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.