Hallowed Ground

 

Hallowed Ground

Noel Laflin

10-31-24

Hallowed describes something, such as a memorial, considered holy or blessed, or something that is highly respected and revered.

There's a potter's field (albeit small) located in Anaheim Cemetery, which always makes me a bit sad. I first discovered the area when I was a kid, as the cemetery was just behind our street, and my friends and I often roamed and played there. I hope we were somewhat respectful on most occasions. But being that we were just kids, well, that's up for debate, of course.

None of the graves in this part of the cemetery are maked with any name, dates, etc. (just small, blank slabs of concrete) - except for this hand-inscribed testament to a life shortly lived.

Someone did their best to remember the child beneath.

I picture a parent who waited till the guys who poured the cement had left, crept in, and made the notation before the compound had time to fully dry. At least that's the scenario that plays out in my mind.

It still haunts me - but it may be the most blessed and revered memorial of all.

Silver Anniversaries

 

Silver Anniversaries

Noel Laflin

10-22-24

 

My folks threw a silver wedding anniversary party back at the old family home in Anaheim - way back in May, 1967.

 

And although I was just fourteen at the time, I remember it well as it was a sunny spring day, there was a ton of good food laid out and libations that were a flowing. There were a lot of friends from the neighborhood, church, and school that came bearing gifts to note the occasion as well.

Aside from the memories, I do still have the silver plated tea/coffee set someone gifted them.

 

I came across it in a dusty box in the garage ten years ago, cleaned it up a bit, and set it out in my own home. It's been there ever since.

 

It dawns on me now that I have lived here in Orange nearly as long as my folks lived in Anaheim, which was over four decades.

 

And, while on that line of thinking, maybe I should throw a silver anniversary party of our own for David and me next year.

 

If marriage had been available to us back in 2000, well, it would be an official silver wedding anniversary, I guess. But an official ten year celebration (and the fifteen years prior of just living in sin) is still nice to consider, too. And hopefully the law of the land stays that way.

 

Either way, when it comes time to help sober up the guests in my fanciful imagination, I will have a silver plated coffee set at the ready.

 

My father knew and loved David. My mom would have too, had she lived long enough to have met him.

 

So, I know they would approve of the symbolic pouring of the coffee, as well as having any excuse for throwing a party.

Fixing an Image

 

Fixing an Image

Noel Laflin

10-24-24

There was a time when photography involved viewing negatives before you went to cut, develop and print a picture.

A fellow photographer gave me this capture while I was in the photo lab of the old FJC Journalism classroom, circa 1972. I am grateful to still have a copy.

When I had the darkroom all to myself and was caught up on school paper assignments, I was frequently processing and printing out pictures of Camp Ahwahnee life - the building of the old log cabin, in particular. I was shooting the photos on a 1912 Kodak camera my father had found and I absconded with shortly thereafter. The negative size was huge, compared to anything shot on a 35m. camera, and was great to work with when it came to viewing and processing.

We had a dark room at camp during summer months, and I even installed a small darkroom in a closet at home during the off-season.

Consequently, my fingers were always a brownish-yellow color from grabbing photos out of the fixing tray and my bedroom reeked of processing chemicals. But it was a good time in my life, bringing an image to life, learning how to crop a shot, cursing when a potential keeper was blurred, but delighted when one or two turned out just right.

Times do change, however, as digital cameras now rule, and the youth of one's yesteryear fade away, despite the best attempts at fixing an image. 

Ship Notes 10-25-24

 

Ship Notes

Friday Morning 10-25-24

Noel Laflin

 

The buffet is crowded early this morning as folks are waiting for the dense fog to lift so they can find their way off the gangplank and get to the exploration of Ensenada.

 

An older gentleman approaches my table, asking if he can join me, as seating is at a premium currently.

 

"Of course!" I told him, and slide a stray coffee mug out of his way.

 

Spontaneous friendships are often made in this manner, or so we have experienced over the years. And this chance encounter with a fellow named Doug proved to be no different in nature.

 

Midway through our breakfast, I learn that my new friend has recently lost his wife of sixty-five years, and the reason for this cruise is to scatter her ashes in the Pacific - somewhere between San Francisco and here - which he and his daughters did just two days ago.

 

Doug is a bit misty eyed at this point, so I reached out to touch his hand, thanking him for sharing his story.

 

"I haven't been able to talk about this with anyone till now, so thanks for listening."

 

Sometimes, the simple courtesy of sharing a table leads to so much more.

 

And then, just like that, the mighty fog that engulfed both ship and city begins to lift, and the sunshine breaks through.

From the Memory File - Halloween 1994

 From the Memory File - Halloween 1994

Noel Laflin

10-26-24

I like this photo for several reasons.

First, front and center, are Krysten and her mom Brenda sporting the most perfect costumes.

Second, baby Nic (my niece) is right behind them, head barely showing. It was her first Halloween party.

