The Other Side of the Creek

The Other Side of the Creek

12-30-19

Here’s a favorite memory from three years ago today, as Jay and I first ventured across Santiago Creek and started to explore the more hidden treasures of Irvine Park.

We would return again and again over the next six month to watch baby hawks mature in a nest high up a sycamore tree, not far from this very spot where Jay is standing.

I became enraptured with the area and have returned a hundred times this year alone, looking for and finding some clues to its past for human and critter in-habitation. The area was once known as Camptontown, so that’s how I refer to it when sharing the sights there with friends nowadays.

Anyway, it’s a fine memory, so I thought I would now share it with you all. And it’s a great picture of Jay, too.

The pair of hawks that kept us coming back still like the area and will hopefully nest once again there in 2020. So, here’s to the next one hundred visits to the other side of the creek.

Magic Elixir

12-24-19
Old German neighbors taught us how to toast Christmas Eve and the coming new day with dark, unfiltered beer slowly poured into large glass steins. We stood in their kitchen, as the clock closed in on midnight, watching the thick foam rising to the rim, turning a reddish purple, as there was thick raspberry syrup in the bottom of each glass. Fresh raspberries simmering on the burner for an hour had created the magic elixir. With glasses full, Erik would rise, say a few words regarding the value of neighbors and friendship, his wife, Frieda, would cry, my mom and sister would smile, and my father allowed me a sip or two from his glass. It was more like a plunge than a sip - and I can still picture the reddish purple foam at the end of my nose.

Nesting

Nesting

Noel Laflin

11-30-19

Not so much as a single twig of the giant hawk nest remains in a high crook of yonder sycamore tree. It had taken a pair of red-shouldered hawks many days, if not weeks, to construct the nest last winter, and then, in the time it takes to say, Santa Ana Wind Event, it was blown away last month.

I bet those two hawks are even more bummed than I am over the loss of that nursery in the sky as it took so long to build, and served them well when it came to successfully raising four kids there.

That same pair is probably grumbling over their string of recent bad luck as the other magnificent nest they constructed just a stone’s throw away from this one, three years ago, was burned to a crisp when fire swept through their neck of the woods two years back. That particular batch of kids (three, if memory serves me right) had flown the coup several months prior to that, but still, it was a hell of a nice home, high and away in a canopy of thick sycamore limbs and leaves that could have made a comfortable home for years to come. Hawks often return to the same nest again and again, as do many birds.

And so I feel for their loss, of course, but have faith that they will return to the same area, if not the same tree, and start building anew – perhaps as early as the first of the New Year.

I would even lend a hand if called upon. Not likely, naturally, as I do not fly, but I would do my best to be of service in return for one more session of baby hawking portraits next spring.

Come Back to Me

Come Back to Me

Noel Laflin

9-8-19

My old friend Sue Scott once told me, as we sipped cheap Scotch whisky one lazy autumn afternoon (some forty years ago), how her mother liked to write on the upper margins of dollar bills. In oh-so-fine penmanship, according to Sue, it was always the same wording: Come back to me.

Not a single one of those autographed George Washington's ever made its way back to her mother during her lifetime, or so Sue said, taking another sip of Scotch and a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette.

But on the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death, and on Halloween at that, Sue was given back change at a local market. As she was putting the singles in her purse, one caught her eye.

In the upper margin, in oh-so-fine (and ever so recognizable) penmanship, were familiar words: Come back to me.

Cannonballs

Cannonballs

Noel Laflin

8-4-19

I look at the kids running about the hotel pool, splashing, jumping, hollering, and in general, having the time of their life. Pools and warm summer days can do that to you.

As a kid I would silently, but fervently, pray that our folks would land us a motel with a pool as we made long road trips across the west. Dad’s idea of a good motel was an inexpensive one. But occasionally prayers were answered and no matter the hour, I was performing my very best cannonball.

Kids have it better nowadays, at least when it comes to pools. And most motels have been replaced by nicer hotels as well, so there is that. And despite the cultural change regarding things like electronic devices and access to social media - concepts foreign to a generation reared back in the Eisenhower administration - pools will usually win out over a cellphone every time.

I am thinking of joining the crowd over there, but alas, I have forgotten the swim trunks. I can picture them back home sitting on the dresser feeling quite bitter for the oversight.

