Sadie Hawkins

Sadie Hawkins

Noel Laflin

4/9/16

Young Sadie Hawkins called one night
And asked if I could dance -
I choked a bit but said, 'I do' -
She said, 'I'll take the chance. '

So off we went in cast-me-offs,
Fake freckles, chewing hay -
We looked the part, I'll give you that -
Li'l Abners gone astray.

She paid my way when we arrived
And steered me to the floor -
Where music played and couples swayed -
I proved to be no bore.

As night wore on, we then were hitched,
At 'Ye Old Hitching Post' -
Where preacher said, 'Now kiss or kick' -
We kissed, I'm here to boast.

Maybe

Maybe

Noel Laflin

                                 Friday the 13^{th  _} October 2000

Maybe it’s as good a day as any to start a journal – especially when travel, sanctuary, and healing are involved.

Maybe I’ll tell of the acquisition of the new journal itself – an oversized, spiral-bound book of thick, cream-colored pages, blank within – the raised, embossed silver cover bearing the likeness of Michelangelo’s ‘Creation’ placed front and center, calling me to take it home – which I did - shelling out thirty bucks to the store proprietor’s eight-year-old daughter perched high atop a stool behind the register.  She sang sweetly from her perch as she rang up the sale.

Maybe I will even speak of the inner peace that finally came over me while spending time with two fine friends as we wandered enchanted neighborhoods along the Central Coast and spied on secret gardens.

 

Maybe I will then elaborate further upon the story of how the younger of my two companions, and I, imbibed in Mother Nature, becoming more than just a little stoned by the ancient ruins of Lime Kiln, tripping out on the beauty of the ferns, redwoods, and creek that cascaded down to the rocky shores of the Pacific.

Maybe I’ll dwell more in regard to the hunt for polished jade glinting in the sunlight at low tide.

Maybe I’ll describe the clarity of the Channel Islands beckoning across the sea – appearing so close that one felt the need to reach out and touch them.

Maybe I will finally get it right someday, and try to explain how Paul Simon sang to us about the girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoes as we drove up and down the coast of Big Sur, mesmerized by the rise of a blood moon illuminating a castle high above San Simeon.

Maybe I shall mention that this was a trip of escape from the confines of a long hospital vigil – the place where my father had battled for his very life but days before.  Now on the mend, I had passed over the reins of watch to my brother, promising to return in a matter of days.

Maybe I will finally admit that had I stayed in town but one more day, I’d be the one next admitted – diagnosis: ‘He was close to cracking.’

Maybe I will describe the trip more fully at another time. And perhaps a story will even come of it.

Maybe it already has.

Something to Stew About

Something to Stew About

Noel Laflin

2-18-16

As it is pouring rain at the moment, I cannot go outside to play.

And as I finished reading the latest novel, just last night, there is no great book on hand to while away the morning.  And it was a damn fine story too – the kind you hate to see end.

So it is that I will tell a short tale to fill the time until the sun breaks through once more, and I can wander off in old tennis shoes, camera in hand, that do not mind muddy conditions – the shoes that is – not the camera – just to be clear. They, the shoes, already sit upon the front porch, soaking wet from the overnight drizzle, and now sudden downpour.  I should have moved them indoors before the storm, but it’s too late now.  Hell, they’re just going to get wet and muddy anyway.

Thus it is that I am reminded of the time that Tom Early and I were tapped to be cooks for a large crowd of folks attending a weekend, ‘Theater in the Wild’ experience at O’Neill Park – some thirty-five years ago.

Why we ever said yes to the request is still a mystery.  But, people do strange things for theater friends.  Shoot, I even convinced my own sister to join in the festivities. 

So, we decided to prepare a hearty stew at my home in Costa Mesa – and transport it to the campground, some forty miles away, in large pots.

 

The pots were still warm when we placed them in my little sports car.  As space was tight, one even sat in the passenger seat, bumping up against my right shoulder, making the shifting of manual gears a challenge.  That pot would be the one that sloshed considerably when I hit a speed bump in the park of course.  But, I wear beef stew rather well.

And then the unexpected rain storm came, dampening our fires in the campground, and forcing us to serve lukewarm stew to wet and grumpy folks who’d been wandering the oaks all day, watching and partaking in their soggy outdoor theatrical experience – now hoping for a hot meal at least.

In a desperate move, young Tom is sent to Cook's Corner, the local biker bar to enquire as to their allowing us to host our feast.  The bikers say no.

One damp and hungry participant, a woman who had survived the recent Mt. St. Helen's eruption, sums up the day and cold stew by proclaiming that 'we were worse.'

By the end of the afternoon, and many apologies later, my sister, whose task it was to serenade folks with her magic flute, had failed to come back to camp.  She had driven her car up a dirt road, prior to the storm, so as to better position herself to play for the wandering theater-goers.

I went in search of her, soon discovering that her car was stuck in the mud.  With a lucky rope at hand we were able to free her from the quagmire and get her on her way home.

And then there were all of those dirty pots to clean and untouched gelatinous stew to toss. 

To say that the day was an utter disaster would be incorrect, however, as I do have this tale to share.

Well, I see that the rain here has now passed.  I believe it is time try on those soaked sneakers and head off in search of birds and turtles – my own theater in the wild.

And when I return, I believe I’ll have a nice grilled cheese sandwich, some hot soup, or anything warm to restore my wandering soul.

Anything but stew. 

