Wooden Soldier

 

 Wooden Soldier

Noel Laflin

12-17-20

I just read that today is the day that The Nutcracker ballet was performed for the first time in St. Petersburg, Russia (1892). The Czar loved it, but the critics hated it, which reminds me that when I was in the first grade, our school’s Christmas program included a piece from The Nutcracker ballet.

 

Since I was the tallest boy in the class I was chosen to be the wooden toy soldier. As chance would have it, a friend of mine had the outfit needed. Why did Elliot have such an outfit? I have no idea. But as he went to a different school, which was going with another holiday theme apparently, I would not be depriving him of similar Christmas glory. And as no one else in our class had ready access to a cool wooden toy soldier outfit, I was it.

 

As rehearsals were held each afternoon leading up to the big night, I would slip behind the upright piano in the corner of the room and change from me into Mr. Nutcracker. I was always afraid someone would catch me in my underwear as I undressed, so I was quick about the transformation.

 

I guess the pageant was a hit as I have vague memories of peers, parents, and siblings dutifully applauding as I stiffly marched about the stage trying my dandiest to not bump into the tiny ballerinas traipsing all about. As none of us had speaking lines, and I did not knock anybody into the orchestra pit, my first venture into show biz was a solid success.

 

I bet the Czar, had he still been around, would have liked it too. And, to heck with critics.

 

 

 

A Little Bird Told Me

A Little Bird Told Me

Noel Laflin

12-7-20

You know what has really helped me through this year, other than David’s exquisite cuisine, has been photography.

Even when it did not feel safe to venture out further than the supermarket, there was always the backyard and balcony birds to keep me occupied.

When I moved into this cozy place thirty-seven years ago – right about now – what drew me to the location was the location – Orange, a long-established bird sanctuary. That, and the fact that although this is a condo, it came with a backyard and a balcony overlooking the small yard.

Before a stick of furniture was even moved into place inside, the yard took precedence. Ground was overturned, rocks dug up were laid back down to help with drainage, an acacia and two plum trees were planted, a pond was built, a deck laid outside the bedroom door in order to keep the mud out of the house, bulbs, mint, and ferns were planted – and presto, time did the rest.

Opossums and raccoons showed up - as did rabbits and even a turtle once. Squirrels would make their way here twenty years later.

For thirty years I enjoyed the fruit, fish, and flowers mostly. Then I found an old camera just laying around and gathering dust; I had not really used one since college days. As there were no longer cats or dogs roaming the yard, birds came back in curious numbers, especially to drink from and bathe in the fountains established so long ago. They became my practice subjects.

And so they have sustained me ever since.

Even when I have the best intentions of venturing forth most days, sometimes I never even make it past the front door, as something or other

will steal my attention – as did this little guy resting on a backyard bird of paradise bloom. Then one thing leads to another and presto, the sun has set, as it tends to do earlier and earlier this time of year, and you wait to see what tomorrow brings.

So, whether you venture forth or not, for whatever reason – or not, I wish you all the best as we head pell-mell into Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, Christmas, and the New Year, despite a world filled with current uncertainty.

But a little bird has told me that there's hope for 2021.

After all, he is looking up.

 

No Complaints

 I used to complain about the small, persistent patch of psoriasis on my right elbow until I observed a carefree, happy, rambunctious youngster - three years of age perhaps - whose right arm ended at the elbow.

Lost Lilies of the Field

Lost Lilies of the Field

Noel Laflin

12-3-20

I was with a friend at Irvine Park yesterday and was telling her about some pretty flowers that bloom in the spring and early summer - in particular, the Plummer's Mariposa Lily, as seen here. This photo was taken in mid-June, 2019. There were none to be seen in 2020, unfortunately; not enough rain, apparently, to bring them out of their dormancy, whereas the rains of 2019 were overabundant, leading to wildflower super bloom events throughout the Southland.