Just as well, I suppose, as I would not want to show up the kids of today what a cannonball of yesteryear really looks like.

Fireworks and Ravioli

Fireworks and Ravioli

Noel Laflin

7-4-19

When I was eleven years old our Boy Scout troop decided to operate a fireworks stand in order to raise funds.

We were given tickets to sell to friends and neighbors - each ticket was sold for a dollar, which they could then bring to the stand and apply to whatever kit they were going to buy.

I was doing alright with my sales when one neighbor said they wanted to buy the biggest box they could. It cost a hundred dollars.

Now, I could have sold them one ticket which they would have brought with them to apply to the big box in mind and then pay the additional ninety nine dollars at the actual time of purchase.  But I wanted to lock down their intentions, especially since they said they were willing to pay for the entire box up front.  So, I sat at their kitchen table, as they fed me homemade ravioli and lemonade, and filled out one hundred tickets. It took an hour, what with all the eating and childish hand-cramping effort to fill out those individual tickets. I remember a lot of laughter in that home too.

I left their house smiling, full, and had a hundred dollar bill in my pocket to boot.

Turns out we got to keep ten percent of all we sold, so I not only had a fine lunch, I made ten dollars in the process.

As an adult I would make a career of selling for the next forty years and can still recall some memorable sales calls.

But none of them ever came with an invite to come sit down at the kitchen table, laugh, be made to feel like part of the family, and be given the best homemade ravioli of my life.

Monks and Ghost

Monks and Ghost

Noel Laflin

7-10-19

Our tour guide, Kim, is a Korean national who taught himself Mandarin at an early age. Thus, he leads Taiwanese tours here; he has been doing so for eight years now.

He’s very funny. He told us about the time that one group of tourists went out drinking the first night and he had a call from the police to come collect them all after a barroom brawl at four in the morning. They all threatened to sue one another but instead became fast friends by the end of the trip.

Another tour group was composed of gangsters, who swore around the clock. Kim was doing likewise by the end of that trip too. The gangsters all liked Kim so much that they have returned over the years.

But the best story involved an entire busload of monks. One night two monks woke him up complaining about the ghost in their room. As Kim spoke Korean, and they did not, the monks felt that the ghost would listen to him if he asked it to leave.

Kim just switched rooms with them instead.

I love stories in any language, especially if I have David and his sister provide the translation.

Shirts

Shirts

Noel Laflin

7-11-19

Patty’s funeral is this Friday, but we are seven thousand miles away.

And as much as it pains David and me to not be there, we will honor the day by wearing pink and Hawaiian shirts here, even though we will be so very far from our gathered friends back home. Patty loved the color pink and her beloved husband - our old friend, Mark - loved wearing Hawaiian shirts.

But when I return, I will visit her grave, and Mark’s, often, as the cemetery is just on the other side of Santiago Creek, at the western end of Irvine Park. I spend a lot of time in that park, hiking its hills, absorbing its history - step by step - and photographing its birds, trees and wildflowers. As it is less than four miles from our home, it is another home of sorts.

So although I cannot say farewell to our young friend on Friday, I intend to say hello to Patty, and Mark, many times in the future.

Fairy Lies

Fairy Lies

Noel Laflin

6-15-19

I was speaking to my daughter a moment ago when the subject of parties came about.

Specifically, we talked about the one she threw here several years ago when I was conveniently out of the country.

I still give her a hard time over that as I occasionally come across bits of confetti in the most unlikely of places and marvel at the old champagne stains that still mark many of the book spines over in the dining room corner and other odds and ends about the house.

Before we hung up though, and just to make her feel better, I confided in an impromptu party I had at my parents’ house back when I was young.

One of the attendees ran naked through the house shaking Ajax from the canister he found in the bathroom. I distinctly remember him claiming to be Tinkerbell and wanting to spread pixie dust everywhere so that we could all fly.

A week later, after my parents returned from out of state, my mother was baffled by the gritty linoleum she encountered everywhere she stepped. My cleaning of my parents’ home had been about as effective as my daughter’s cleaning of my home forty-five years hence.

Questioning me about it, I just told my mother that fairies had no doubt broken in and thrown a party.

Not much of a lie there.

First Time Caller

First Time Caller

Noel Laflin

6-15-19

I just called my neighbor, Debby, a little while ago.

