The claim has since been challenged and discredited by others thankfully. Francis Ratnieks, Professor of Apiculture at the University of Sussex summed it up best when he wrote:

"I think if we went back 2,000 years, certainly the ants would've outweighed the humans... but at roughly the time that America became independent [1776], or a little bit before that, that's when we humans became more impressive in our weight than the ants.”

"We must also remember that humans are getting fatter all the time. We're not just increasing in population, we're increasing in fatness, so I think we've left the ants behind."

That makes me feel a little better.

Regardless of the actual truth to the matter, it’s been quite the summer for ants around here. I thought at first it might be just us, but then saw a friend ask if others were experiencing similar tiny home invasions.  That post exploded with overwhelming comments like: ‘Hell, Yes!’ And then folks went into detail as to what they were encountering and strategies employed.

Seems the prolonged drought and record heat this summer are behind the ants’ search for moisture.  There have been beelines made for every conceivable water source, from bathroom sinks to toilet tanks.  And there are few things less concerting than the thought of placing one’s derriere upon a porcelain throne where tiny saboteurs might be lurking.

History Lessons

History Lessons

Noel Laflin

8-28-18

I read posts on history every day as I can’t seem to help myself. Much of the time I marvel at what took place on a particular day and year. Sometimes I cringe, and wish I could rewrite a particularly sad post.

One event on this, the 28th day of August, stands out as if it were yesterday since it’s the 50th anniversary of the mass rioting in and around the streets of the Democratic Convention in Chicago. Hubert Humphrey, after three contentious hours of debate, would get the the nod to lead the ticket, folks supporting Eugene McCarthy protested, cops bashed in many a youngster’s (and oldster’s) head, Nixon called for law and order and eventually won on that platform. America was never the same again.

I was fifteen, listening to events unfold on a tinny transistor radio deep in the woods at summer camp. I had so many mixed, adolescent emotions following the week-long debacle as my own brother was in Vietnam at the time, and yet I longed to be a demonstrator taking to the streets.

Retirement

Retirement

Noel Laflin

8-28-18

Four years ago today, I attended a last sales meeting, said my goodbyes to many colleagues and friends, tossed the company cell phone to the boss, collected a final check, and headed home – filled with relief, excitement, and butterflies. What next, I wondered?

I boasted that I was trading in work shoes for sandals and tennis shoes, which did become the norm by mid-afternoon.

I thought I might travel more, which has certainly become the case.

I hoped I would write more, and gratefully I have – for better or worse.

Finally, I thought I should take up a camera and see what I could do with it.

So, a couple of days later I took a photo of my foot, bandage around a blister and all, encased in a sandal, having traveled to, climbed up, and sitting high atop Mt. San Jacinto. Then I wrote about it.

There – mission accomplished.

What next, I wonder?

Humanitarian

Humanitarian

Noel Laflin

8-22-18

Many years ago Tom and I were walking about Costa Mesa late one night. When we couldn't sleep, midnight strolls were often in order. Tom had grown up in that city and knew his way around pointing out his boyhood home, schools, parks, an alley where once he'd been cornered by high school bullies, but ultimately rescued by his best friend. There were always stories from his past connected to where we wandered.

Along the way home he saw a perfectly fine prickly pear cactus discarded atop someone’s trash can.

“This guy needs rescuing,” he said, grabbing some newspaper from the trashcan and carefully wrapping it.

I did not object, as it would have been pointless to do so. Besides, we had a patio garden filled with rescued plants. They all flourished under his care.

A cop spotted us a short time later and pulled over, shining his light on both us and the strange bundle.

“Whatcha ya got there, son?” he asked Tom, expecting to find contraband of some sort no doubt.

“It’s a cactus – I’m rescuing it,” replied Tom, unwrapping the top layer of newsprint to prove his claim. I thought of his best friend who had once rescued him in an alley not far from where we stood, but kept that to myself.

The cop, taking a closer look shook his head and said rather sarcastically, “Well, aren’t you the humanitarian!”

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Tom.

Still shaking his head, the cop seemed satisfied, nonetheless, told us to have a good night and went on his way to find some really bad guys.

A year later Tom slipped from a short ladder and took a plunge, head first, into that very cactus, which had lived and grown under his care.

Unbroken, he picked himself off the patio floor and went into the house. He found a mirror, rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and tweezers and went to work repairing his face.

When I got home that night I was met by a lad who looked as if he’d just developed the worse case of chicken pox and measles combined.

Before I could even ask what happened, he took me by the hand and led me to the garden patio and showed me two potted cacti, where once there had been one.

“I rescued a cactus today,” he said.

