What I Know

 

What I Know

Noel Laflin

9-23-22

I write about what I know to be true. And what I know to be true about this old photo is that I was twenty years old and happily posing in the doorway of a log cabin a bunch of other teenagers and I built at our Scout camp, Camp Ahwahnee.

We had just put that door in place, the last item on our list of Log Cabin Building 101, and called the place home until the camp closed eight years later and was no more. I think we kids were a lot smarter than the adults that made that poor decision way back then, but that's the proverbial water under the bridge analogy, of course. However, we did build a pretty fine bridge once upon a time, too, but that's different story for another time.

The cabin is no more, unfortunately, as it burned to the ground in the Running Springs fire some thirty-five years later.

It took a summer and a spring to construct our pioneering project. Our self imposed teenage rule was that no power tools could be used and natural materials (like living trees) had to be used sparingly. So we chose to build the walls with old telephone poles, notching and scoring them with two man saws and axes.

Approximately a hundred and fifty kids took part in the sawing, lifting of heavy poles, chinking cracks between the logs of the interior walls, laying a cobblestone floor, and figuring out how to correctly slope and shingle a roof so that it would withstand heavy winter snow loads. We played with Lincoln Log sets to help figure it out.

Somehow, we did figure it all out, and aside from blistered hands and sore backs, no one was hurt throughout the long construction. Many of those kids are now grandfathers of children now older than they were then back in 1972/’73. I often wonder if they mention to those grandkids what they once undertook when they were their age. Do they talk about a Tom Sawyer type summer, perhaps?

But the kid in this photo was pretty damn happy to have been a part of this old adventure, as some pictures just don't lie.

This I know to be true.

A Scout is Trustworthy, after all - even some former Scouts still cling to this antiquated belief.

I know this to be true, too.

Here's to Puppies

 

Here’s to Puppies

Noel Laflin

9-22-22

On a beautiful September autumnal equinox day, just like today - only forty-some odd years ago - I prepared to grill three juicy rib eyes on the small backyard patio barbeque.

Although recently unemployed, I still had a little cash on hand by which to treat a couple of former co-workers to a fine lunch. They were probably the only two I still liked from my former job, so I wanted to show them my appreciation.

Right before their expected arrival, one called to inform me, sadly enough, that they were stuck at work and could not make it.

Undeterred, having already drunk half a bottle of Cabernet in anticipation of our reunion, I ran two doors down and asked Kathy, the manager of our small apartment complex, if she liked steak.  She immediately followed me out the door.

Meat soon sizzled and more wine was opened.

She liked hers medium rare, she informed me, and I told her she was in good company.

Two plump succulent rib eyes and a second bottle of Cabernet later, it dawned on me that this could be the perfect opportunity to broach a new subject with Kathy.

“So," I slurred, ever so slightly, and topping off her wine glass once more, “We were thinking of getting a puppy – just a small one, mind you – but there’s this pesky clause in our rental agreement about no pets allowed,” I concluded with a sigh.

Kathy nodded to the glass again and I gladly poured another generous top off.

“You gonna eat that third steak?" she enquired, eying the juicy piece still untouched on the serving plate.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” I said, gesturing to my stomach. “One’s my limit. Would be a shame to let it get cold,” I concluded, quickly moving it to her plate and refilling her wine glass.

“I don’t recall any such pet clause in that pesky rental agreement,” Kathy said, savoring another bite. “You maybe thinking of grilling steaks again soon?” she asked, chewing thoughtfully, and motioning for more wine.

“Oh, most definitely!” I said.

“But,” she mentioned as an afterthought, “I think rib eyes are too rich for a puppy’s tummy, don’t you?”

“Kibbles it’ll be!” I toasted, clinking her glass.

“And here’s to puppies!” she said with a warm, trusting smile, as I topped off our glasses one last time.

 

 

Curios

Curios

Noel Laflin

9-19-22

There’s a tall curio display case upstairs that helps determine the seasons around here as well as add a little light to an otherwise dark room. As the summer sunlight fades by nearly a minute each day this time of year, I find I need to throw the switch that dimly lights the interior of the cabinet earlier and earlier each evening as fall makes its slow but steady and shadowy approach. By Christmas, the light will come on two hours earlier than it does now. By spring, the switch will have gradually taken to be flipped two hours later once again. And by summer, well, I save the most power as we don’t need the interior light until much later in the evening. The light switch to the doll cabinet, as it has be referred to for the last quarter century or more, is the first as well as the last light turned off each evening.

