A Fine Day

A Fine Day

Noel Laflin

12-27-22

Turning 70 was a piece of cake (metaphorically speaking); all I had to do was wake up, start the coffee pot, and enjoy the day.

It was a laid back affair, just to my liking. David, although he had given me a trip of a lifetime to Norway just a couple of months ago, gave me an Amazon gift card which was immediately applied to my account so that I can further indulge in Kindle book buying. Kindle tells me that I have been reading for a hundred weeks straight now; I am glad someone keeps track. The device also informs me that I have read 116 titles so far this year, one shy of what I read last year. But that will soon be remedied as I am on the homestretch with a book right now, and another on deck. And with the new gift card, well, watch out 2023!

We visited neighbors and then Barnes & Noble, as I also have gift cards for this favorite of places. It was gratifying to see the brick and mortar repository for books so crowded. I stood in line behind forty other folks waiting to make my purchase, but the line moved quickly.

Krysten stopped by with gifts in hand, including a cold bottle of Chardonnay; the bottle was immediately opened, a bowl of nuts magically appeared, and we three sat around the old wooden table (the one bought a quarter century ago as it had smooth rounded edges and would pose no threat to Krys as she scampered about the place in the guise of a four-year-old) telling stories, munching nuts, and doing in that bottle of wine.

Hours passed, the nuts disappeared (as did the wine), presents were opened, old mail for Krys finally sorted, and tales of life in her busy hospital marveled at. She’s a natural storyteller, a trooper, a damn fine competent, compassionate doctor – all the more reason to admire her, not to mention love her.

The kid had to move on, then another neighbor came by and gave us a gift of a hummingbird wall hanging (we had given her a cute toy owl which she promptly named Hoo and hung in her Christmas tree – seems to be a bird theme going on in our neighborhood), another neighbor was given a book purchased at Barnes & Noble earlier in the day (John Irving’s newest, of course). David and I eventually made ourselves presentable and then concluded the night with a fine dinner out. David, the marvel that he is, paid, of course. But he didn’t have to cook and I didn’t have to wash dishes, so a win-win all the way around.

All in all, it was a fine way to spend the day and usher in a new chronological decade.

In Need of a Fix

 In Need of a Fix

Noel Laflin

12-25-22

I closed out Christmas Eve by completing the last chapter of ‘A Prayer for Owen Meany’.

I spent much of the month of November and December making my way through ‘The Last Chairlift.’ It’s a really long book – but so worth the time.

And then there was a long cruise earlier in the year where I read ‘The Cider House Rules.’ It's a really long book too, but a favorite in both book and film form.

With the exception of ‘The Last Chairlift,’ the other undertakings were both re-reads of John Irving novels. But as I have mentioned before, it had been so long between reads, each book, and each crazy, outrageous, loving storyline felt fresh.

I found myself looking at the clock and noting that it had just turned Christmas Day by the time I crawled into bed last night. And then I quietly fought back tears just thinking about the impact that Owen Meany had on me once again. I remember similar feelings thirty years ago after closing that very same book the first time.

I need to stop reading John Irving stories, I told myself.

But the addiction for fine storytelling is too strong, apparently, as I began Christmas Day by beginning the first chapter of ‘The World According to Garp.’

It’s been forty years, I told myself, and so what’s the harm?

I explained my addiction to a beloved neighbor today when I took a break from the book and stopped by her home to deliver some Christmas candy; she’s a retired school teacher, so I thought she might be of help.

Turns out she’s a fan of the author, too, and ‘A Prayer for Owen Meany’ and ‘The Cider House Rules’ were two books that were required reading for all her sophomore students for many years.

“Some addictions are worth keeping,” she advised me.

“Have you, by chance, read “Last Night in Twisted River” or ‘A Son of the Circus?,” I asked her.

“I have not,” she replied, looking very interested in a further discussion of Mr. Irving and exploring new waters.

I now know what she’s getting as a New Year’s gift. I hope I can re-read both of them in the next seven days.

After all, some addictions are worth keeping, not to mention, sharing, especially with those in need of a fix.

Infinity

Infinity

Noel Laflin

12-21-22

We're on a short cruise down to Mexico, and back, and you know it's Christmas break as our ship is full and I bet a quarter (or more) of the passengers are children; children of all ages, races, and languages overheard.