Two interesting facts about this pretty flower - it was once prevalent throughout the park in the early days of visitation, but has subsequently become quite rare due to so many folks that used to pick the flowers as bouquets. I have only seen half a dozen plants, and they hide way up on Horseshoe Loop Trail.

The other interesting thing to me is that the lily was named for Sara Allen Plummer (September 3, 1836 – January 15, 1923), an American botanist. She was responsible for the designation of the golden poppy (Eschscholzia californica) as the state flower of California, in 1903.

It too is now hard to find in the park due to overzealous picking by folks a hundred years ago.

And as pretty as golden poppies are, the Plummer’s Mariposa Lily would have been a fine choice as our state flower too.

 

Lamentations

Lamentations

Noel Laflin

12-1-20

December 1^st is World AIDS Day, first observed thirty-two years ago.

I remember dressing in all-white clothes (dress shirt, slacks, shoes) the following year, along with others from my sign language class (similarly dressed in white), climbing an outdoor roster at UCI and rapidly finger-spelling names of folks who had died of the disease as they were read aloud to the crowd assembled that chilly day.  Those of us from the ASL class did this for the benefit of the hearing impaired.  My boyfriend at the time, who happened to be deaf, was one of those in attendance. There were so many names read aloud that afternoon, my fingers, along with the other signers, were sore just trying to keep up with the alternating readers at the microphone.

As years went by, I began to record the names of friends who died from AIDS in the margins of a childhood Bible.  I believe I wrote them in the book of Lamentations. There were too many names, unfortunately.

One day, I wrote down the name of a beautiful young deaf lad who I had once loved.

Somewhere around here lurks that old Bible.

I believe I will look for it and read those hand-written names aloud - and finger-spell, despite being a bit rusty, one name in particular.

Beating Swords Into Plowshares

 

Beating Swords Into Plowshares

Noel Laflin

11-11-20

 

I had a great-uncle who, one hundred and two years ago today, was waiting to board a train in order to enlist in the army. News of the just announced armistice in Europe suddenly began to spread among all the folks standing on that platform.

 

So the young man turned around and walked back to the farm where he was needed more.

Nuts

Nuts

Noel Laflin

11-1-20

Santa Ana winds shook down a gazillion acorns in the park across the street the other day, so I filled my cap as the pickings were plentiful - with maybe fifty or more - and brought them home.

I lined up ten acorns on the backyard fence where the squirrels like to run, and scattered the rest throughout the garden, thinking I might confuse them into wondering where the oak tree has been hiding all this time.

Two days later, and not one acorn can be found out there.

They might have been momentarily confused, but determined little hoarders nonetheless.

Hands of Time

Hands of Time

Noel Laflin

10-31-20

As my father instructed me long ago and as I remind David twice a year (tonight being one of those times), we never move the minute hand on either the grandmother’s clock or the cuckoo clock in a backward motion.  To do so would jam the works.  Westminster chimes would chime no more and the annoying bird from the Black Forest would refuse to open its door and announce the hour. So when it’s time to fall back, the pendulums are merely stopped and given back their swing an hour later when time has caught up once again.

Of the many clocks and watches in the house, these two mean the most to me, as both are old, made by hand, and represent an age that I still relate to the most – analog.  Digital is fine, but I feel most at home with minute and hour hands slowly making their way around the face of time.  Slow is fine by me nowadays anyway.

Besides, digital can’t cuckoo.

 

 

 

Well, Let Him Out!

Noel Laflin

10-29-20

Sir Walter Raleigh, adventurer, fancy dresser, flirt, and one-time favorite of the queen, was beheaded on this day in 1618 for conspiring to overthrow King James.

Now, I hate to brag, but as a kid I like to think that I actually knew something about both historical figures.

I knew, for example, that King James must have written the Bible, as I saw his name stamped on them all the time. And the passages within were pretty flowery in verse – filled with thees and thou’s – definitely written by a king.

