Keeping the Tape Handy

 Keeping the Tape Handy

Noel Laflin

8-26-21

Little Niko, aged three-and-a-half, came racing down our street on his miniature razor scooter the other night - racing down our street like a tiny bat out of hell - his mother, sans scooter, not far behind.

He abruptly stopped in the middle of the street just feet away and asked me, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m planting grass seed,” I replied, holding up the half empty bag of all purpose seed, trying to fill in a few persistent bald spots on the strip separating the neighbor’s driveway and our own.

“Why are you doing that?” he asked.

“I am trying to make it look nice,” I replied.

“Better put tape on it then,” he concluded, pushing off and tearing away.

“I’ll do that, kiddo," I promised.

His mom, having caught up to her son momentarily, watched him speed away again. 

"He is pretty funny," I said. "And fast," I concluded.

"You have no idea," she smiled in reply, attempting once more to catch up with the boy. "He's pretty certain that tape fixes everything too," she added, as she sauntered on.

He zipped by again, from the other direction this time, a minute later and reminded me about the tape. He said it was important.

I’ve got tape handy, just in case he comes back to check on my progress.

Tick-Tock

 

Tick-Tock

Noel Laflin

8-26-21

Tick-tock, tick-tock – and so goes the cuckoo clock just to the left of where I sit to write this.

It runs a little fast, but the positioning of the wooden leaf on the pendulum is fixed in place and can’t be moved upward, or downward for that matter – as on the other cuckoo clock - so I compensate by stopping the swing once a day for five minutes in order to let time catch up.  It’s a small price to pay for a clock that could be a century old now. Heck, at a century old you would think time slows down a bit – but not in this case.

I say a century old, but am not certain of its age, to tell you the truth, as it is a recently inherited clock.

It belonged to my best friend, and before that, to his parents, and before that, to his grandparents. As my friend’s grandparents died some half century ago, I have been doing the math and that one hundred year guess is in the ballpark of time – give or take a few thousand tick-tocks.

I have been a fan of the clock for more than fifty years myself, as I could always both see, as well as hear the little bird announce either the hour or half hour in my friend’s old childhood home when I would visit.  I could also still clearly hear its announcement of time while on phone calls to my friend when it moved with him to his last place of residence two decades ago.

But due to a long illness on the part of my friend, that clock sat silent for the last year and a half.

He recently moved once more – my friend, that is - but to a place where time cannot be measured. As the clock needed a home, well, here it now is, sitting on the wall just above and to the left of me - running a little fast, and calling out to the other cuckoo downstairs on every hour and half-hour, but lulling me into memory by its gentle tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock swing with time.

Good Deeds

 Good Deeds

Noel Laflin

8-23-21

During a phone call with Greg Richards last night, where we spoke fondly about Fred LaVelle, and the positive impact he had made on both of our lives – as well as the lives of so many others, I mentioned that he, Greg, had been quite a role model for me as well.

I reminded him of how we met, back in the spring of 1964. The time and place is etched firmly in my mind as it was my first camporee in the old Golden Sun District of the now defunct North Orange Council.

My fellow patrol members and I were running down a steep grade – somewhere near the Santa Ana Riverbed, in what would eventually become the outskirts of Yorba Regional Park – or so I am guessing, as I was only eleven at the time.

In our haste to get to the next event, I tripped and bounced down the hill.

Within seconds, someone was lifting me up and carrying me to the first aid tent at the bottom of the hill.

The older Scout explained what he had witnessed to the caregivers and I was treated for scrapes and bloodied elbows. He also stuck around to make sure that I was alright afterward. He most likely knew about possible concussions, as I did not.

It was my first meeting with Greg Richards.  He must have been seventeen or eighteen at the time.

I believe I had instant hero worship of the man from that day forward.

Greg chuckled at the memory, recalling the incident himself.

“You know,” he said, “maybe that story should take place of the 4^th of July story you tell about me every summer instead.”  He was referring to the infamous nighttime hike up to the summit of Superstion Peak, in order to watch the fireworks over Lake Arrowhead.  What neither Greg, nor the rest of us (two hundred campers, adults and staff) knew, was that Arrowhead always did their fireworks display every July 3^rd.  So, bereft of this information, Greg kept reassuring everyone that the show was going to start any second – which of course, it never did. We all came down the two mile hike around midnight. Greg came to breakfast the next morning wearing a phony mustache and had changed his name tag to Rudy Begonia. He suddenly spoke with an Italian accent and denied any knowledge of someone named Greg Richards. And so the episode went down in history, some fifty three years ago.