 

The kids crack me up much of the time as they scamper everywhere. I think they are all high on the fact that school is out, there's plenty of sugar to be had, and lots of places to ditch their parents.

 

A nine-year-old boy racing down the stairs stopped suddenly, positioned himself so that he could peer all the way down and told me he could see infinity! He could be right. I think he heard the announcement made earlier that the new Buzz Lightyear move would be showing outdoors this evening.

 

Two young brothers walking ahead of me out of the buffet an hour ago were dressed as elves. As it's nearly Christmas, it only seems natural.

I was seated next to a five-year-old girl at the ice skating show the other night when fifty tiny, brightly-lit, dancing drones suddenly burst from the dark to open the show - she was mesmerized. And so was I.

 

A teen, in the company of his parents and siblings passing me in a hallway, tapped on every door, hoping to wake those who would rather sleep in. He caught me catching him doing so and skipped the next door, looking suddenly serious and whistling like the innocent he was wishing to portray. The door knocking continued once we passed.

 

I remember cruises during recent pandemic breaks where kids weren't allowed. Instead, too many oldsters wandered about; Grinches, some of them. And not a one of them claimed to see infinity, let alone knocked on every cabin door he passed.

 

This voyage is definitely more entertaining in that regard.

Keepers

 Keepers

Noel Laflin

12-18-22

What dawns on me as I look at Krysten sitting on our old dining room table (just a few years ago, or so it seems), is that she was the reason for the wooden table. Its predecessor was a large, heavy glass table with pointed corners, just the thing that a growing child might run into accidently.

So, it came to me one evening that this had to be remedied and off I went in search of something that wouldn’t gash out an eye or tooth.

I found exactly what I was looking for on my first stop, a store that carried nothing but wooden furniture. I was glad it was still around as I had bought a rocking chair there twenty years prior to that, which now resides with my sister in Oklahoma. It was, and still is, a finely crafted rocker.

So, the oak table and accompanying oak chairs came home with me that very night. I still drove a pickup truck back then – something I gave up years ago as friends, knowing I had a truck, were always asking me to help them move. Giving up trucks was a smart move on my part.

Anyway, the old glass table was moved to the garage and eventually sold at a garage sale, and the new oak table took its place.

Over the last quarter century, this table has seen endless meals served upon it, played host to countless games of dominoes (when the wood is highly polished the dominoes really sail across its luster), has held small Christmas trees (as noted here), and been a work station for pounding out stories, just like this one.

But, it also held the likes of children – at least this one – quite sturdily. And with its smooth rounded edges, never presented a threat to either small eyes or teeth.

As I no longer have a truck, this table will be staying with us for the foreseeable future, too, no doubt. And that’s okay, as it’s a keeper, just like this snapshot from a Christmas past, and that kid, of course.

Whistle and Steam

 

Whistle and Steam

Noel Laflin

12-17-22

One of my greatest childhood memories leading up to Christmas was when my father would head to the garage and bring the model train tracks tacked to the two large sheets of plywood out of the rafters, connect the two boards together, thoroughly rub the tracks with steel wool, take the engine and cars from the old wooden tool box that sat at the end of my brother's bed, hook up the transformer control, place engine and cars in place, and finally flip the switch.

That's a fine memory.

I was curious what that old Lionel set might have cost my folks and found this advertisement from a 1952 Sears catalog and see the very same train set that we once had.

It was the 6-unit Freight with smoke, whistle, which sold for $49.95. I remember those tiny white pellets we would place in the locomotive's smoke stack and wait for the steam to rise as it whistled round and round.

That $49.95 was two thirds of a mortgage payment back then.

My dad was pretty conservative with funds throughout his life, and rightly so, having just scraped by during the Great Depression, but he plunked down the cash for this train set, claiming it was for the family's entertainment.

But the way in which he lovingly went through the ritual of setting it all up each year and ran that train round the Christmas tree makes me think that the boy in him was truly the one being most entertained.

70

 

70

Noel Laflin

12-16-22

 

I am going to be seventy years old soon, and although it’s just a number, it’s an age, that for a number of years, to tell the truth, I didn’t see me making it to.

 

But, breakthroughs in medicine thirty years ago, and plain old good luck along the way, worked in my favor, apparently. So here I am; and to happy to see it coming.