And boy was I an expert on Raleigh as this was a very popular pipe tobacco found in every store  way back when, as well as the only brand of cigarettes preferred by a favorite aunt.  She smoked them because of the coupons.  My folks only collected Blue Chip and S&H stamps from local markets – thus, I never learned much history from those.

But speaking of markets, we would sometimes call one on a dare and enquire whether they had Sir Walter Raleigh in a can. When a new clerk – one who had not experienced the prank as yet – would reply, “Why, yes we do,” we would screech with delight and yell back, “Well, let him out!”

Ah, childhood history.  I was an expert.

Rock Walls

 Rock Walls

Noel Laflin

10-20-20

There are literally miles of stones hand placed by WPA masons some eighty-some-odd-years ago into cement-based retaining walls and drainage channels spread throughout Irvine Park. I couldn’t tell you the exact number of rocks brought up from Santiago Creek and put into place over the years, but there are thousands. I know this to be a fact as I have followed the majority of those walls and drains looking for the gift of an occasional fossil embedded in a pretty rock or the name of an emboldened mason left behind.

And to think that I used to get stoned in a completely different fashion when I was young.

Good to the Last Drop

 

Good to the Last Drop

Noel Laflin

10-16-20

I broke my leg shortly following my fifteenth birthday, spent the night in the hospital, had three parts of the left tibia realigned the next morning, watched as a ten pound cast was woven from toe to crotch, and then sent home straddling the entire length of the back seat of my dad’s station wagon.

No sooner had I been laid to rest in my hastily made makeshift bed then I told my dad that I really needed to pee – as I had not done so in the last twenty-four hours.

Since the bathroom was just too far away, and we had not even procured a set of crutches as yet, my father yelled to my mother, “Vi, we need an empty coffee can, pronto!’

Scavenging beneath the kitchen sink where such items were bound to reside – being good for storing bacon grease, etc. – my mom rushed one to my dad, who had by then gotten me to my feet and propped me up.

A true gusher ensued.  As the can was rapidly filling, I whispered to dad, “I’m not done …”

Dad yelled to my mom once again, “Vi, we’re gonna need another can!”

Mom rushed in with reinforcements, a well-timed swap on the part of my father played out, and the second can was nearly filled.

When all was said and done and I was gently laid back to rest, my father gingerly walked the coffee cans to the bathroom.

He started to laugh when he read the labels, yelling out to my mother one last time, “Hey, Vi, God Bless Maxwell House – “Good to the last drop!”

My mom switched to Folgers shortly thereafter.

 

Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

 

Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

Noel Laflin

10-11-20

 

Every day, nowadays, is something-or-other National Something Day. 

Yesterday, for example, it was National Cake Decorating Day.

Tomorrow is National Kick Butt Day.

Today you can celebrate National Sausage Pizza Day, Clergy Appreciation Day – started by Hallmark cards, of course – and last, but by no means least, National Coming Out Day.

I was just reading some stats which concluded that 9.5 percent of today’s youth, between the ages of 13-17, identify as LGBTQ, an astonishing number to me.  Shoot, when I fell into that age category – twenty years before the first National Coming Out Day was first celebrated - I thought gay meant happy – such were the times and my lack of street lingo, let alone sexual experience.  But I had an inkling about what I might be back then, even if I didn’t have a word for it, other than queer. And queer was the last thing you wanted to be as a teenager in the 1960’s.

But by the mid ‘70’s, I had finally come out to myself, and that was a fine start. Eventually, that led to discussions with family and straight friends – all of which went really well, looking back on it.

That article I alluded to earlier mentions that coming out is not a one shot deal – but rather a series of coming out scenarios – sometimes lasting for years. And for some folks – both young and old alike – it just doesn’t ever happen at all.  Sometimes that’s by choice, which is fine, and sometimes because of perceived persecution or violence brought upon them if they did so, which is not fine.  But that’s just the way it is unfortunately.

