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.