The Fear of All Sums

The Fear of All Sums

Noel Laflin

8-16-18

A friend pointed out to me recently, in what I know was a joshing sort of way, that math was never my strong suit.

But, boy, was he right.

I remember being honored with a math award during my first semester of 9th grade algebra, only to see me struggle to maintain a barely passing grade in that same class by close of the year. I do believe the teacher must have thought he was crazy to have honored me in the first place. I tend to still think that myself.

Tenth grade plane geometry wasn’t any better. I recall the quarters being marked with solid C’s, verging on a D, and finally ending with a C-. I had a compassionate teacher to thank for allowing me to avoid what I figured could have been a solid D. And although I feared the subject material, that teacher remains an inspiration in memory, as he was an empathetic soul, and was always in my corner when it came to my struggle.

I was relieved to know that I would no longer have to take another math class for the rest of my life. Back then, you could substitute other courses for math, even in college, which I did masterfully.

But twenty-eight years ago right now I was studying like a fiend as I was preparing to take the CBEST exam. I had decided that I had had it with sales and looked forward to going into teaching. I would start as a sub and work my way into a full-time teaching position.

The problem with the CBEST exam was that one third of it was devoted to math. And one had to pass it in order to teach.

So I studied math tutorials all summer long. I took on dreaded algebra, geometry, and even trigonometry – a subject quite foreign to me.

I cursed a great deal that summer. I even threw the damn study guide across the room once and broke a lamp.

But I took the three-hour exam and actually passed the math portion by eight points, as I needed to score at least a forty.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

And I do know that forty-eight is the greater sum of thirty-nine, so I must have learned something in the process.

As it turned out, I never did go into teaching, which might have been a shame for any kid whom I might have taught struggling with math. At least he or she would have had an empathetic soul in their corner.

Jitters

Jitters

Noel Laflin

8-15-18

We’ll be hosting a good friend in just a few of weeks, and in the process doing an interview that I have both been looking forward to, and am yet nervous about.

I am not sure why I am nervous, as the subject we’ll be discussing is one of my favorite people, Jack Schlatter, a former junior high teacher of mine.

Saying that Jack was just a former teacher is ludicrous of course, as he was also my friend. Those who knew him understand this. For those who never had the good fortune of meeting him, well, you’ll just have to take my word for it – and the word of probably ten thousand others, as Jack touched a lot of lives.

Mark Till has had this idea of making a documentary about Jack Schlatter for a very long time and has been traveling both the length and depth of the country conducting interviews all summer. He has shared teasing moments of some already, and the pieces shown thus far have been both amazing and touching.

And my turn to get on my own stage will soon be here. Just like junior high all over again - butterflies in the gut the night before the speech tournament or play.

I guess I am nervous as I want to do right by my old mentor.

There is so much ground to cover.

Do I speak of the influence he had on my life as a youngster, or as a man who looked in the mirror one day and saw that he was suddenly sixty and about to see his old teacher again after a forty year absence?

Do I stick to the humorous aspects of Jack or the serious?

There’s going to be a mix I suppose.

Regardless, Mark says not to prepare – he’ll ask the questions.

Oh, good, as I would be hard pressed to know where to even begin.

All I hope is that the former youngster, as well as the older man both make an appearance when the lights come up and the camera rolls. They may be both looking for Jack standing in the wings and offering a prompt if needed.

On the Former Waterfront

On the Former Waterfront

Noel Laflin

8-12-18

I have the pancake, egg, and bacon special at the Waterfront Cafe every five thousand miles - give or take a few miles, I guess.

The place is a short walk from where I bring my car for oil changes and you can get a fine breakfast for under seven bucks. I try to schedule the maintenance checkups on either a Monday or Wednesday, as those are the days that Sue the waitress works. She's a hoot with whom to interact, and always on the ball with coffee refills.

The cafe, which used to be fronted by a large water feature, drawing in ducks, as well as the homeless (in order to bathe by moonlight) now has a desert landscape. Apparently the pond was leaking, and there was concern about potential lawsuits should some homeless fellow ever suffer an unexpected midnight mishap and sue the cafe.

So, where I used to look out the window and wait for a duck to make an appearance, now I watch hummingbirds seek out drought-tolerant blooms.

Not a bad trade-off.

And Sue provides the ever-present coffee refills and stories that keep me in stiches, and which keeps me coming back every five thousand miles - give or take a few.

On the House

On the House

Noel Laflin

8-11-18

We were nearly done with our supper when all hell broke loose in the large booth closest to the front door - the one that had a good view of both Chapman Avenue and the Plaza.