My life has been a cakewalk in comparison to the folks who can’t come out.  I was fortunate to have a loving family and enlightened straight friends - although I once had an employer who wasn’t so enlightened by my acknowledgement of being gay, and it cost me that job.  But life, by way of a straight friend, provided me a better job a short time later, so there is that. And besides, that organization that fired me is now in bankruptcy due to their antiquated way of thinking and will most likely just shrivel up and die any day now. So, there is that too.  Ain't karma a bitch sometimes ...

And so, this October 11, 2020, you can either celebrate your sausage pizza or your pastor – I’ll take the pizza, by the way.  Or maybe for some, they can step out of the closet instead, if so inclined.

And if so inclined to take that first step, close that closet door firmly behind you.

The world has a much more colorful wardrobe just waiting for you to try on. In fact, there’s damn near a rainbow of colors from which to choose.

 

 

 

 

Hotdogs

 Hotdogs

Noel Laflin

9-27-20

I like hotdogs. I always have. They are a go-to comfort food for me, much like Mac and Cheese is for others. In fact, I just pan fried a couple for David and me.

Now, before anyone begins to lecture me with the opening, “Do you know what goes into hotdogs?” let me assure you, I don’t care.

To be honest, however, there were times in my life that I made exceptions to that claim as the hot dogs at summer camp were atrocious, and I avoided them at all costs. Another time occurred when a friend experimented with non-meat hotdogs. They had the texture of sawdust and were a disaster to one’s taste buds.

For years I worked next door to a Der Wienerschnitzel and visited the place all too often. When our company up and moved, the owner of the Wienerschnitzel nearly cried and gave me the last dog for free. He also said that I singlehandedly helped put his oldest child through college. High praise indeed! And as luck would have it, or maybe it's providence, I live within walking distance of another Der Wienerschnitzel out here in Orange.

I also remember a weekend when my daughter was playing in a softball tournament and I consumed ten hotdogs over a two day period. The concessioner offered me an eleventh dog for free, but I had to pass on that one. I mean, I have my limits.

Overall, I like a good dog whether it be hot off a grill, gingerly removed from a metal coat hanger patiently roasted over a beach barbeque pit, wrapped in bacon, wrapped in pop up crescent dough, pan fried, or turning slowly at the local 7-Eleven counter. I just like them. And with plenty of mustard.

But the strangest way that I ever heard of cooking a hotdog was related to me, years ago, by a friend who said his grandfather prepared hotdogs for the family picnic by placing them in the radiator of his Model A Ford. According to my friend, his grandfather would stop the car about a mile or so from their final destination, open the radiator cap, and feed a string of hotdogs into the hot water, replace the cap, and drive on. The dogs were ready by the time they arrived. This was, obviously, before the invention of coolant/antifreeze.

My only question to my friend, upon hearing this story, was whether his grandfather remembered to bring mustard.

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Notable

Notable

Noel Laflin

9-26-20

I had a sociology instructor at college who once told the story of how he, as a teen, would often come home late at night and run his finger down the entire length of his mother’s piano, always stopping short of hitting the very last key.

He would then go to bed and just wait until his mother, a perfectionist, and a bit of a compulsive, would wearily arise from her own bed, creep downstairs, and tap out the final key.

Our instructor said that it was his way of letting her know that he was home. Her hitting the last key was her way of acknowledgement. 

He also added that he was a bit of an ass as a kid.

I am sure his mother agreed.

There’s not much that I remember from college days, but for some reason, that lesson was notable.

Late Night Call

Late Night Call

Noel Laflin

9-20-20

Years ago, my friend Jim got a call from his mom late one night, and all she said was, “Come quick! The cactus is blooming!’  And off went Jim.  I went along for the ride as I had never seen a night blooming cactus before.

And although it’s been forty-plus years, I have never forgotten the excitement in his mother’s voice, nor any resistance in her son’s attitude when it came to dropping what he was doing, hop in his truck, and drive across town to witness such a simple spectacle – that of a magnificent flower opening at night.

