National Comic Book Day

National Comic Book Day

Noel Laflin

9-25-18

Here’s a nod to National Comic Book Day, as it was those flimsy, inexpensive, and colorful rags that first made me want to read.

Yes, Mrs. Paden had much to do with it too I suppose. That is what first grade is all about after all.

But Dick and Jane paled in comparison to the likes of Archie, Scrooge McDuck, Superman, Green Lantern, and the like.

Even Classic Comics held my attention. It’s how I got my first glimpse into the world of Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities.” I especially liked that guillotine and the evil looking knitting women.

When we traveled east each summer, my brother and I took all of the comic books we owned and traded them with cousins along the way. They were fine barter for those our age.

I understand that one who collects comic books is known as a pannapictagraphist.

Although it was long ago, it’s comforting to know that I once might have qualified for such a magnificent sounding moniker.

I am just glad the word was never used in any of the comic books I once treasured and traded away, as it never would have fit into any villain’s conversation bubble.

Nor would I have been able to pronounce it.

Memorial Board

Memorial Board

Noel Laflin

9-23-18

I saw a fellow’s picture on a memorial board buried in some photos posted by a friend who had just attended a recent school reunion.

And although I vaguely recall being told of his passing by a former instructor from that era, it still came as a small pang in remembering him.

We were not intimate friends by any means, as he was older and two grades ahead of me back then, but I remember his dramatic abilities quite well – especially his role in a junior high production of ‘Our Town.’

He played the part of Simon Stimson, the drunken church choir director and organist. All of the roles were memorable to the twelve-year old me in the audience that evening. But I thought he stole the show.

As the small choir practiced the hymn, ‘Blest Be The Tie That Binds,’ the surly director/organist would berate and chastise his fellow Congregationalists with drunken witticism. “Now look here, everybody, get it out of your head that music’s only good when it’s loud. You leave loudness to the Methodists. You couldn’t beat ‘em even if you wanted to. Now again, tenors!’ The role called for dramatic flair, and our former schoolmate delivered in like measure.

It was my first introduction to the play as well as the song. Both remain a favorite to this day.

Whenever I hear the old hymn, I recall the fellow whose picture is now on a memorial board. And I smile at the memory of a well-played role.

The Shoe Box

The Shoe Box

Noel Laflin

9-21-18

I knew a woman who, once upon a time – and long ago – drove over to my house and handed me a beat up shoe box containing a loaded .22 revolver.

“That son-of-a-bitch husband of mine has waved this damn thing at me for the last time. After he passed out, I took it, and drove straight here. Do with it what you will. I’m divorcing the bastard.”

True to her word, she did.

The son-of-a-bitch husband died of cirrhosis of the liver a few short years later.

The woman is long dead too now. She simply died of old age.

The weapon was emptied, cleaned, disassembled, and hidden well away from small children – or anyone else for that matter.

The next time someone shows up unexpectedly with a beat up shoe box, I hope it just contains something nicer – like a kitten or homemade cookies perhaps.  The only thing loaded that I would want to see in that box would be brownies.

The hummingbird who claimed the balcony as his own years ago just heard me reading this aloud before posting and added his two cents worth. He is hoping the hypothetical box contains cookies - sugar cookies to be exact - and not a kitten.

He's ambivalent about the brownies. 

Regardless, he's got a point.

Vote Canceling

Vote Canceling

Noel Laflin

9-20-18

“Come, mother, let’s go cancel each other’s vote.”

These were the words my grandfather would say to my grandmother, as he would gently take her hand before heading out the door to vote every four years, as he was a republican and she, a democrat.

As my grandfather died six months before I was born, I learned of the oft repeated exchange through my mother years later.

Doing the math, I guess those patriotic strolls out the door took place back in the Roosevelt era – probably going all the way back to Harding/Cox actually, as that would have been the first election my grandmother, a woman, would have had the chance in which to vote. I bet she voted for Cox, the democrat.

I’m inclined to think that it was a kinder time back then.

Hot Lunch

Hot Lunch

Noel Laflin

9-10-18

There was one benefit to my father being laid-off long ago – and that was coming home to a hot lunch every day.

As it only took ten minutes to ride my bike from school to home, and then another ten minutes back to beat the bell, this meant that I had forty minutes to chow down with my dad at the kitchen table.

He did a lot of odd jobs during the lay-off, but always made time to be home in time to fix me a meal.

It was frequently left-over’s doctored up in some dad-fashion. I remember my mother’s enchiladas being a favorite re-heat. When all else failed, there were always Sloppy Joes or grilled cheese sandwiches to fill the bill. He was also a fan of soup.