When she answered, she said, “You know, this is the first time you’ve ever called me.”

True enough. After thirty-three years of only living three doors apart, it dawned on me that there had never been need of a call before as we have always just wandered down to one another’s house to borrow an egg, a cup of milk or sugar, snap a photo of a sleeping dove on a front porch light, attend a party, show up with unexpected cookies made from borrowed egg, milk, and sugar.

In my defense I replied to my old friend of three plus decades, “But you only gave me your phone number two days ago; thought I should try it out.”

Although the call was expedient and all, and kept me from forgetting something that I needed to tell her, of which I think I have already forgotten - good thing I called,- and lastly, kept me from having to put on something other than a robe, the walks are always better.

Bicycles and Birdseed

Bicycles and Birdseed

Noel Laflin

6-11-19

My neighbor Brian rode up on his bicycle just a bit ago in order to collect a couple of large bags of wild bird seed I had laying around. I got it a few months back as it was on some kind of super-duper sale one Saturday at our neighborhood Ace. The only reason I bought the seed was to help Brian out with the two bird feeders he maintains down at his end of the block. It’s payback as Brian keeps the feeders full while I reap the benefits of taking pictures of the birds that fly in to feast. Brian has been my neighbor for nearly thirty years now, and he is a fine friend. If, for example, a tree falls across your driveway some windy night, and you are not even home, well, it’s the likes of a neighbor like him who will just show up with a chainsaw and clear your way in before you even get home. He’s that kind of guy.

We got to kibitzing, as we do, and our light banter turned to religion. Nothing serious, mind you, as my church appearances are limited to weddings and funerals nowadays, and Brian is a Jack Mormon – the finest kind of Latter Day Saint in my book. He mentioned that missionaries still show up at his door in hopes of returning him to the fold. 

As joking wound down, and as there were still two heavy bags of bird seed with which to contend, and as Brian had ridden over on his bike, I removed the old sheet keeping the dust off of mine, checked the air in the tires, and hoisted one of the bags on my handlebars.

So there we were - the heat of the day nearly spent and a cooling breeze blowing through the neighborhood - two old guys on bikes transporting birdseed up the street in order to feed a hungry flock.

Had we been fifty years younger, shaved, hair in place, washed, dressed in white shirts bearing skinny black ties, and carrying religious tracks instead of birdseed, we might have passed as missionaries on our way, once again, to visit a lost sheep named Brian.

Looking for Potholes

Looking for Potholes

Noel Laflin

6-5-19

In 1925 a rancher took this and one other two-ton rock from Hidden Ranch above Black Star Canyon. Native Americans ground acorns in the potholes. There are some really large mortar stone slabs in Hidden Ranch to this day. The rancher intended to make the two he took, which he accomplished with the help of a tractor, a roadside attraction. But the stones, in turn, were liberated by an Irvine Park supervisor and his jail crew one night. Orange County jail crews used to rake the park back then. The stones were loaded onto a truck and hidden in the park – they were actually buried for safekeeping. The rancher was mad, but the supervising board decided the stones belonged to the community, so they were dug up and put on display. One eventually ended up in Bower’s museum, having been hijacked by the county more or less. It seems everyone was taking something that should have stayed put in the first place.

Anyway, the remaining pothole mortar was on display near the original children’s playground for decades. It was eventually moved inside the OC Zoo for safekeeping, as some visitors were doing damage to the relic.

I had read about the stone and have been trying to locate it for some time, with no luck. So I finally asked someone who I figured could help – Dave, one of the railroad engineers and a great narrator on a train ride. Those guys know the park better than anyone – and Dave especially since he’s been coming here since he was a kid, and has worked for the park for more than twenty years. He knew what I was talking about and directed me to the zoo. A zoo employee directed me to the stone’s remote location within, and I finally got to see it today. It sits forlornly against a fence near the Storytime children’s area. Just on the other side of that fence is a road I have either walked or driven upon dozens of times. If I had only thought to peek through the fence I might have found that old rock sooner.

The moral of this brief tale is, if you want to know something about Irvine Park, take a ride on the train and listen to Dave.