Once I saw the massive bloom for myself, well, I understood why the call and why the response.

I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but it dawns on me now that the cereus that has been clinging to our front walkway wall these last several decades, throwing out night blooms every September  - and at this very moment is once again slowly preparing  for this evening’s one night show -  may have been a cutting from Jim’s mom.

The lover of night blooms is long gone from this Earth, and I lost track of her son decades ago too.  But if I knew where he was nowadays, I’d ring him up and simply say, “Come quick! Your mother’s cactus is blooming!” And I bet he’d show up.

Because sometimes, simple spectacles are worth the call as are long overdue reunions.

Off to Margaritaville

Off to Margaritaville

Noel Laflin

9-16-20

I haven’t seen any of the orioles splashing in our birdbath or raiding the hummingbird feeders in over a week now, so am assuming they have headed south already. With the poor air quality being what it is, they probably decided to pack up early and head back to Mexico for the winter. They are most likely slurping mango margaritas in Puerto Vallarta right about now.

A pair showed up in March, right on schedule, fixed up their nest in the neighbor’s tall palm tree, and reestablished squatting rights to our balcony, chasing away squatting warblers and pissing off the resident hummingbirds.

Soon, adult orioles were joined by junior orioles and it was a ruckus crowd of black and yellow flying in every few minutes to bathe as well as drain sugar water all throughout the summer.

But it’s quieter now.

Opportunistic warblers have started to fill the void once more.

Hummingbirds are pissed about that too.

When You Were Just Ten

 When You Were Just Ten

Noel Laflin

8-30-20

When growers began to let the orange grove go wild, since it was just a matter of time before the bulldozers would come and topple the trees anyway – making room for a church and its parking lot to take the place of a perfectly fine playground for all of the neighborhood children – tenacious vines started to take hold, creeping their way up and around many of the old trees.

The vines grew fast and strong in no time at all, allowing ten-year-old boys the opportunity to fashion a fort within a tree – a place to hide from the sun, or enemies, or better yet, hang out with friends, telling one another stupid jokes, and corny ghost tales once shadows lengthened and twilight faded.

But if it was a view one sought, well, the sturdy vines with purple flowers provided perfect ladders to the top of many trees, and could be scaled by skinny kids (frequently mistaken for monkeys) in a matter of seconds, up to their own private crow’s nest.

Weight from those boys would create a gentle bowl - not unlike a real nest - from which one could stand, crouch, or lazily stretch out and comfortably take in the view.

To the south lay the supermarket, and beyond that old Center Street and the elementary school – unless your pal went to parochial school which was in the opposite direction, but still visible from their perch.

To the north lay downtown – to the west were the familiar roof tops of their home street.

But the coolest view of all lay immediately east of them – just spitting distance away actually: the town cemetery, filled with ancient giant trees of its own, spooky old mausoleums, and sad statues.

As evening would begin to close in on long, lazy summer explorations, the crow’s nest was a fine place to be as lights from the town began to glow, church bells from a half a mile away tolled out the hour, and distant train whistles grew closer.

There was a sharpening of all the senses from such a height.

Especially when you were just ten.

Closing Out 1970

Closing out 1970

Noel Laflin

8-28-20

A couple of months ago I lamented about what I could not remember from the first Friday night campfire of 1970 – after all, it’s been half a century, of course.

And here I am at the end of August, 2020, and thinking about the last Friday night campfire that closed out that same 1970 season fifty years ago tonight.

I can’t remember a thing about it either as it was so long ago – but I know it happened.

The next day, the last official day of summer camp 1970, kids would leave and the staff would begin to tear down and store all of the tents, cots, and nasty mattresses from all of the campsites. They would be hauled onto the old camp stake bed truck and driven back to the pool’s changing room and showers, silently waiting for winter. Mice would take up new residence in the lumpy, stained mattresses once again. Water lines and the pool would be winterized, bows, arrows and rifles from another era safely locked away in the old Scoutmaster’s lounge, the trading post inventoried, boxed up and shuttered, staff cabins swept out, the kitchen scrubbed a final time, individual recreational areas like the rifle range, archery range, nature center, and handicraft lodge secured for the next nine months.