Then it was a hurried ‘thank you,’ a peck on the cheek, and a mad dash back to fifth grade. And it was frequently my mother blowing the whistle at me as I skidded willy-nilly, one-legged into the bike stands. She had become a teacher’s aide at our school to help supplement the family income and patrolled the playground like a hawk, looking for rule-breakers like me. I never failed her in that regard.

Looking back on it now, I realize that my father needed some order and purpose to his life during that time. He needed a regimen to fill those days while searching for a new job. I would know the drill several times over later in life.

But my being ten-years old and hungry – and willing to ride home for a hot lunch every day, gave him just one more reason to get up and face each new day.

By sixth grade, I was back to sack lunches.

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

Noel Laflin

9-9-18

With autumn in the air and leaves falling about, I am reminded of Catherine. We met when she was already a nonagenarian.

When she died, she left behind a vast collection of books neatly lining the shelves of her spare room. As a devoted reader to her dying day, she always referred to it as her treasure room.

“Better than money,” she was fond of saying.

“Well, almost,” she would amend with a sly smile.

It fell to her daughter, who was no spring chicken herself by then, to clean up the place and sort through her mother’s possessions. After ninety-five years of living, however, Catherine had very few, other than some old pieces of furniture and lots of books. Perhaps it was the memory of traveling with so few possessions from a century past that led her to a life devoid of clutter – other than her treasured books of course.

Catherine had come out west with her family when she was just five. They joined one of last wagon trains and followed the Oregon Trail. And although very young, and perhaps one of the last to do so by horse-drawn wagon, she recalled memories of the journey – high mountains, dusty trails, star-filled nights, campfires, the falling of leaves as autumn set in once they reached their destination. It was always a pleasure to be in her company when she began to reminisce about such things.

The reminiscing was over following her death unfortunately. There was just the practical now at hand. Thus, furniture was either saved or donated and the books were placed in cardboard boxes.

One of the novels, a Western, according to her daughter, was knocked off the shelf accidentally. As it landed, a hundred dollar bill poked its head out of the middle of the pages.

Soon, every book was retrieved from its box and shook vigorously, along with those still on the shelf.

By the time the dust settled and the bills counted, more than six thousand dollars went floating about Catherine’s treasure room – just like leaves falling in autumn.

See's Candy

See's Candy

Noel Laflin

9-8-18

I’ve been thinking about See’s Candy as I just saw a video on how they make it. There was even a few seconds dedicated to the making of their Victoria Toffee.

It may only be seven in the morning, but my mouth is already watering. It’s probably genetic as this reminds me of the time, long ago, that I brought a pound of See's Victoria Toffee over to my folks to note their wedding anniversary.
 
I dropped it off one early evening, had a chat with my parents, wished them both a very happy anniversary, and headed off for a business meeting.

I called my mom the next morning regarding something else, and at the close of the conversation asked if she had a chance to sample the candy as yet.

There was a pause, and she said yes, she had had a bite.

That was all she got, she explained, as she too had left shortly after I had the evening before, heading off to a church function of some sort.

When she returned, two hours later, my father had opened the box in her absence and eaten all but one small chunk, which he thoughtfully left for her.

I eventually went to work for a company that gave out See's Candy at Christmastime. When placing my order each year for just how many boxes I would need to hand out to clients, I always padded the order by at least two pounds: one for dad, and a separate one for mom. 

Oh, and maybe just a couple more for me too.

Ruby Dillon

Ruby Dillon

Noel Laflin

9-5-18

Ruby Dillon could pack away a fifth of bourbon every night.

My father and I both knew this as we took her trash cans out to the curb every Thursday. One can was filled with grass clippings – the heavy damp canister I created every Saturday afternoon. The other can clanged with empty bottles – the ones Ruby created every evening after work and throughout the weekend.

Despite her being a drunk for much of her time living next door to us, we loved and cared for her nonetheless. We had become her adopted family – my folks were like younger siblings. My brother, sister, and I were the children she’d never had.

She was a tough broad (she would have approved of the description) having grown up during the heyday of the Roaring Twenties and then Chicago’s tough Depression era of the 1930’s. She barely stood five foot tall – in heels - and smoked a couple of packs of Viceroys every day – up until a lung had to removed somewhere in the mid 1960’s.

Ruby would get to drinking and wander over to our house much of the time. My mother had the patience of a saint, listening to Ruby’s rambling reminisces of two dead husbands, a house once filled with roses, the deplorable state of the country. When mom would leave the family room to start another pot of coffee – being that she had traded in Ruby’s highball glass for a mug, my sister and I might accidentally wander into the room and be corralled into keeping Ruby company – so that she did not wander back home to refill her glass.