Thanking Squirrels - Questions for Rangers

Thanking Squirrels - Questions for Rangers

Noel Laflin

6-2-19

It’s not often that I can thank a squirrel, but gratitude is in order to the one who decided to burrow into a hillside in order to make a home, and in the process become a little archaeologist/geologist of sorts. I picture the furry bugger with miniature headlamp in place and pickax in paw.

I went back to the steps leading to old Lookout Point in Irvine Park the other day hoping to find chunks of charcoal lying about – like the ones I had noticed on an earlier climb to the old, abandoned picnic site. And although the water to the drinking fountain up there was turned off decades ago, and tables removed long ago as well, the view of the park below is still pretty cool.  A lone, scruffy, wind sculpted oak is the only tree in the vicinity, tenaciously clinging to the edge of the overlook. But the squirrels did not disappoint as plenty of newly unearthed chunks of blackened charcoal lay scattered about the steps leading up there. The charred remains were from a clear cut section of hillside showing dark veins of charcoal running evenly across the land, now buried under six inches of rock and topsoil.

I am no expert in the study of soil layers or horizons, as they are called, but it was clear to me that something mighty hot roared through this park long, long ago and has been buried for quite a while. Not long by geological standards, but long enough in human terms – certainly longer than I have been here, or my parents or grandparents, and so on.

The wildflowers along this hillside are abundant; most of which don’t sprout, let alone flourish, without the benefit of fires past. In order to grow some of these plants at home, gardening sites recommend that you add charcoal to your backyard soil when planting seeds like caterpillar scorpionweed, poppies, etc. Well, there is certainly an abundance of wood charcoal in this region, both old and recent, and an abundance of caterpillar scorpionweed blooms, poppies, etc.

And as grateful as I am to the industrious ground squirrel that first brought this to my attention, I am now even more curious as to just how long ago that blaze occurred and what type of former trees, the remains of which, I now held in hand.

Oaks, I imagine – probably relatives of those giants still standing down below closer to the creek – the ones that are already centuries old. You get a good view of them from Lookout Point.

I need to ask a ranger one of these days, show some pics, and get his or her opinion. They are always pretty helpful folks. I wanted to become a ranger once upon a time, but got distracted in the process of sorting out life and made other career choices.

And while I am at it, I will ask a million other questions too about this place. I have tried asking the squirrels, but they just look at me like I’m nuts. I will probably get that same reaction from the next ranger I track down.

#37

#37

Noel Laflin

6-2-19

There's a lot of ruckus at Disneyland this weekend regarding the new Star Wars attraction.

But 51 years ago today, real life astronaut John Glenn co-piloted a bobsled car with Robert Kennedy and two of his children as Kennedy took a break from campaigning for the California presidential campaign and brought some of his kids, and Glenn, to Disneyland.

Glenn, a close friend of the Kennedy's, would be tasked with breaking the news of their father's death to Bobby Kennedy's children four days later. Ethel Kennedy phoned and asked him to do so as Glenn was back in Massachusetts and she was still in California at the hospital with her slain husband.

“It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do," Glenn later wrote, never elaborating on those personal one-on-one conversations with each child.

Post Script: It dawned on me, while looking at the bobsled car number in this photo, that had Kennedy taken the Democratic nomination and gone on to win the general election that year, he would have been the 37th President of the United States.

Don't Open the Door

Don't Open the Door

Noel Laflin

6-1-19

It’s four in the afternoon and I am still in the sweats and t-shirt I threw on when I got up this morning. This is unlike me as I would prefer to be out doing something.

But the yard work is complete and it’s a really grey day - think June Gloom - so shooting pictures is unappealing.

The places I usually visit to get away from people will be swarming with weekend people, so that is off the table too.

I have only opened the front door three times today and each time was a mistake. 

First, it was to be greeted by unwanted religious folk. The second time made me think the circus had arrived, as noted by the termite tenting across the street. I thought I’d retrieve the mail on the third attempt, but the strong chemical smell that’s doing in all living organisms under the big tent over yonder made me close the door. I don’t think the roustabouts sealed the flaps all that well, so the mail can wait.

But the day has not been been a total loss as I have spun a few yarns for both you and me.

Besides, I need a down day once in a while anyway just to recharge physically - or so I lie to myself.

And hey, a new book arrived today so there is that. It came electronically so I did not even have to open the front door a fourth time in order to receive it.

