Hearts and Arrows

Hearts and Arrows

Noel Laflin

7-27-20

There’s a spot on the dining room wall that really needs cleaning, but I know better than to attempt that as it could lead to an entire remodel.

Case in point – I remember the time my mother washed some furnace soot off of the living room wall. It left a clean spot, of course, which led to my mother suggesting to my dad that he should repaint the area above the furnace, which, in turn, led to repainting the rest of the wall, and then the entire living room/dining room, which then led to new carpeting, and finally furniture, of course.

It all looked pretty good when my father was done carrying out our mother's wishes - but what I remember most was the large heart with an arrow through it, and the words ‘Bob Loves Vi’ painted in large letters next to it. That heart was several feet in both height and width, as were the words. We all admired his handiwork and it stayed in place for a couple of days before he painted over it.

But when you stood at a certain angle in the newly fashioned living room – for the next couple of decades or so, or at least until they sold the old homestead - cupid’s heart, arrow, and my father's words were clearly visible through the three layers of paint he thought would cover it.

Thus, I think I’ll just leave that spot in our home all alone for now.

In Tune

                                

In Tune

Noel Laflin

7-3-20 

I’m looking at an old calendar from 1970 and see that it lines up with this year precisely – in other words, it’s going to be July 3^rd and we’re preparing for the first Friday night campfire of the season, fifty years ago, right about now.

Fifty years ago – five decades past - half a century – okay, now I do feel old.

It’s moments like this that I wish that I had a time machine so that I could find seventeen- year-old me that night, grab him firmly by the shoulders, and tell him to pay closer attention to all that was happening.

“You’re going to want to remember more of this night, this summer, these friends, these memories,” old me would say to young me.

But being young, young me would probably pay old me little heed.

“I’ve got a song to lead, old man, so leave me be. Anyway, how am I ever going to forget any of this?”

“Give it fifty years, kid.”

And so I wander to the top row of those uncomfortable logs, set my old butt down, and wait for a song from that boy.  I have no idea what he’s going to sing, as we’ve forgotten.  After all, it’s been fifty years.

“Don’t say, I didn’t tell you so,” I mutter.

I just hope we’re in tune.