Pride

Pride

Noel Laflin

6-16-17

July 2, 1978 - L.A. Gay Pride March

We carried signs decrying the bigotry of Anita Bryant and John Briggs.  But I was careful to hold my sign directly in front of my face when passing TV cameras.  My boyfriend warned me that the last thing I needed was to be spotted on the six o’clock evening news marching in the L.A. Gay Pride Festival of 1978.  It would end my career, he said.  And if the Boy Scouts of America didn’t fire my ass afterward, Bryant and Briggs would see to it, he added, only half joking.  To lighten the mood, after concluding that joyous, liberating march, we went to dance.

When I came out to my parents a little over a year later, after having just been fired from the BSA for being gay, I remembered Tom’s words.

The L.A. Gay Pride Festival of 1980 was a lot more carefree, however, as I no longer avoided the TV cameras.  I was out to both my family and new employer.  Neither gave a good god damn about where I marched or with whom I danced.

But by the end of the decade, however, Pride festivals around the world took on a much more somber tone.

 

AIDS quilts on display, just outside the large dance venues, saw to that.

In the early nineties I would lie in bed and make notations in the margins of a worn, childhood bible, writing the names of friends and former loves that had died.  I did not want to forget their faces.

I stopped the late night practice after writing Tom’s name in the margin on Christmas Eve, 1992.  I put the bible away.

Despite the times, the festivals continued to draw me in, however, as it was the one place that I could keep track of old and new friends alike, celebrating the fact that we were still alive, and toasting the memory of those who were gone.  And although I no longer felt the need to march, there was still a desperate need to dance.

I have not been to a festival for quite some time now – I leave that to a younger crowd, many of whom are just coming to terms with their own identity and pride of being.  I remember that time well. Supreme Court decisions and a tsunami-like shift in public acceptance toward LGBT folk over the last decade have also eased my desire to march, as I once did in my youth.

But I am glad that the tradition still carries on, as there is always dancing afterward.

 

Weddings

Weddings

Noel Laflin

6-14-17

There’s a wedding coming up and I am pretty excited.

I’ve always been a sucker for folks tying the knot - even the time when I missed a ceremony as I showed up at the wrong church.  Since the service was just getting under way, due to my late arrival, I took a seat in a pew in the back and settled in.  When the beautiful bride being walked down the aisle was not my old girlfriend, I quickly deduced that I was indeed crashing someone else’s party.  Kristina still chides me to this day.  But hey, I tell her, it makes for a funny memory and a good story forty years later.  That’s about the time she gets eerily quiet.

Then there was the wedding in the woods a few years back.  Guests all met up in the small town of Cottage Grove, Oregon, and followed the lead truck as it barreled deeper and deeper into the evergreens.  After successfully navigating several old logging roads we came to rest in a fairy land of tall trees, giant ferns, and a narrow trail leading down to a rushing creek.  The bride wore flowers in her hair and a simple, yet beautiful dress.  The groom, a fellow whom I have known since he was two years old, walked barefoot, dressed in a peasant blouse and trousers.  He even had flowers sitting atop his curly locks.  He reminded me, just a bit, of a jolly hobbit or elfin king.  The couple exchanged vows at a waterfall. There was no preacher. There were no groomsmen or bridesmaids. No one could really hear what was said, due to the roar of the water, but it was lovely nonetheless.  The natural scene appealed greatly to my pagan heart.

And of course there have been wonderful weddings for siblings and friends – even the two weddings in Spanish.  At the later two ceremonies, I simply took my cue from the rest of the congregants when they stood, kneeled, or sat.  We spoke a common language called alcohol at the reception, however, so all was forgiven in no time.

I have been a groom, best man, groomsman, and a guest on too many occasions to recall, a florist, a janitor sweeping up the rice outside the church, as well as the ‘Right and Revered Reverend Laflin’ for five weddings. That title is of my own choosing actually; I find it kind of catchy. Two of the couples were straight and three gay. As I pretty much use the same ceremony format, I simply have to watch out for my pronouns, as in his and hers, his and his, and hers and hers when I address the couples standing before me.  I haven’t screwed it up yet.

 

I was once even hired to guard the gifts for a friend on the night of his wedding.

I thought I had done it all.

But, up until now, I have never been the father of the bride-to-be.

