imagining Belief

 

Imagining Belief

Noel Laflin

August 31, 2022

 

My mother died twenty-five years ago today, in other words, a quarter of a century ago; or a milestone ago; however you measure it, the day now just seems so very, very long ago. But I still picture it all too clearly as the anniversary (a poor choice of words, it seems to me) creeps up this time of year, as August always prepares to takes its final bow and let autumn have its eventual, colorful way.

It occurred on a bright sunshiny Sunday morning, with autumn still begging to be let in.

It was a blessing when it finally happened, however, as the last weeks of our mother's life were pretty hard on her and she really wanted to go - only the body was stubborn, up until the very end.

Sometimes, like today, I tend to believe, as some benign beliefs are indeed comforting and since mom had faith enough to counterbalance my very lack thereof - that it was the man with the sad eyes and subtle smile, the fellow in the old picture that hung on the wall at the foot of the bed in which my mother rested - the man, hippie-like in appearance, long-haired, bearded, dressed in a robe and holding a small white lamb (a simple print that hung on the wall of our parents’ bedroom for all the years that I could recall), that it was he who quietly stepped out of the picture frame (when nobody was looking) that bright sunshiny Sunday morning (never letting go of the lamb either), walked a few steps and whispered to our mother that it was time to go.

And with that encouragement, she happily took flight.

Do I also believe that the kind man with the sad eyes then walked back, taking up residence in the simple picture frame once more, and watched over our father for the next decade, until it was time to secretly step out again (still gently holding the lamb), quietly stroll across three cities in the blink of an eye and whisper the same words to dad that he'd said to mom?

I don't know.

Sigmund Freud once wrote: "Just as no one can be forced into belief, so no one can be forced into unbelief."

Consequently, all I do know for certain is that dad also took flight on another bright sunshiny Sunday morning (spring was now begging to be let in) ten years later, in search of mom, no doubt - or so I like to believe.

And the man in the picture frame, the one that still hung in an empty bedroom, smiled ever so subtlety and hugged the small lamb just a little bit closer to his breast - or so I like to imagine.

It would be a good ending to share with mom.

Musings

 

Musings

Noel Laflin

8-28-22

 

Eight years ago today, I attended my last sales meeting, said my goodbyes to many colleagues and friends, tossed the company cell phone to the boss, collected a final check, and headed home – filled with relief, excitement, and butterflies. What next, I wondered?

 

I boasted that I was trading in work shoes for sandals and tennis shoes, which did become the norm, in short order.

 

I thought I might travel more, which has certainly become the case.

I hoped I would write more, and gratefully I have – for better or for worse. My sister calls them 'musings', and I think she is right. There is no great novel hiding in my subconscious, but there are a lot of memories that I like to explore with words. Some will resonate will others, I figure, and so I share them here. It's always been rather therapeutic and is cheaper than therapy.

 

I knew that I would have more time for reading, and that is my secret compulsion as Kindle informs me that I have read way too many books over the years. But too many stories (good ones anyway) is never a bad thing. I took up Kindle years ago as there was just no more room in the house for real books. And this way I always have a library in my back pocket, too, which is most convenient.

 

Finally, I thought I should take up a camera and see what I might do with it.

 

I am still puzzling that part out, but the feel of it, along with all of the musings listed above, sure beats attending sales meetings.

 

The only butterflies I have nowadays are the ones I am chasing out of doors. And that is a very nice change in venue.

Mohawk

 

Mohawk

Noel Laflin

8-24-22

 

It was on the steep and narrow trail up to Mohawk, some fifty summers ago, where sweaty teens and young men slightly older struggled with heavy, floppy, dusty, pee-stained mattresses and rusty, uncooperative metal sleeping cots (springs snagging shirts on those still wearing them and pinching fingers indiscriminately), when Freddie yodeled out to me from high above, 'Noeleo, Noeleo, Noeleo!', Where for art thou Noeleo?,' suddenly and quite unexpectedly giving me a new and foreign sounding name; a name that caught the fancy of others that began to both gleefully and unabashedly chant it down the trail where I struggled with my own beast of a bed entrapped in buck brush.