 

If nothing else, being told that life could be shorter than anticipated has a way of waking up one's soul. It did in my case anyway, and because of that incentive, I decided to take time to really smell the balcony roses, the brewing of early morning coffee, chocolates in the candy shop, the smell of sage drifting across the foothills when it rains. I decided to be a more patient person, a kinder soul. That didn’t always happen (regrets expounded upon by request only, if you're really curious) but I made a more serious effort to be that person. Maybe I should have been upset with bad news so long ago, but just the opposite occurred as I understood that time was indeed a precious commodity (as it always should be, regardless of circumstances), so I thought I would try to make the most of it.

 

Thus, months turned into years and years into decades and here we are today. Who knew!

 

Consequently, as I approach another age with a number ending in zero, I continue to be amazed not only about that, but with most everything in life: the accomplishments of a determined, amazing daughter, the steadfast love of a husband, the unconditional love of siblings, deep, long-enduring friendships with folks going as far back as kindergarten, new friendships, marveling at the effortless grace of a bird in flight, a good book, an old favorite song, a lucky click of the camera, sharing a silly tale, the simple beauty of a spent wildflower blowing in the breeze high atop a lonely hill and the exquisite butterfly that lands right there as I gaze, and try to capture the moment. 

 

And as long as one keeps being amazed with the little things (not to mention the big things), just to wake up one more day, get out of bed, and go about living and loving what you do, and trying to me nice to others just because you want to ... well, then one is pretty lucky indeed.

 

I could go on, but hey, look, that’s a pretty cool hummingbird doing summersaults outside the window right now!

 

And, oh, heck yeah, there's a squirrel too!

 

Gotta go! 

 

I'll give you a progress report in another ten years.

 

Touch

 

Touch

Noel Laflin

12-15-22

When I want Tom’s spirit to feel something, I use my left hand, as he was left-handed in life; I don’t know if it matters after death, but I figure, if it does, then a touch by the left hand, at least, in his case, might be best. He had a very creative mind - a trait of many lefties - an artist, in fact - and a little white witch, too, or so he claimed. As I always did believe his claim of benign good witchery, and certainly did respect, not to mention envy, his creativity, I touch with the left.

I have no concrete proof that I’m crazy when I want to share something with a soul long gone thirty years, come Christmas Eve, but I take comfort in talking to my old friend all the time still, via my left hand, even if I never get a reply in return. Oh, sure, a feeling of connection happens occasionally, and maybe the lights flicker in the house in a verbal exchange sometimes, too, but that’s about it. And this sure beats the likes of Jacob Marley's return on Christmas Eve. But, then again, Tom was never a businessman, forging chains of regret, link by link. Tom only forged chains of beauty, garden by garden, pond by pond, canvas by canvas.

I was thinking such thoughts today as I passed a eucalyptus tree that had the smoothest texture to its bark; I immediately thought it would be something that Tom would like to feel as well.  So, I reached out and ran my left hand slowly along the base of the giant tree – a tree that has probably stood in place for over a century, a solitary proud member of a windbreak row of trees that once protected an orange grove. The grove and most of the other members of the old wind guard are gone to history now, but somehow this one still remains. 

I think he, Tom, liked the feel of that old tree, too, but maybe he feels them so much better wherever he resides now.  Dimensions in time and space are a tricky field, I suppose, so what do I really know?

Many times I will pat other trees and rocks that I feel compelled to share with the lad, especially familiar rocks and trees in the garden that he originally designed and implemented nearly forty years ago.  I rested my left hand on old cinder blocks that once outlined the original pond today, and mentioned that the fish in the newer pond were doing fine and the water was clear and fresh following the recent weekend storm.

Again, there was no response, but, that’s alright for now.

I figure there will be a lot of catching up to do sometime in the future, whenever we meet up again.

But until then, I just pass along the things that matter via a pat, touch, or passing of a hand – a left hand (even if I am a little bonkers, and a right-hander myself), just to make sure that little white witch is feeling it too.

 

Lies

 Lies

Noel Laflin

12-13-22

I remember quite distinctly a whopping lie that I presented to Mr. Wilson my senior year in high school.

The outright lie was the forged absent slip I handed over to my history teacher when he caught me in the hallway, demanding why I had missed his class. I had missed five classes that warm spring day as the beach was calling. I had only returned to the end of classes to retrieve some books from my locker – I think a history assignment was due the next day.

It was pretty obvious to us both that I had been at the beach as sand fell from my pocket while I retrieved the forged document. I was also pretty sunburned. And a damp outline of my swim trunks was clearly visible through my jeans. The absent slip was also damp and encrusted in sand. More sand fell from my hair as I stood mute and stoic before my captor.