What had taken us a week to set up was somehow all undone in a day and a half.

Then the staff said our goodbyes to one another and headed home too, as school was but a week away for most of us.

And so the events of half a century ago are tidied up and stored away once more. Memories are dusty, but some survive. For me, it was the making of another great friend or two, running off to Deep Creek at least twenty times that summer, and knowing that there were Friday night campfires that must have been pretty good – even if the details are sketchy now.

Again, for what it’s worth, whenever I did lead a song, I hope that I was in tune, at least. An unreliable memory tells me that I was, of course – or so I probably lie to myself.

Trade Offs

Trade Offs

Noel Laflin

8-28-20

I attended my very last sales meeting six years ago today.

Having a calculator handy (aren’t mobile phones clever?), I just did a rough estimation and figure that I must have sat through approximately 500 sales meetings during my working days - and that works out to a couple of thousand boring hours cooped up indoors with, for the most part, overbearing sales managers. I was offered the title once, but did not want to become the guy I most disliked.

After that last meeting, I have since spent thousands of hours out of doors watching birds and such, hiking as slowly as I like and getting to know more about nature than I ever imagined possible. And that’s coming from an old Boy Scout. I have a few pictures to prove the point now.

The pay is lousy, but there are no obnoxious managers, or clients, for that matter - just loud hawks and ravens most days - and hummingbirds every day.

Not a bad trade off.

I wish I had retired fifty years ago.

Mr. Majestic

 Mr. Majestic – or maybe it's Ms...

Noel Laflin

8-24-20

I call him Mr. Majestic, even though he may be a she – it’s difficult to tell with hawks – unless, as a falconer once informed me when showing him a photo of a Cooper’s hawk and asking him whether it was male or female, to which he responded, “You never want to get that close to find out.”

And so the gender of our neighborhood red-tailed hawk remains a mystery – but his/her majesty lives on despite my curiosity.

Mr. Majestic took up residence in our neighborhood about a year ago. He claimed the highest pine on the hillside as his own, perched at the very top on most days. You can hear him call out from a quarter mile away, and clearly see his outline atop the pine from just as far away, as the red-tailed is the largest of the hawks out this way in East Orange.

He, or she, had quite the following of other red-tailed friends during mating season this past late winter and early spring. Like a song from a beloved musical, they flew lazy circles in the sky over our neighborhood all through those months. Then it made itself scarce for the next month or two, perhaps seeing to the raising of kids – but that is just speculation on my part. All I know is that Mr. Majestic is now back and scouring the neighborhood for tasty bunnies and such.

He startled me yesterday as I was watering the garden - coming in fast and silent from the east, crossing near eye level, and landed in a tall tree on the other side of my fence about seventy-five feet away.

The tree he/she chose is an Ailanthus altissima - or more commonly known as a tree of heaven. Some, like me, refer to the messy, invasive species as the tree from hell, as they are a nuisance, and hell to kill off. You may recognize the species as the stubborn tree that refused to die from Betty Smith’s 1943 classic, “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”

But as much as I detest the constant sprouting of tiny, tenacious trees of heaven that try to sprout and take over my tiny garden, and over the fence, and down both sides of the canal that runs from east to west behind our property, I was, for once, grateful that this particular one stood where it has stood for the last twenty years or so and gave Mr. Majestic a place to perch, preen, and generally look regal for the next five minutes, before he sprung from his heavenly perch and flew back the way from which he came. I am also grateful that I had a camera nearby.

I was thinking that I should entitle this brief piece, “A Tree Grows, Despite My Best Efforts To Kill It, In El Modena.”

Nah – I think I will stick with Mr. Majestic instead. Or, maybe Ms. Majestic.

But I really don’t want to get that close to determine which it is.