Third, but not in this photo, is the memory of my brother and parents also having been there. It was the last time that both of my folks were able to attend the annual drunken affair - this particular one lasting way into All Saints Day morning, of course. I remember that mom was a gypsy, and looked great.

And lastly, it was one of the last major blowouts where major next day cleanup was called for and passed out guests were given coffee and minor sustenance before handing back their car keys.

The parties were somewhat subdued thereafter - well, until the next big Halloween party three years later, where my father donned his Army uniform, fifty years since any prior wearing, got tipsy and was the hit of the party, speaking bad French and thinking he was in a Paris bistro circa 1945.

He kept offering chocolates to every female that dared to sit on the couch close by and singing French ballads (poorly too). I hid the bowl of Hershey's Kisses eventually.

But, to everyone's credit, no one had the heart to tell him the war was over. However, everyone did compliment him on the fact that he still filled out the uniform pretty well.

And that was a mistake as he just rambled off more bad French and apologized for having the poor manners of not bringing any silk stockings to the bistro.

Firestarter

 

Firestarter

Noel Laflin

10-07-24

This is dedicated to the memory of Fred LaVelle - and inspired by an old camp promotional photo and one-time postcard you could buy at the trading post. I only wish he was here to read this himself - as I remember him one star-filled, blazing campfire night long ago - young, like all of us once were in the previous century.
He'd probably laugh before diplomatically pointing out all spelling and punctuation errors, inconsistencies, exaggerations, etc. But then again, maybe he is here - at least in young ninja spirit and wise beyond his years, bow in left hand, right hand on heart, horn-rimmed glasses back in place, an old tattered flag draped across his shoulders, a dog-eared book of poetry in his back pocket, a pipe held firmly in place between clenched teeth - the glowing bowl facing downward, just in case it rained ...




The brilliantly lit meteor-like arrow shot out of the dark and passed over the heads of both young and old alike.

Whoosh!!!

And where the hell did that come from, one might justifiably ask?

Well, hang tight and I'll tell you.

But first, there was an audible hiss and a collective intake of breath from two hundred souls seated about the hillside, as the pointy-tipped metal fireball sped over caps, hats and bare heads indiscriminately.

And it was most fortunate indeed that no one stood at that precise moment in time.

The archer, a bold blond ninja dressed all in black and hidden behind thick thorny buckbrush at the top of the ravine, shot true - shot well - aiming carefully - and most skillfully above all those heads resting atop bodies (both young and old) seated comfortably, or not, should one's ass be resting against an unfortunately placed knotty log impalement ... but I digress
.. oh, yes, boys and men were seated upon roughly hewed logs haphazardly spaced and staked into place, terracing ever downward.

The mysterious marksman, still hidden above, a modern day William Tell (minus the apple), smiled as his intended target - a kerosene-drizzled tinderbox of logs carefully laid out in criss-cross fashion on the hard packed sandy stage below, surrounded by a circle of fire blackened stones - suddenly burst into flame.

Presto!!!

And the assembled crowd cheered most enthusiastically!

He lowered his bow, put his glasses back in place (now looking more like Clark Kent, rather than SuperNinja) and stealthfully crept back into the woods. He would need to shed the dark costume behind a stand of oaks as the one and only phone booth was in the upper parking lot and too far away to be of practical help for lightning fast wardrobe changing - and fit back into his everyday expected Scout atire before nonchalantly heading down through the still stunned crowded rows of both young and old (some in caps and hats, and some without), in order to lead a song, and later tell a story. And maybe even burn a flag by evening's end - directing four lads (I might even have been one of the lucky four) to lay an old frayed piece of faded cloth containing just forty-eight stars and thirteen faded red and white stripes in dying glowing embers - embers he'd earlier helped to create.

But until that moment, another Friday night campfire successfully roared and blazed to life!

And no one died in the process.

Super heroes, especially those with trusty bows and flaming arrows, always saw to that – and always hit their mark.

Ship Notes - Ducks

 

Ship Notes – Ducks

Noel Laflin

10-10-24

 

It's a busy morning in the buffet but I manage to snag a table in a corner that boxes me in on two sides quite comfortably, and yet still allows me a clear view of everything in front of me.

 

It's perfectly placed as two walls not only guards my back, but is frequently a front row seat to cheap entertainment.

 

Mine is a smaller table but the one a few feet away seats four.

 

It's quickly claimed by a couple of young siblings waiting for their folks, who must be foraging for food.

 

The girl sets a small multicolored rubber ducky on the table. Within a nanosecond her older brother picks it up and begins to pound the holy shit out of it. The younger sister is horrified and quickly grabs it back protectively. I bet the folks are going to hear about it when they return with vittles in hand.