The forged signature was that of my journalism teacher, who at one time had told us (newspaper and yearbook crew) that if we ever needed his help, to come seek it.

My smug history teacher marched me to the staff break room, found my journalism instructor, and shoved the forgery under his nose and demanded, “Larry, is this your signature!”

Larry Quillie set down his cigarette, looked at the handwriting that was clearly not his, looked at me, then looked at Mr. Wilson, and lied: “Yes, it is.”

“You’re lying, Larry!” Wilson cried out. "You're always protecting those writing brats of yours." And with that, he stomped off.

Mr. Quille looked at me with sad hound dog eyes – a trademark feature that I have never forgotten all these years later, took a drag on his smoke, and simply said: “You need to work on my signature, kid.”

I loved my journalism classes and my three years with Mr. Quille.

But History class was a little testy for the rest of the year.

Sense vs. Cents

Sense vs. Cents

Noel Laflin

12-11-22

When I moved into my first apartment long ago, I would drink cheap wine. The stuff was atrocious, but, hey, I was young, and it did seem to be a step up from Boone's Farm or Thunderbird.

As the bottles emptied, I would turn them into piggy banks.

I kept at least one still-full of pennies, pictured here, now residing on a dusty shelf in the garage. I think I emptied the others and paid for more cheap wine with change. Check-out clerks and folks in line behind me loved me, no doubt.

Being all pre1982 pennies (as I lived in that place during the 70's) I see that they are worth three times their value nowadays (due to the fact that they were 95% copper back then, and zero percent copper for the past 40 years).

I could buy some more cheap wine with the profit, once I remove the melted candle wax plugging up the pour spout.

Yes, my first apartment was the height of cheap décor and definitely bad taste, at least when it came to wine and romantic lighting.

But I take comfort in knowing that I had sense enough to save some cents, despite my youth and poor taste.

Warming the Worms

Warming the Worms

Noel Laflin

12-6-22

David and I keep an old Country Time Lemonade can on the floor next to the refrigerator. We empty the coffee grounds there each morning, along with tossed-in banana peels, apple cores, garlic skins, and every other type of veggie debris that doesn’t make it into either David’s wok or cast iron skillet. He’s got a bunch of those, by the way.

The cans have differed over the years, but as there was a great sale on Country Time Lemonade a few years back, we stocked up. When we are out of fresh lemons (their remains end up in the compost can, too), we resort to the store-bought stuff, especially in the summer; it turns out the opening on a Country Time Lemonade can is the perfect fit for the coffee filter basket, too, so there’s little mess when it comes time to tap the grinds into the can.

I will frequently open the can, as I did this morning, and feel slight warmth emanating from within. Nature and fermentation is already at work, apparently.

So, by the time the can is full and I dump it into the five-gallon container in the garden, watching worms having a field day from what is already in there, I like to think that I have just given them what amounts to a natural electric blanket, to help stave off cooler fall (nearly winter) mornings.

The worms never thank me, of course. But, that’s nature for you.

The garden thanks me in a variety of ways later once the five-gallon container and all of those warm, happy worms spread themselves out, and we start the whole process all over once more.

 

Homework

 

Homework

Noel Laflin

12-6-22

Sitting in a nearly empty airport terminal last night, waiting for a flight to arrive (I was early, but with a good book at hand, happy to while away the time), a kid, with a heavy backpack, and his father soon came in and took seats next to me. Other folks began to dribble in eventually, everyone checking the monitor for arrival times, finding chairs and plopping down.

 

The boy, maybe 17 or thereabouts, proceed to open his pack, dig out books, paper, pencil, and eraser. He started to work on some homework. There were complicated penciled graphs and such and soon his phone's calculator was in use, too.

 

He saw I was reading a book on my phone and asked if the story was a good one.

 

"Oh, yeah," I told him, it's John Irving's latest novel, The Last Chairlift. He switched  his phone from calculator to notes and typed that in. 

"It's a really long story," I warned him. 

"I like long stories," he replied. "Can you recommend some other good books?"

 

"It just so happens I can!" I told him and gave several off the top of my head.

 

He dutifully wrote down every title and author as I gave verbal evidence as to why I thought each one was worth reading.

 

"I like to read," he said, "so I am keeping a list of future prospects, once homework days are behind me."