Lists

Lists

Noel Laflin

6-1-19

Two nicely dressed middle-aged male Jehovah Witnesses interrupted the cleaning of my coffee pot this morning.

I should always check the peep hole before opening the door, I guess. But too late, there they were, on my porch. Whatever happened to the old fashioned dressed matrons with a child?

Alright, I was very polite but cut them off pretty quickly after their introduction. In fact, I even did them – and my neighbor - a favor when warning them off about pressing my neighbor’s door bell, telling them that my neighbor has a pet direwolf, and if they would take note, no screen door. It was a lie, of course, but did the trick. They did ask me, before departing, if he was even more ‘hard core’ in attitude than I. Hardcore, I thought. Well, hell, I did not even curse while talking to them. Nor did I tell them how I really felt about their crazy religion. But, I let it pass.

Now, nice Mormon missionary lads are never that disrespectful. And if truth be known, I do give them more time to give their speech if at least one of them is cute. Heck, if they are both cute, I will even invite them in for a drink. I haven’t seen a nice pair of Mormon lads in some time now though. Guess I am on a ‘do not call upon’ list or something. Can’t imagine why.

But back to the two older men on my porch this morning. It was only later that I belatedly thought of what I should have said. I should have asked them if they knew why all Jehovah Witnesses have inverted nipples. Hoping for perplexity, I fantasized that they would claim ignorance, to which I would then reply: Because people are always jumping out of their doorways, poking them in the chest and angrily shouting, ‘Get off my porch!’

But they have probably already heard that one before.

Should have thought to tell them that old joke anyway. Then maybe I would be added to whatever lists they might keep too.

Humm and Plums

Humm and Plum

Noel Laflin

6-1-19

I had to take down a backyard plum tree yesterday. The birds and I are both going to miss those branches.

It was not the outcome I was hoping for, as I have been keeping out an ever hopeful eye that leaves would miraculously sprout this spring. But years of prolonged drought did it in. This year’s plentiful rainfall came just a little too late unfortunately. The poor tree innards were as brittle as – well, sticks.

The job did not take long as the tree in the northeast corner of the yard had never really grown to great height. But despite its diminutive stature, it produced some really good Satsuma plum crops in the past – enough to produce a few dozen pints of jam over the last decade and a half.

Two apricot trees are not looking so well at this stage either, so I trimmed them back severely while I had pruning shears in hand – but they did not suffer the same dastardly fate as poor old Mr. Satsuma. The birds and I are going to miss those branches too.

When all was said and done – twigs scattered into the compost pile, larger pieces hacked into smaller pieces, blood cleaned from hands, a silent prayer of thanks from me, to me, for not pruning off the upper portion of my middle left hand finger at one point, etc., I sat in the shade of my balcony and watched as a hummingbird went for a feeder hiding behind the giant pink rosebush.

And to my wonderment, once the photo was later opened, there it was: light barely touching the Allen’s neck, tongue ever so slightly protruding from the extended beak – but even more beautiful, two healthy green plums from the last surviving plum tree. Those two have a hundred siblings on the tall Santa Rosa tree right now. I had planted it just two years ago, right about now, as I feared - even back then - that the other tree which had just been reduced to rubble might not make it.

Just to be sure that this one had a better chance of survival, the tree is planted next to a fountain that is always splashing its trunk and tends to overflow its way.

Some forethought is just plum brilliant at times.

And I, with left middle finger still attached, continue to believe that some things are just plum lucky too. Otherwise, I would have been cursing the fates with the other hand.

Memorial Weekend

Memorial Weekend

Noel Laflin

5-26-19

While paying respects to my folks and marveling at the thousands of flags, white crosses, and Stars of David adorning the cemetery, a bluebird landed on a nearby cross. 
Took that as a sign that Sgt. Laflin is just fine. 
Mom too, I am thinking.

Taco Rewards

Taco Rewards

Noel Laflin

5-27-19

The last of the yard work is complete - it's been two solid days of digging, pruning, transplanting, etc. - hand wounds rinsed out hurriedly in a backyard fountain appear to be healing over; a hot shower took away the rest of the dirt; wine has been poured; and the delectable smell of baked chicken once again fills the house.

I am making chicken as I have a surplus of corn tortillas – the small street taco size. And as I also have lots of shredded cheese and a surplus of salsa, all that was lacking was some shredded pollo. That has now been remedied as the dinger just dinged.