In a few weeks my title will change to father of the bride.

And for that, I am pretty excited indeed.

Poems and Such

 Wonder

Noel Laflin

5-10-17

I know folks who found religion,

I know folks who walked away.

I once was of the former,

Now wonder fills my days.
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Moder

May 17th, 2017

(To note Norwegian Constitution Day)

My mother spoke no Engelsk,
Before her skole hus days.
Norsk was the morder tongue,
It was the familie way.

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Footprints on the Table

5-13-17

There are footprints on the table,

I’m sorry to confess.

From standing there to shoot more shots,

Of dinner in the nest.

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Optimist

5-12-17

I strive to be an optimist,

Defeat the odds - defy.

And when dealt lemons, merely say:

Ah, screw it - let’s make pie.

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My Old Tree

5-22-17

If there is a next life,
Reincarnate, if you please.
Then may I be a hummingbird,
And live in my old tree.

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All a Twitter

May 2016

There once was a starling convention,
Where members all vied for attention,
The outfits did glitter,
Like birds all a twitter,
And boasted of downright pretension.

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102

6-5-17

On this day, so long ago,
Out on a farm – Dakota land,
My mother made her debut,
It’s said a midwife lent a hand.

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Raccoons

Raccoons aren’t fond of garlic,

Unlike us folks inside,

So when we spread round compost,

The garlic makes them cry.

And that is fine with this guy,

As buddies otherwise,

Would tear apart the garden,

But now depart chastised.

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The Fondest of Summers

Summer 2017

This has been the fondest of summers,

With nests still filled with young hummers.

They play hide and seek,

But loose when their beaks,

Stick out from beneath - what a bummer.

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Summer Storm
8-1-17

Was standing in the driveway marveling at the sudden summer storm - which I thought had passed - when the mother of all thunderclaps, preceded by a low, blinding lightning bolt, hit our neighborhood. A flock of parrots was passing overhead when it struck. They went crazy, along with the crows and every other feathered friend. Car alarms blared, dogs howled. The ricochet off of Panorama Hill was incredible. Pounding rain then ensued, cleaning off the roofs, streets and trees. I stood under the eves of the garage taking it all in. 8-1-17  @ 5pm

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Swallowing His Pride

8-4-17

A synchronized swooping squadron of steely-eyed, screaming swallows successfully drove off a young Cooper’s hawk from the north end of the pond this morning.
Swallowing his pride, the hawk bailed into our neighborhood across the street, circled round and quietly flew into the south end of the pond. He perched atop the chain link fence looking hungry.
I wasn’t the only witness to the stealthy, sneaky move as silent swallow sentries, now posted at every entry point, sounded the alarm once more.
Poor Coop left empty-taloned, but not before I got a quick shot of him taking brief refuge in a sycamore above me. 
I swear I could hear his stomach growling.
Or was that his pride?

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Dragonflies

7-30-17

Dragonflies are buzzing,

They’re coming forth in droves,

It’s nature’s way of showing off

Her golden treasure trove.

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Fairy Queen
8-6-17

A penny for your thoughts?

I asked the fairy queen.

And placed one on a mushroom,

But silence only gleamed.

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Heat

8-6-17

Down at the pond on a warm summer day,

A turtle glanced up and was heard to say:

‘Don’t look now, but there are dancers in heat,

Amorous blue – how very indiscreet

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Unfortunate Name

I'm a pretty little bush tit short and stout,

I've got a nom de plume that does stand out…

But if you see me up close you just might shout,

‘The guy who named you was drunk, no doubt!”

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I Never Heard My Father Swear

Noel Laflin

8-21-17

I never heard my father swear,
Till I was in my teens.
But when he finally found the words,
He cursed till he was green.

Ten burning steaks upon the grill,
Did cause foul oaths to fly,
He'd left them unattended, see?
And flames now reached the sky.

My dad, he tried to right the scene,
By flipping each in turn,
But swore anew as each revealed,
A hellish, nasty burn.

And so I learned a few new words,
Way back upon that day,
When all was lost on that old grill,
And dad did have his say.

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Forty Years Ago

Noel Laflin

8-23-17

We come across old photos,
And note the passing years.
Here marks a brother’s wedding,
Our family full of cheer.