Two low-watt light bulbs brighten the interior of the case as they shine down on the likes of porcelain dolls, winking ceramic coffee cups, smiling teapots, mischievous Tinkerbell reproductions, and other various knickknacks in dire need of dusting. When my daughter was young and in need of spending money, she sometimes earned it with dusting the odd menagerie. She earned every penny as the job could take hours. Since she decided to make her way in the world more than a decade ago, however, the dusting has fallen into more unreliable hands, namely mine. And so I beg the dolls and other members resting atop the four shelves (protected from dust, mostly) for forgiveness and reason that an occasional spritzing of Windex to the outside of the glass doors constitutes a thorough cleaning – at least in my mind.

The shifting of outside light throughout the years is much more reliable than my cleaning methods.

Consequently, I wonder if Krys would like to make a little pocket money on her next visit. The hodgepodge of dolls, cups, pots, Tinkerbells, and other assorted bric a bracc and tchotchkes miss her touch, I will inform her.

Meanwhile, I have a mind to fire the current lousy housecleaner as I know he’s skulking around here somewhere, shirking his duties, as usual, making up some tall tale, no doubt.

And as it’s getting pretty dark up here right now, as I try to read by laptop light alone, I bet he forgot to flip on the doll cabinet switch, too. It should have been done an hour and a half ago. Doesn't he even know what season it is?

For Whomever It may Speak To

For Whomever It May Speak To

Noel Laflin

9-20-22

I sometimes wonder why I share so many personal observations here, but then remind myself that this platform called social media is just that, a platform for nearly everything - from the serious to the silly, and everything in between. From stories to photos to memes that speak to us for better or worse, well, we all seem to know the drill.

Serendipitously enough, I then come across a quote by a favorite author in a preface to one of his novels that I stayed up well past midnight in order to finish last night as I just had to know how it ended. The book was dark and brooding and a clear departure from his normal venue, but captured my unequivocal attention from chapter one. He writes:

"I wrote this book for myself, and for whomever it may speak to; not for everyone."

Daryl Banner, 'Lover's Flood'

And his words reassure me that to just put yourself out there is reason enough to share, as some things may not be for everyone, but they are enough when it is done for yourself, ... and for whomever else it may speak to.

So speak we should, even if it's only to an audience of one, as that's all that really counts.

Promise Kept

 

Promise Kept

Noel Laflin

9-15-22

We came from both far and near and spanned in ages from fifty to eighty-five.

Two had driven in from another state, four of us from not so far away, and his lover had flown across the wide Pacific just to make this last pilgrimage – fulfilling a final request – a need to bring him home to the land of his youth, a place he loved – a fervent need on all our parts to keep a sacred promise.

And so seven of us met up (a lucky number in that respect), and slowly made our way through pine and fir, oak and dogwood, eventually reaching a point that took in a view that stretched to lonely distant desert far below.  But we were high above the heat and haze, taking comfort in mild mountain air, surrounded by tall trees and dark red-barked manzanita, feeling grateful to be on such a serene, wind-kissed plateau.

After first reading a prayer from one who could not be present, but who was there in spirit, I then took off the small black daypack that had ridden across my back as we made our way to this final spot and withdrew the bag of ashes.

On his last visit here, oh, not so many years ago, he had whispered to three of us that this was where he wished to rest when all was said and done.  I think he knew that time was no longer on his side and he wanted to make sure that those he trusted would carry out a final wish. We made a solemn vow that day that we would see to it – half joking, half hoping, that it would be him that would outlive us all.

But he already knew that would not be the case.  And he was right, as usual.

It was a proper resting spot for a man that one in our small band called brother, another called cousin, one - especially one - who knew him as husband, and for the rest of us … well, we simply called him friend. For one of us, best friend.

And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the beautiful plateau, and the new dust sprinkled across its rocky shoulder, was a place where a promise was kept – one year to the day of his having left seven behind, just so he could get here first, take in the view, and wait for the rest of us to finally catch up.