The sun is shining – quite a pleasant surprise after three days of grey; finches are coming down to the fountain to drink – the small amounts of blood rinsed there a while ago are now well diluted, I assure them; and hummingbirds are flitting about their feeders, of course. I am surprised that they are not going for the wine in hand. I admire all this from the balcony, pleased with a little hard work and a tidier, colorful looking garden shining in the late day sun. Roses nod their approval. Plums and lemons swell with pride.

It’s Memorial Day, 2019. All now seems well in my little kingdom.

Time to make some tacos.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

Noel Laflin

5-27-19

When I was little we would scramble for the spent brass casings ejected from rifles fired in salute to the fallen at Memorial Day ceremonies. As the soldiers were kind, they would turn a blind eye and let us keep our shiny souvenirs, still warm in our hands.

If the sun would break through the usual late May overcast – or even if it did not - we would swim in a neighbor’s pool while the adults kept an eye on both us and the barbecue, drank adult beverages, and swapped war stories. I can still hear their laughter and sometimes even the silence.

All of those adults, those who fired the rifles as well as the parents that cooked, watched over children swimming, and swapped war stories, now lie quiet in those same cemeteries that we once traveled to every Memorial Day.

I miss the laughter and now reflect mostly upon the silence.

Messing With the Future

Messing With the Future

Noel Laflin

5-15-19

I like rocks, which is a good thing, as my small backyard is chock full of them.

Even before a single piece of furniture entered the new home, some thirty-five years ago, rocks were dealt with first.

The soil, hard as clay, was firmly held in place with rocks of all shapes and sizes. And so they were dug out with shovel and pickax and in some cases, crowbars.

Piles of rocks were moved about as new areas of the garden took shape. To help with drainage concerns, rocks were laid back down in the earth like an underground highway to direct anticipated future downpours away from the house and out into a concrete lined drainage ditch just beyond our fence. Consequently, flooding has never been an issue.

Even after all of that redistribution, rocks ruled the day back then, and still do. I pick out the unusual ones and place them against ponds and posts, line pathways, lose them for a decade or so, and then uncover them years later while digging a grave for a fallen feline.

In fact, I have even added foreign rocks to the collection over the years.

Someday perhaps, after I am long gone, someone with a geologically-trained eye might just be digging up my old garden and wonder why rocks, which are normally found in southern Africa, for example, are here in Orange.

“I’ve read that this type of rock is only found along the Zambezi River,” he or she will ponder. “And is this the skull of a cat?”

It’s good to know that there is a remote possibility that I can mess with future generations in such stony fashion.

Winner-Winner

Winner-Winner

Noel Laflin

5-10-19

It’s only seven-thirty in the morning, but there is chicken already baking in the oven. Now, that’s more like a lunch or dinner item, and most likely will be, but it was the corn flakes for breakfast that inspired the sudden search for an old rolling pin - which was eventually found and put into action.

Years ago, we had dinner at a friend’s house and baked chicken was served. I thought his version was the greatest thing since sliced bread and probably had six or seven pieces. Ben said it was the crunched up corn flakes added to the breadcrumbs that gave it the great taste. It could also have been the pot we smoked all afternoon before dinner that played a role that day, but I am certain the corn flakes were still the secret ingredient.

Thus, I have been using crunched up corn flakes in my baked chicken version ever since; hence the need for that old rolling pin.

As there is no pot handy, however, I will just have to experience the meal clear-headed and maybe only have five pieces.

The timer just dinged.

My breakfast of champions will be coming out of the oven shortly.

And man, does the house smell yummy right now.

Wednesdays With Wes

Wednesdays With Wes

Noel Laflin

5-7-19

For Paula

When I was a much younger man I would spend Wednesday mornings in Leisure World with old Wes Klusman and his wife, Gertrude. They were wonderful mornings, as Gertrude would whip up pancakes, bacon, eggs, juice, coffee – the works.  In hindsight, as with time spent with my own parents and other beloved elders, the only thing missing was a portable tape recorder.  Oh, Jesus, how I wish I had brought a tape recorder and a pocketful of cassettes.