 

For those unfamiliar with modern day cruising, the hiding and finding of small rubber ducks is kind of a big thing - especially for kids. Case in point: there was a youngster who gleefully filled me in on her lucky finding of ducks, as a multitude of us patiently waited for the main dining room doors to open on the first night aboard this particular ship last week. Just how many ducks had she found in her first four hours upon boarding the ship - Five, by golly!

 

She was pretty stoked. I was also impressed with her diligent sleuthing and told her so, just as the dining room doors swung open.

 

I remember the snickering behind me one afternoon a few years ago as we glided through the Inside Passage on our way to Juneau. I was reclined upon a very comfortable sofa in the observation gallery, lost in a fine book. When I decided to finally get up, I moved my arm across the top of the couch and found a bright yellow little duck that the one responsible for the snickering I'd heard just a few moments before had placed there, apparently. Now, how lucky was that! I wasn't even looking for a duck, but he found me in my near slumber!

 

A young Filipino waiter was watching, just a bit enviously, as I admired my new find, so I extended the duck in offering and he smiled in thanks as he accepted the gift.

 

"My daughter is going to love this!" he said.

 

"Does she have a brother?" I enquired.

 

"Yes," he smiled bashfully.

 

"Well, good luck with that then," I said, finger tipped to the bill of my cap in silent salute, wandering off in search of more hidden treasures.

 

Shadows

 

Shadows

Noel Laflin

10-08-24

I come across old photos in my phone that I just never have the heart to delete. I guess we all do. Consequently, every picture has a story, otherwise, why would we hang on to them so doggedly?

Case in point with this one here:

Years after I had locked a childhood chum inside an old dilapidated little family mausoleum one afternoon (fear not, he escaped a moment later, caught me as I tried to scale the cemetery wall, and proceeded to beat some sense into me), I returned to the scene of the crime to take a picture of its interior.

The original break-in (hey, someone forgot to lock up one day - thus, not a crime for young boys wanting to explore forbidden realms), took place over sixty years ago.

The photo here was then taken thirty years later - as the boys from the previous adventure didn't own cameras back then.

And on the day I explored once again (no childhood chum in sight), I noted that the old padlock to the rusty iron grate was firmly in place, too.

Ghosts from the past must have seen me coming and saw to it that things were more securely in place, apparently, especially the lock. So, I just shot a frame from between the bars placating those pesky, protective spirits.

The old family haunt would be cleaned out (Mary kidnapped - tossed away, no doubt), the original brick interior replastered over, the exterior spiffed-upped, a broken cross atop the ancient little structure removed - oh, heck, just made to look too nice a year later, so I am happy to remember it here as it once was - beautifully creepy, even in daylight, over a century in the making.

And no beating while trying to scale a wall happened afterwards either.

Some tradeoffs in life are worthwhile, I suppose.

"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed."

Robert Louis Stevenson

Ship Notes - Deck 4

 

Sea Notes - Deck 4

Noel Laflin

10-9-24

 

Describe happiness, you ask?

Well, here's one version:

Happiness is when there's still one unstacked deck chair just calling your name, you have a good book in one hand and a fine spirit in the other, you are still reeling from a fine meal, a good show, a lucky night in the casino, and the night is warm, humid, balmy, sultry, even salty in taste, and the sea is calm - the ship's bow slicing through the waves like a warm knife through soft butter, there's a beautiful crescent quarter moon peeking through the clouds now and then, and you even have the entire night time deck all to yourself ... now, that's just one little version of happiness.

Ship Notes

 

Ship Notes

Noel Laflin

10-10-24

 

There's a little boy following his mother, who is guiding her sight impaired husband to a dining room table.

 

The boy is dressed in tan shorts, a super hero tee shirt, and purple Crocs; he skips as he follows. He looks to be maybe five or six years old.

 

Mother wears a finely flowing billowy sun dress. It's a brilliant yellow. She smiles serenely. Radiant comes to mind.

 

Father has long blond hair, his ponytail tied back in a plain leather wrap. His cane is a wooden beauty with carved roses climbing both up and down the grain. It looks to be made of highly polished cherry wood. He wears an Indiana Jones type hat. Overall, he's one cool looking cat as he confidentiality taps his staff, his wife's right hand ever so lightly clutching his left elbow, guiding him effortlessly, but most efficiently, through crowds and obstacles.

 

They reach their table, sit and begin to chat. The boy squirms out of his chair and into his father's lap. Father strokes his son's hair, leans down to deeply inhale, then gently finds the young face. Fingers map small smooth features in a familiar way - chin, lips, nose, eye lids closed in anticipation of that final touch. They both smile. Mother still looks radiant.

 

Feeling like a interloper (guilty as charged), I quickly go back to the book I'm reading, having lost where I'd left off a moment before.

 

I finally find my place. But before I do, I think first that I may never take sight for granted ever again, as the family seated at the table near the window looking out to sea - although they only seem to have eyes and inner vision for one another - is an image I never wish to forget.