“Perhaps there’s a new addendum to the story,” I told Greg; “about a camporee some four years before that.”

“That would work,” Greg laughed in reply.

So why wait till the 4^th of July, I am now thinking.

 

 

 

Fred

 Fred

Noel Laflin

8-22-21

Fredrick Thomas LaVelle left this world just a little while ago after a prolonged decline in health. He was 72 years old. He is survived by his brother Don, and the love of his life, Christy.

I have a thousand memories of the man. But who wouldn't after fifty-fifty years of friendship?

That friendship began at Camp Ahwahnee, of course.

The memories are slim comfort at the moment, but they're all going to come in handy for the rest of my life.

And for that alone, aside from his unwavering, steadfast, and most splendid friendship, I am both blessed and grateful.

All is well. Safely rest, old friend. God is neigh.

Claire

 Claire

Noel Laflin

8-18-21

Received word yesterday afternoon that my good friend Claire had died. She was 88 years old. In my mind, after 35 years of friendship, she was simply timeless.

Her daughter found my number in her mom’s phone to let me know. She said her mother always had fun stories about me. I told Gail that her mom always had wonderful stories about her as well. There was mutual satisfaction on both our parts as we silently thanked the lady who had now gone on to tell more stories about us, and many others, no doubt, in a new world. And knowing Claire, I bet they are mostly nice ones – and funny as well.

But I wish Claire could have stuck around just a bit longer so that I could remind her of all the wonderful stories that I could relate about her.

We are pictured here in our last photo together with good friend Lesley. It was taken on December 11, 2019. A lockdown would soon ensue, preventing the three of us from meeting for lunch as we were fond of doing. But I am thankful for the friend that took this last shot. It’s a nice find in my laptop this morning when I simply typed in ‘Claire.’

Is One of You Noel?

Is One of You Noel?

Noel Laflin

8-9-21

My good friend Kyle and I were crouched down next to the train tracks trying to focus in on ground squirrels and a pretty peacock when the train approached us around a bend.

As the engine passed by, just a few feet away, the engineer, as pictured here, called out, "Is one of you Noel?"

Like a kid having done something wrong, I raised my hand, looking guilty, I suppose.

"I like your photos on Facebook," the engineer yelled out, smiling, the train taking her out of thanking distance.

I wonder how many guys with cameras she'd asked that of each time she made the rounds within the park.

Regardless, it made me smile.

And, I'm glad I got a nice photo of her in advance - just coming 'round the bend.

Rock Solid Foundation

 

Rock Solid Foundation

Noel Laflin

8-9-21

Although Bill died some twelve years ago, I am still reminded of him each time I step out our front door as there are two pretty good size rocks that used to reside under his old garage but now flank the walkway.

Construction guys uncovered them a couple of weeks back when demolishing the former driveway and then garage floor due to massive tree root damage. The rocks, although pretty hefty, had been hiding beneath the cement floor for nearly forty years, helping with that firm, although recently cracked foundation; they called out for a new home, residing, as they were, unceremoniously atop the debris pile; so I carried them over to my place. They sit near old clay pots that the man had given me long ago too.

As the old fellow was such a fine neighbor for more than twenty years, I guess I just wanted to have something of his nearby.

Bill would watch over our house when we were gone, and I would do likewise for him. We had keys to one another’s homes so that he could check on things if need be; I also fed his cat when he was away. As payment, although none was necessary, Bill would bring me bourbon upon his return. Cash was never involved – just bottled spirits.

Retired, he took to constructing a massive model railroad and winter village in his garage. By Thanksgiving, it was set and ready to be viewed by all. Trains followed a mile of track winding their way past cottages, schools, churches, ice skating rinks, and a train station, of course. There were snow-capped mountains and skiers racing downhill. It was a wonderland, admired by the entire neighborhood and opened to all for many years in an open-garage-door holiday spirit.