They was supposed to be working breakfasts between the eighty-year-old volunteer Scouter and the young, cocky professional -  but would, with just a little prodding from me, turn into story time – Wes’ stories about meeting Gertrude as they picked fruit together in the World War I era – their courtship, marriage, the starting of a family; what California was like at that time; how Wes became a shaker and mover of the early national Boy Scout movement taking place in the United States –  what Dan Beard was like - how Wes loved to sing and went on to write the official songbook for the BSA; how he formed a national troop to take to the 1937 World Scout Jamboree in the Netherlands, but scrapped the trip when it was learned that they would be traveling through Germany en route to the event and feared for the well being of one of their Scouts, as he was Jewish.

The stories went on like this for nearly fifty Wednesdays.  Then one warm Sunday morning Wes bent over to tie his shoe laces and died of a massive heart attack before he even hit the carpet of his bedroom.  He was getting ready for church, according to Gertrude.

Not a bad way to go out, I have often thought.

And if I had been thinking back then, I would have brought a tape recorder to every one of those breakfast meetings. I have no recollection of what we spoke of regarding the business end of things, but oh, how I loved the stories. I only wish now that I had the narrative of Wes’ voice – and maybe a song or two – to refresh my memory.

Intoxicating

Intoxicating

Noel Laflin

5-4-19

Mr. Lincoln was laid to rest in Springfield, Illinois on this day in 1865.

I thought of the anniversary as I sprayed water from a forceful nozzle up into the climbing rose bush, a variety also named Mr. Lincoln. It was the name that led me to choose the bare root rose so long ago - as well as the scent. Those blooms, and there are so many right now, are beautifully intoxicating. The water trick is how I cheat at removing spent leaves and blossoms. I could not do that last summer as a hummingbird decided to make a nest at the top of Mr. Lincoln. But since there is no sign of that this spring, the hose was put back in service.

I watched as blood-red petals and rainbow-infused sprays of water rained back down upon both me and the garden.

That rose bush is thirty years old now, and taller than me by twice my height. Heck, it’s even taller than the original Mr. Lincoln himself – and he was a giant among men.

But the treatment was effective in removing brown leaves and spent flowers. And the scent of all those falling blood-red petals was intoxicating.

And there was no hummingbird's home to worry about either.

Anniversaries

Anniversaries

Noel Laflin

5-4-19

It’s the anniversary of the Kent State shootings forty-nine years ago today.

You know how you can recall being in a particular place when hearing bad news? For me, it was a 5th grade classroom when learning of the Kennedy assassination - the teacher left the room mumbling how he'd not voted for the man; standing in the living room when Krysten’s mom calls to tell me to turn on the TV on a September morning in 2001 - Krys was still asleep on the couch; sitting in a chair at work when news of the Challenger disaster broke - I went to my car to listen to the radio and cry; or awaking to my folks staring blankly in front of the old black and white television learning about a man named Sirhan Sirhan in early June of 1968 - it my mother’s birthday that morning.

And so I vividly remember being in my best friend’s living room when the news of Kent State hit the airwaves. I was 17 and Kris was 19. We had grown up just three doors down from one another, shared childhood and adolescence together, and I had seen him in some angry moods before, but never like this. His rage was intense.

I guess we were at an age where we could relate to those kids in Ohio. And although it was not mentioned at the time, I think that my old best friend and I suddenly realized that our childhood was no more.

No Hammer Required

No Hammer Required

Noel Laflin

5-2-19

It's my folks' 77th wedding anniversary.

They married in secret so my mother could keep her job as a teacher.

A month later my father reported to boot camp and did not see my mother again for the next three and a half years.

They corresponded to one another fiendishly (I wonder if they would approve of that adverb... probably) throughout the entire separation and left behind a treasure-trove of letters.

I have mentioned all of this before, but just wanted to let you know, I still have a boatload of reading to do.

It’s sort of like breaking into a piggy bank, pulling out one old penny at a time. As my dad was fond of old coins, he'd like this analogy. And my mother once gave me a nice ceramic piggy bank which I destroyed with a hammer in order to extract the contents. So there is that image too. But give me some slack on that episode as I was only seven, and broke at the time.

In closing, if I may be so bold as to speculate, I will probably be as old as this anniversary date today before I am finished reading all of those letters.

But, I'll be all the richer for the experience, one precious letter at a time. And this time, no hammer required.