 

Judging by the contents in his backpack, I figured that was some time away.

 

But, he seemed like a determined, serious lad, so I think those homework days are numbered.

Something to Drag About

Noel Laflin

12-5-22

 

My friend Nancy called me yesterday and said, “Noël (she always calls me Noël), “my nephew Cody is performing in Anaheim tonight, do you want to come see the show?”

 

“Well, heck yeah”, I told her, having followed Cody, the nephew, by her stage name Crystal Methyd for some years now.

 

So, off we went to see Drag Queen Christmas at the Anaheim Grove. The show has been touring across America and has become quite a hit.

 

There were four ugly men holding large signs and yelling at the crowd as we entered the theater.  I have not seen these guys since we last did AIDS walks back in the 90’s. The signs said we were all going to hell, of course (sure glad I don’t subscribe to that silly notion), and that all of “us fags” needed to get down on our knees and repent. Getting down on one’s knees has always held other connotations, at least in my mind.  Anyway, as the crowd (maybe a thousand folks or so) were mostly heterosexual, I think the yelling guys were wrong about the make-up of the crowd. I was there with Nancy and six other of her friends, for example, and the six of them were all straight.

 

I remember one of the ugly men tried to convince us that our way of life was a sin as he announced that he was once a cross-dresser himself, before he found Jesus. His three yelling companions inched a bit further away from him after that pronouncement.  I then pictured Jesus hiding in the fellow's sister's closet and jumping out one day yelling, "Boo! You found ME!"  We poor sinners still standing in line chuckled at that, of course, as we imagined he probably was still wearing silky panties beneath his camowear. I also remember thinking, well, Jesus did look pretty good in a robe, sandals, and long hair, so maybe the fellow did choose an appropriate role model; although he kinda missed out on the entire “Love thy neighbor,” theme.

 

Anyway, once inside, the atmosphere was much friendlier. With Nancy’s connections we got to meet Crystal Methyd and friends. The show was first-rate and highly entertaining. It lasted for two and a half hours, too, but went by much too quickly.

 

I love my friend Nancy as she is cute, funny, and full of stories about her family growing up in Fresno picking crops for much of their lives, before she went to beauty school and became a hair stylist. She has been cutting my hair for the last twelve years. Nancy insists it’s been more like twenty years, but maybe that was just the wine talking.  But, like the old saying goes, only your hairdresser knows for sure. Either way, I have heard a lot of funny stories during whatever time frame one might reference.

 

And, all I know for sure right now is that I said yes to last night’s invitation.

 

And I hope the cross-dressing man with the sign might come across this musing some day and when recognizing himself, perhaps, get his panties all in a bind.  He missed a good show, too, by the way.

 

Wildlife Sightings

 

Wildlife Sightings

Noel Laflin

12-4-44

 

One day, way back in 1969, I led a group of Scouts down to Deep Creek and had just mentioned to the youngsters (I was all of three or four years older) to keep an eye out for any unusual sightings of scenic wildlife as we neared the first good swimming hole.

 

Rounding a bend we stumbled upon one of the staff members from another council's Scout camp and his girlfriend high atop a large, smooth, sun-lit boulder in the midst of passionate love making.

 

Jaws agape, my young hiking crew stopped, looked up, and took in the scene.

 

"They're gonna get sunburned in some bad places," one kid finally ventured.

 

Another tugged on my sleeve and asked if this qualified as an unusual scenic wildlife sighting, and fumbled for his binoculars and nature notebook.

 

I had no immediate answer as my jaw was also agape. But I did eventually ask to borrow the binoculars.

 

Big Lincoln Logs

 

Big Lincoln Logs

Noel Laflin

12-2-22

When we planned to build a real log cabin 50 years ago, we had no idea of exactly how to go about it, as the four of us were just teenagers, and city boys at that.  We got our hands on a Foxfire book that had design plans and suggestions for how to notch the logs, etc.  It proved helpful, as did my old Lincoln Log (American Logs) set from childhood.

The only difference was, our logs at camp weighed a lot more and weren’t pre-notched. There was no convenient can in which to store them either.

But it all worked out in the end.

Pictured here in the summer of 1973 – one year after we began - is Chris Bergh, one of the four original pioneers. Being the smallest, he had the privilege of sleeping in the loft, but he never complained. It was, after all, bigger than the one you could assemble in the Lincoln Log set.