Like Falling off a Log

 

Like Falling off a Log

Noel Laflin

5-22-22

There used to be an old log that spanned the creek bed next to the campcraft area.  A Scout fell off it while crossing one day, breaking a rib or arm, or something, which led to the log coming down and a new, sturdier bridge being built.

To celebrate its completion, a ceremony was held one day back in the summer of 1969.  All of the camp showed up as the new sign for the bridge was revealed: The Greg Richards Memorial Bridge.  Greg wasn’t dead or anything, as he’s clearly the center of attention here, but making memorials of living staff members was a thing we did apparently. Know that Greg was going into the seminary shortly after camp would close that summer might, along with getting married by the end of the year, might just have been all the impetus we needed to memorialize him anyway. 

I am glad the new bridge was put in place as I remember a foggy night back in 1968 when I was trying to get to Geronimo campsite to check in a troop that had arrived late in the day. The fog was so thick that I kept getting lost once I was off the road. I eventually came to the creek bed, felt around for the log that crossed it, noted that it was pretty slippery from all the heavy, humid moisture, so found my way by keeping one hand on the bottom of the log as I walked beneath it. After that, it still took another 20 minutes to find Geronimo – something that should taken five minutes or less under sunny conditions.

Years later we’d build the log cabin just above that old creek bed and bridge.  In fact, the fine sand brought down by the water that flowed there every spring from snowmelt was a perfectly inexpensive ingredient needed for the cabin’s cobblestone floor. The sand was collected by wheelbarrow, brought up to the cabin, mixed with bags of cement and water, stirred by hand with a short-handled hoe, and then poured in sections to create the cobblestone floor. Rocks collected from the creek bed were put into place as the mixture began to set up.

The last summer that I was there, the bridge still stood, (albeit repaired occasionally) as did the cabin.  And although both are ancient history now, I can still picture an old treacherous slippery log, a fancier replacement, fanfare of a dedication, a smile upon the face of Greg, white sand, an old wheelbarrow, smooth stones, a sore back from all the hauling, and a log cabin. But still, it’s all a jumbled up kaleidoscope of very fine memories today.

impressions

 Impressions

Noel Laflin

5-17-22

When I was very young, perhaps four at the most, I remember running across Flower Street without first looking for cars coming either way.

As I reached the other side, old man Schwab – who must have been near 80 years old then and perhaps, was the reason for my sudden sprint his way - grabbed me by the shoulder, turned me around and swatted my butt. Angrily, he cried out, “Don’t you ever cross the street without looking again!”

I think there was more surprise than tears on my part. He then said to come on inside where his old wife handed me a glass of cold lemonade.

And when later told about the episode, my mother thanked Mr. Schwab profusely.

Neighbors, whose homes we were welcomed into, without even a knock in those days, just took it upon themselves to be good stewards of all of the neighborhood’s youngsters – even if it involved a reprimanding, regardless of parental consent.

There’d probably be restraining orders and lawsuits flying nowadays.

I do not hold the old man, now long gone but not forgotten, at fault for his intervention that hot summer day. Rather, I thank him for that valuable lesson, which has never been lost on me. I still picture old man Schwab and his firm admonition whenever crossing a street. I think I have done so all my life. And it’s probably saved my life on more than one occasion.

Needless to say, his actions made quite the lasting impression.

La Palma Park

 

La Palma Park

Noel Laflin

5-14-22

 

I was reading about the creation of La Palma Park some eighty odd years ago, which got me to thinking about all the time I used to spend there growing up.

 

Early memories revolve around all the members of our district's Cub Scout packs recreating the battle of Lexington, or maybe it was Bunker Hill, on the football field while parents, Boy Scouts, and other spectators in the old concrete bleachers cheered us on. I don't remember exactly which battle it was, some sixty years later, but I recall I was dressed in blue, and carried a wooden musket as I ran across the fifty yard line, so I suppose I fought for Washington. It was nice being on the winning side.

 

Later that year, Cubs and parents gathered in the park once again, this time around the sunken fire pit close to the sports field as awards were handed out. New Bobcats joined the ranks and arrow points were presented.

 

On the way back to our car, a woman walking in front of us passed out, and quite unexpectedly died in her husband's arms as he cradled her there on a sidewalk in the dark. It was the first time I saw death up close, and the memory is never far away, even all these years later.

 

As I grew older, I participated in Scout-O-Rama held yearly on the sports field in La Palma Park - the very field I ran across chasing redcoats years prior. My friend Steve told me all about these two guys named Simon and Garfunkel and just how cool their songs were. I wasn’t much interested at the time, but realize now just how wise this fellow Scout was. Another friend's dad taught us all about fingerprinting, as that's what he did as a job for the Anaheim PD. It led to a merit badge eventually.

 

In high school one could gain extra points in gym class if you went to any Anaheim High home football game, which was always held in La Palma Park. Some new guy would invariably ask where that was and coach would always respond, "Just follow the lights, boys, just follow the lights." And we did.

 

My godparents, who survived the massive flood that hit Anaheim in March of 1938, once mentioned that many of the mature palm trees in La Palma Park had a weird curve near their top as they were just seedlings freshly planted before the floodwaters bent them over. Those that survived continued to grow, but never could straighten out that early blow to their development. I looked for that on more than one occasion, and they were right.

 

Oh, and finally, there were all of the high school baccalaureates and graduation ceremonies that were held on that old field as well - including my own.

 

I haven't been to the park in years, but that's alright. I seem to have enough memories to last me a while.

Waking Up the Opossums

 

Waking Up the Opossums

Noel Laflin

5-11-22

While watering the garden this afternoon a baby opossum crawled out from beneath a broad shady shrub.  It was black and white and cute as a bug’s butt. I remember a friend using that description once, in regard to something long forgotten, but I have always found it endearing. I don’t get to use it often, so am happy to say it now, as it definitely applied to this little guy – kitten like it was, only with a pointy snout and a naked tail.

I am guessing that the watering must have gotten to it and woke him or her up from a peaceful nap.  I could see droplets glistening off its soft pelt.

Long ago I recall spraying water up into the acacia tree, just feet from where I was today, in order to knock down some dead leaves.  Leaves soon dropped, as did a large opossum who was apparently sleeping (being nocturnal critters and all), hanging by its tail from a secure branch until the water woke it up, lost its grip, tail unraveling from the branch, and came crashing down at my feet.  It was unhurt, other than feelings, shook itself off and scrambled back up the tree.

Today’s mini version, once awake, and gratefully not hanging from a branch way up high, blinked at the bright sunlight and soon ambled off taking refuge beneath blocks lined up against the back fence.

It’s good to see baby opossums here again, as it has been awhile.  Heck, there was a time, years ago, when adults and kids roamed freely in our small garden, the kids often hanging off of mama’s back. There would be upwards of half a dozen of them clinging to her. If the back screen door was open, they would sometimes just walk right in to the bedroom, following one of the cats.  In fact, our old tomcat Zane never bothered them, and vise versa; frequently he and opossums would sit side by side crunching away on Friskies cat food. I could hear it clearly on warm summer nights when the sliding glass door was wide open to let in the coolness of the evening.

I suppose with the passing of old Zane long ago, and there being no more free food to be had, the opossums moved on.

But it appears they are back, and with that happy knowledge I might just have to amble on over myself to the pet food aisle at Albertsons and pick up some Friskies later on tonight.