Two teenage girls began to scream, quickly followed, in turn, by two older women. As the rest of the patrons turned their collective attention that way, the four ladies were attempting to climb onto the old red, taped, torn bench seats.

The shrieks continued.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the cause for their distress - a very large rat now scurrying across the restaurant floor. He quickly passed our table and made a beeline for the candy counter. He squeezed beneath a row of Abba Zabbas and disappeared.

Our server, the pleasant one we hoped for each week, later explained that a plumber working in the basement had startled the critter. Fearing a swing from his wrench, the rat headed upward, squeezing through a hole in the floor beneath the booth occupied by the four women.

One of them felt something crawl across her foot, took a peak as to what it was, and then set off her vocal dismay. Her companions followed suit.

Our pleasant friend then said there would be no charge. The meal, due to unfortunate circumstances, was on the house - for everyone.

We tipped her still of course, as she was a damn nice waitress - always sneaking you a large soup when you ordered the small size. You know, things like that.

The sale, closure, and lengthy remodel of one of our favorite eateries began within the year.

I hope they paid special attention to the basement.

My main regret, thinking back on that night so many years ago, as the meal was free after all, was that we had not ordered dessert.

Monkey Time

Monkey Time

Noel Laflin

8-7-18

I just heard the clock in the spare room remind me that it was nine o’clock – or what some of us at work used to refer to as monkey time.

I know the time as the noise coming from this old clock sounds just like an excited chimp spotting Tarzan on his way home with an armload of bananas – thus, monkey time; with apologies of course for confusing the sound of chimps with monkeys. But you know what I mean.

I decided to take a picture just so you have a better understanding of what I’m talking about.

Now, years ago when I still had an honest job and a cubicle to prove it, this clock was always a hit. Lion time meant lunch. Tiger time meant the afternoon was getting along. A howling wolf meant end of day – generally. But if some of us were hearing the roar of an elephant, well that meant that we’d either come in early or were working late. The animals made no distinction between A.M. or P.M.

The cries of the aforementioned critters are pretty good. Others, like the polar bear, hippo, or rhinoceros are weak and can confuse, as once happened when some women walked past our sales room and took offence at the rhino’s announcement of one o’clock. They mistakenly thought that it was one of the three new fellows making piggy/oink-oink noises as they walked by. Who knew rhinos and pigs sounded so much alike?  Boy, that took some untangling as the guys were innocent of course. And although I was not present for the initial confusion, tears, accusations, and defense, I quickly deduced, upon hearing the story, that it was my animal clock that caused the ruckus. Demonstrating the rhino’s pitiful oink-oink to those involved – including H.R. - the case was quickly solved, resolved, and dismissed. But, hell, three innocent new hires nearly lost their very recent jobs due to the damn rhinoceros. I turned the volume down after things were cleared up and told the rhino to grow some balls.

Now, the clock was originally a birthday gift to Jay Stern, a beloved colleague, mentor, and friend. He adored animals more than people, and kept quite a tiny menagerie scattered about his office.

But he died quite suddenly two years later. So before folks could clean out his office, I stole the clock back, along with a small wooden elephant that sat upon his desk. Years later I placed that small elephant on his gravestone. It mingled with the other miniature tokens left there by his family.

The clock then moved with me wherever I was reassigned space over the next decade.

And although I gave away most of the treasures scattered about my office playroom when I retired from the job – including three juggling balls, a ‘Teach Yourself to Juggle' instruction book, two singing/dancing Obama dolls, a vast Altoid tin collection (there were over 200 tins), a six-foot-tall pirate skeleton, and a couple of Betty Boop snow globes, I kept the clock.

It wasn’t the damn rhino that got me. It was just time.

Rain and Raccoons

Rain and Raccoons

Noel Laflin

8-2-18

When I was a kid, we’d drive out to Modjeska Canyon to visit friends who lived in the last house at the very end of the canyon.

Their home sat under giant shady oaks, was built of stone, and had a tin roof. When rain or hail hit that roof, it produced an amazing sound – especially if you were only nine or ten years old at the time.

The old fellow who owned the house had also created a series of natural pools just yards from the house by slowing the creek with large, smooth river stones. It was a glorious place to splash about on a warm summer day.

His wife liked to feed the raccoons stale doughnuts when they would show up each evening, begging at the back screen door.

Then crickets would serenade outside as darkness fell.

Soon there were a gazillion stars peeping through the branches of the oaks. Coyotes could be heard howling at the moon. It made the visiting raccoons nervous.

Before long, tired children would fall asleep in the back seat of the car on the long drive back to Anaheim, dreaming of rain, raccoons, and cool mountain streams. Or, maybe, those are just the daydreams of an old guy today.