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.