Sometimes she would get away and one of us would eventually head on over, and put her to bed.

Other times we mistakenly thought her safely tucked away for the night, such as one memorable New Year’s Eve when she awoke, shambled over to our house and showed up in our living room in nothing but a raincoat. She dropped the coat and proclaimed to one and all, ‘I’m naked as a jay-bird!’ And she was. My mother, true to form, quickly bundled Ruby up, took her into the kitchen and replaced the highball glass with a steaming cup of coffee.

And the party resumed.

Amazingly enough, come seven each weekday morning, there was Ruby heading to her car looking like a million bucks. She was a top notch secretary and never missed a day of work.

But there came a point where the drinking finally caught up to her.

Out of the blue one day, she asked my father to take her to an Al Anon meeting, which he was happy to do. While there, she had a fit and collapsed, an ambulance was summoned and Ruby was admitted to the hospital.

My parents recounted visits there as she went through alcohol withdraw – the restrains on the bed. the wild talk, the pantomiming of taking a drink or smoking an imaginary Viceroy. She fought a tough battle – but eventually won.

She remained our sober neighbor before moving to Long Beach where she remained sober. My mother and father still looked in on her every week.

Eventually there came a time when time itself caught up with Ruby and she moved into a senior center. Shortly thereafter she took a fall, broke her shoulder and died two days later.

My parents saw to all of the arrangements as she had named them executors of her will and estate. It was just our small family at her funeral, as we were all that was of her family.

She left everything to my folks and I inherited her cat, along with the memories of that tough gal.

My sister sent me an email this morning reminding me it was Ruby’s birthday today, September 5th.

That got me to reminiscing – minus the highball.

Cruella

Cruella

Noel Laflin

9-5-18

The movie was going along splendidly until Cruella de Vil made her entrance onto the big screen.

Within no time at all, my kid sister, who was maybe five or six at the time, was suddenly out of her seat and on the popcorn strewn, soda soaked, sticky, red, concrete theater floor wailing.

To this day, I have no idea whether we stayed for the rest of the film or not. I do remember my older brother Bob and I had little success in calming down our frightened sibling.

Susi’s reaction was not that all unusual, or so I have since learned. Neil Patrick Harris said pretty much the same thing when the flamboyantly dressed, smoke curling villain appeared during his first viewing of the Disney classic. I recall hearing that comment during an interview with the actor a few years ago and immediately flashed to that day at the old Fox Theater in downtown Anaheim back in 1961.

Some thirty-odd years later, Richard Beltran and I got to meet the real person behind the voice of Cruella, as Betty Lou Gerson was chatting up visitors and hawking autographed photos at a Hollywood event. A lot of old-time entertainers were there, including, Adriana Caselotti (the voice behind Snow White), Billy Barty, a very old Little Rascal, Julie Newmar, and Betty Lou.

Everyone was very nice. Julie was still statuesque, Billy still short, and Adriana still singing about a prince who would come. I told Betty Lou, who was eighty years old at the time and extremely pleasant, about the episode regarding my sister.

And, Susanne Laflin, if you are reading this – which I know you are – Betty Lou felt bad about that.

Elevating Pugilists

Elevating Pugilists

Noel Laflin

9-2-18

Forty-five years ago I found myself crammed into an elevator at the Ambassador Hotel and was suddenly face-to-face with Gene Tunney, the former heavyweight champion of an era long gone. He was in high spirits as his son had just won the California U.S. Senate seat against former actor, George Murphy. I worked on the Tunney campaign as a young volunteer, thus accounting for my ending up in that high-flying elevator with the guy who beat Jack Dempsey in 1928.

Then, a couple of years ago, I found myself talking to former champ, Michael Spinks, in an elevator in a casino out in Indio. Mike Tyson had ended the man's career pretty dramatically thirty years earlier and Spinks had the smarts to retire with his faculties still intact. He was attending a boxing meet-and-greet event that night and I was there for the free food, so our paths briefly crossed. He was a very nice man, humble and soft spoken. I liked him.

Last night I was about to board that same desert elevator when a mob of folks surrounded a young fighter, seeking autographs and selfies with the champ.

I didn't recognize him, as I don't follow boxing nowadays. But there were some big bouts here earlier and adoring fans certainly knew this fellow.

I could have taken that elevator too, but waited for the next one as I felt guilty for not even knowing his name.

Guess I'm holding out for Tyson or Foreman next time, and lamenting that Ali is no longer a contender for such a chance encounter.