Baker's Surprise

Baker's Surprise

Noel Laflin

2-17-16

Fifty years ago this summer, a hitchhiking field mouse snuck into our car in a Jackson Hole, Wyoming campsite and drove all the way with us to Baker, California.

Can you imagine the surprise on his tiny face – this descendent of cool and hardy Teton rodents - when he jumped from the backseat of our old Ford and hit the hot rocks of the Mojave Desert?

I witnessed the escape, but not his face, as it was near midnight and dimly lit in front of the old diner off Baker Boulevard – the one that beckoned to weary humans, such as us, with its promise of air conditioning and ice cold malted milkshakes.   But as it was still a hundred plus degrees that stifling August night, half a century ago, I can only imagine the shock and dismay that must have wilted the whiskers on our diminutive traveling companion as he scampered off into the sagebrush and cactus – a thousand miles from home – at the very Gateway to Death Valley itself.

I have often thought of him over the decades – especially when we pass through the town of Baker.

Chances are that he was toast by morning.

But then again, I like to think that he not only survived, but thrived – and has since spawned a hardy race of mountain-desert mice – the very likes with which the tiny town of Baker still contends.

I’ll have to ask our favorite waitress about such mighty mice the next time we are drawn into the local Denny’s there off Baker Boulevard – the one with its promise of air conditioning and ice cold malted milkshakes.  For I believe it now sits where the old diner of long ago once beckoned to fellow travelers – four and two-legged alike.

Showstopper

Showstopper

Noel Laflin

2-10-16

Sammy Rodriguez and I were yammering away when the massive shadow glided across the grass, halting our conversation in mid-sentence.  It was a showstopper of a moment.

Out of the corner of my eye I spied a large black and white osprey swooping up the slope and landing atop a large sycamore standing directly before us. There are dozens of these beautiful shade trees scattered across the hillsides of our little park and pond out this way in East El Modena - and this fellow chose the tallest.

And there he stayed, the osprey that is, for the next fifteen minutes or so, as I quietly moved about the grass and pathway straining for the perfect photo.

Sam eventually headed for home and I made myself comfortable, squatting low with my back against the pond’s fence, still aiming up and away.  I clicked off a hundred frames, at least. There wasn't another soul in sight.  I reveled in my good fortune.

I got off one last lucky shot as the bird prepared to jump, gracefully lifting itself into a smooth glide, heading due north.  He flew directly over the head of a fellow jogging up the path – the only other human to share in this magical moment. He later told me that it was the massive shadow that caused him to look skyward as well.

 

Now, I have seen Cooper’s hawks, an American kestrel, herons of all sorts, cormorants, and even egrets all land in this very tree – but never an osprey.

I have begun to picture the day when I’ll bear witness to a bald eagle landing in this old sycamore, checking out our little waterway.

 

One can only hope.

Africa Calling

Africa Calling

Noel Laflin

1-27-16

Johnnie and Bonnie, two charming lasses, came to Africa on a whim.

 

They told their boyfriends that they needed a holiday, just the two best friends, and that they’d be back at the end of the month.

They fell in love with the continent instead, and had already overstayed their promise of return by six months at the time of our meeting, some twenty years ago, in a remote national park in northern Zambia.

I was privy to their confession of adventure as we sat about a campfire late one September night listening to the call of lions on either side of our encampment.

“And then there was Tanzania, and the climb of Kilimanjaro,” Johnnie enthused, taking another swig from the bottle of wine we passed about one to another.

A lion roared in the distance.

“Noel,” you need to come back next year, after the rains, and promise that you’ll do the climb with us,” said Bonnie. “One can fall in love up there,” she sighed.

An answering bellow from across the ravine punctuated the impromptu invitation.

“We know the way now,” chimed Johnnie.

 

The call of the first big cat sounded closer now.

“We’ll still be here,” said Bonnie, taking hold of Johnnie’s hand.

The second cat’s roar was definitely closer too.

“What about your boyfriends?” I gently enquired, setting the empty bottle aside, and reaching for a new one.

“The lads can wait,” answered Bonnie, handing me a corkscrew.

Both lions let out such a deep and prolonged cry of distress - so close to our little fire – that I felt obliged to toss another branch or two upon the dwindling flames.

“You know,” sighed Johnnie, pulling Bonnie close, “we just may never go home again.”

The thundering silence from the dark was deafening.

Absent Friends

Absent Friends

Noel Laflin

1-22-16

A former school chum - perhaps one of my very first long-time pals in life - has alerted folks, some from as far back as elementary school, that a mutual classmate and friend has died.

The tributes and memories from an era long gone are pouring in, as they rightly should.

He was a popular boy - blessed with good looks, a keen sense of humor, an honest smile.  And he grew up to become a good man.

Should there be another formal class reunion, his name will appear on the memorial board that will greet us as we sign in and pick up our name tags – the ones bearing a grainy black and white photo of how we once looked nearly fifty years ago.

And then we’ll stop to ponder his name, along with the ever growing list of others placed upon that cold board, sadly updated over five and ten year increments.  There will be some audible gasps as we note a name and photo of a classmate for whom we were not aware of his or her passing - who was here – what, ten or was it really twenty years ago already …

When we were young we were instructed to answer ‘present’ at every class roll call.

If we did not respond, our teachers checked the ‘absent’ box next to our name on the clipboard.

There will be the pang of memory for the very ones that we had so much looked forward to seeing again – only to be told by this stark reminder of a different kind of checked box upon a very different type of board - that they would be absent this day.