The cot suddenly burst free from its entanglement, but the name stuck, and I smiled as I, too, trudged up the Mohawk Trail, fully intending on giving Freddie hell once I finally made it to the top of the ridge, but ended up grinning and laughing instead once I eventually did so.

 

Picturing New Neighbors

Picturing New Neighbors

Noel Laflin

8-11-22

There's all kind of construction going on in the neighborhood today.

Workers to the left of us are repairing a balcony while someone to the right of us is working on an interior project of some sort.

It's noisier to the left as power tools are in force. But it sounds like quiet little mice in the throws of a subdued crap game to our left.

And me, well, I'm just washing windows, the chore I always despise initially, and am keen to complete, as I know the outcome will be bright. Unless you slip on wet roof tiles and fall into the garden. But that was long ago, and I digress.

Turns out the balcony crew to the left of is now done for the day and have just a little to touch up tomorrow.

The mice are still at play in the newly sold home to our right. Turns out to be carpet installers as I spotted the heavily laden truck just now.

We haven't met the new folks moving in yet. I guess I had better have the traditional housewarming gifts of salt, bread, wood, wine, candles, and roosters on hand to greet our new neighbors once they get settled.

Actually, I had a dream just the other night that I did meet our new neighbors. It turned out to be by a band of Zulu warriors marching up the walkway, smiling, nodding, setting aside the shields and spears as they unlocked the door to their new digs.

I wonder if they can give me any tips on how to wash upstairs windows without falling into the garden.

In the Dark

 

In the Dark

Noel Laflin

8-10-22

When the movie Charly came to our local theater back in the fall of 1968, I remember calling a girl who had quietly followed me behind a church on our walk home from junior high one day, just a few months earlier, and helped school me in the art of kissing. After that, we practiced on several more occasions, progressively getting better, in my opinion anyway, which would eventually lead me to calling her months later regarding the movie.

Then we parted for the summer, as I would be away, and we stayed in touch by letter.  SWAK appeared on the back of envelopes and I was both happy and embarrassed when fellow adolescent mail call attendees caught sight of faint pink lipstick impressions below the acronym, and hooted with either pride or envy in my unlooked for accomplishment. I remember quietly pulling an older guy aside, trusting in his confidence, and asking what SWAK meant.  He laughed, and then saw that I was serious, so told me. I was all of fifteen and should have known better, I concluded at the time. But now I look back on my naiveté with both fondness, and sympathy.   

Autumn finally arrived and so did high school, something new for each of us, as she attended the newer modern one, and I, the older one, no thanks to district realignments.

But, once home from a summer in the mountains, and getting acquainted with a new routine, I picked up the phone, exchanged pleasantries, and proposed the idea of a real date: would she like to see the movie in question, I asked, fully expecting a positive reply.

Oh, thanks, she said, but she had already seen it – just the other day.

Curious, I asked if it had been with her family. My family and I attended many movies together, I reasoned.

Hesitation on her part before answering, no, it was with a friend.

Her name, I shyly probed, hoping it was a she.

It was not a she, but a he, and it turned out to be my best friend, who just happened to be going to her school, too, now. “He’s nice,” she sighed.

Dripping with both jealousy and disappointment, I said, “Oh, okay.” and that was the end of our call, not to mention the short-lived romance. It would prove to be the end of my friendship with my former best friend too, although I never revealed the reason behind it. I just let new friends and schools slowly draw us apart.

But as I really wanted to see the movie, I asked my brother if he could give me a ride downtown in order to catch the show.

My brother thought it strange that I wanted to see a movie alone, but as I was determined to see the flick, gave me a lift and said he was sorry that he couldn’t accompany me. He had a date himself in a little while.

That hit home, but I did not let on.

And so I remember sitting in the theater alone, a first for me, and dwelling on betrayal on two fronts.

But as the movie unfolded, and the sad story progressed to its final conclusion, I was glad I was by myself that night, as tears quietly ran down my face for Charly, a mouse named Algenon, lost love (albeit a fleeting one), and lost friendship.  

I think that last loss hurt the most, as I had a long time crush on that best friend and suddenly pictured him sitting beside me in that dark movie theater where no one saw me cry; but it was something that I would never tell him either.