There's still half a bottle of the last bourbon Bill brought me a dozen years ago. I usually drink to his memory around the holidays, remembering an elaborate Christmas village with half a dozen miniature trains passing through.

But I think I'll break that bottle out tonight, here in August, dust it off, and toast to a couple of old rocks instead as they probably remember the train whistle too.

Moonlight

 

Moonlight

Noel Laflin

8-6-21

 

I quietly kick off my shoes and silently begin to undress shortly after John closes the door to his own room across the hall.

 

Ray looks up from the bed and seems a little surprised to see what I am doing here. But then his face relaxes, and smiles as I pull back the covers and slip in beside him.

 

He is warm. He is naked. He is also someone I barely even know before this evening. But because we have shared something important with one another tonight, we figure we are but damaged kindred spirits of sorts; and despite a slow, but persistent, wasting away of his once much healthier frame, he is still beautiful, just in a bit more sad, fragile and undeniably worn-down way.

 

But tonight is not the night for such thoughts.

 

We are in Patrick's bedroom, Patrick's bed - but he is four hundred miles away in San Francisco for the weekend. He won't be home till late tomorrow. And as neither Ray nor I are in any shape to drive to our own homes after a night of drinking and dancing at a favorite local dive on a warm summer night, John tells us to stay over. Ray can have Patrick's bed and I will take the couch.

 

I fully intend to do just that, heading to the living room after John tosses me a blanket and mumbles goodnight, ready to sleep off his own boozy intake from our evening together on the town.

 

But I am suddenly thinking lusty thoughts. I figure Ray might just be thinking likewise.  This is how I now come to be in Patrick's room instead of on the couch.  And why Ray does not object to my being here.

 

"We'll change the sheets in the morning," I say, reading his thoughts.

 

"Are you sure you want to be with me?" he blushes, wondering how this is going to play out. I like the sudden color blossoming across his cheeks.

 

"I'm not as pretty as I used to be," he adds, head down, talking more to the pillow than to me.

 

"First off, I don't have anything to worry about - there isn't anything you can give me that I don't already have. Secondly, and more importantly, I don't want to be anywhere else right now," I answer quietly, pressing up against him, taking in his warmth.

 

He relaxes, and lets me gently do all the things that will really make him smile.  

 

Later, as moonlight sneaks into the room, Ray takes my hand and says he guesses the Percocet he'd taken before crawling into bed is finally kicking in. He yawns, but tries to hide it.

 

I snuggle closer and lay my palm on his chest, feeling his slowing heartbeat, listening to the breaths reaching out in search of dreams.

 

"You know," he whispers, eyes opening slightly, tracing my face with his fingers like he means to memorize it, "until tonight, no one other than my doctor - and he doesn't count - no one has touched me in so many intimate places in such a very long time. Thank you."

 

And with that, he kisses me and falls asleep.

 

Ray, a lad I barely knew before this night, will be dead from complications due to AIDS within the year. John shares the news with me by phone one day.

 

I will go on to live long beyond him. It's been - God help me - a quarter century, to be precise.

 

And I don't know how, or why I am still here - albeit older, greyer, softer around the belly, wiser ... I don't know about that last word; I probably should delete it.

 

But that doesn't matter right now as I remember a blissful night, and two grateful younger men who fell asleep in one another's arms on a warm summer evening long ago. And while the dreams lingered, neither worried about a long-term future. Or the distinct possibility of a much shorter one.

I Know You

 I Know You

Noel Laflin

8-4-21

Of all the hummingbirds around this place, there is one, in particular – a slender young Allen's female - that is not afraid of me.

I am certain it’s the same one I helped to find her way out of the garage six months ago. She was pretty tired by the time she let me assist her to daylight and we were eye to eye for several minutes during that time. I think we memorized one another’s features. I certainly remember her. She was just so damn cute.

Perhaps we bonded that day and she has allowed me to be in close proximity to her ever since. I can be just a foot away from her favorite feeder, and unlike others, she still comes in to drink, non-pulsed even when I move – unlike all of the others.

Hummingbirds have no sense of smell, but their eyesight is light-years ahead of mankind, so perhaps she remembers me in the same way that I remember her, and knows that I pose no threat.

It’s just a small thing, pun intended, each time we meet, but it always makes me smile.