Forty years ago it was,
And much to my surprise,
I wonder where our youth went,
And where we got those ties …

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Twenty years ago, today,

Vi Laflin took her leave,

Of earthly pain and cruel disease,

Her spirit finally free.

We, her children, figure that,

Mom still sends us signs.

How else does one explain the fact,

That stars still choose to shine?

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Lying to Squirrels
By I.B. Nutts

I asked a squirrel in the tree,
'Why you staring down at me?'
'Ya got some grub?' was his reply,
'No,' I lied, and walked on by.

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Flattering the Birds
By A.Finch

‘You two are the spice of life,’

I told this pretty pair.

‘Your charm, your gait, your speckled grace,

You’re downright debonair!’

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Have you been to Capistrano?

I asked my feathered friend.

‘Oh, that’s for Cliff – but I’m a Barn,

So, no, I’ve never been.’

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Praising Kingfishers
By I. M. Speedy

Faster than a feathered bullet,
Beating out a raptor’s dive,
Lucky like Egyptian cats,
These guys have got ten lives.

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  And so it is you found me,

  Way up where branches bend.

  What was the clue that gave me up?

  Your steely gaze, my friend.

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‘Tomorrow be the equinox’,

My furry friend declared.

‘We’ve equal light and equal dark,

And nuts enough to spare.’

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And here with Indian summer,

Bright wings reflect the hue,

Of dragonflies in final flight,

The waters green and blue.

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Knick-knacks just love our house,
Spreading wide their roots.
‘Something’s got to give!’, I cried …
So dusting got the boot.

My eyes are dim, I cannot see -

I did not bring my specs with me.

The upside is, I am redeemed -

As the house appears quite clean.

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December 1, 2015 – World AIDS Day

Why I lived, while so many others did not –
I will never know for certain.
Is there survivor's guilt, you ask.
Yes. 
But I have tried to replace it - over time - with fond remembrance,
As I am here to still bear witness, a quarter of a century later,
That they indeed did live and breathe,
Love, contribute, care and create -
If only, for a limited life engagement.
So here’s to the memory of Tom, Jeremy, Rick, David, John, 
Lane, Doug, Jerry, Jim ...
And oh, so many more to recall.
But you all live in memory lads - you are not forgotten.

"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more."
Edna St. Vincent Millay

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It’s the first day of Thanksgiving break,

And kids are running free,

Racing down the greenbelt,

Sometimes I miss young me.

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Balcony Rumble

By  I.C. Trouble

A wren has found the feeder,

And hummers are dismayed.

The wren is high on sugar,

While hummers buy switchblades.

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Monday Night Troop Meetings

By I.B. Hurt

‘British bulldog one, two, three!’

Banshee voices shrieked with glee,

In the basement of a church,

Hallowed ground soon besmirched,

With egos slammed - bodies bruised,

What the hell, we stayed amused.

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I’ll write a silly poem,

And put it in my file.

Limericks are better,

But harder to compile.

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12-21-17
Mom has been gone for 20 years now, Susanne Laflin is 1500 miles away, and Krysten Boggs NewComer is taking finals. Thus, I have taken matters into my own hands and am baking cookies. 
It's been years.
But so far the sampling is pretty good.
I'd post a photo, but I don't need a stampede. 
Besides, they'll be gone before anyone could get here.

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12-22-15

No hike today,
As rain got in the way.
The hillsides will be slick,
The pathways muddy-thick.
The camera would get ruined,
And then I’d be a stewin’ …

So here I sit warm and dry.
And listen to the birds outside,
As they chirp, sing and dance,
Taunting me to take a chance.
To which I say, 'Hey, no way.'
They just laugh and fly away.

Birthday Parties

Birthday Parties

Noel Laflin

5-9-17

When my dad hit his ninetieth birthday, some years ago, we thought it appropriate to throw him a party.

Friends from church, as well as the old neighborhood, all showed up to his Leisure World home in order to pay their respects.

The only hitch to the day was dad’s confusion as to his actual age, since he thought it was his eightieth birthday and not the ninetieth. He became ever so prickly if you tried to tell him otherwise. We thought it best to just let him be any age he preferred that day.

That confusion began a few years after my mother’s death, a decade prior, when dad just became stuck in time. And although short term memory was pretty well shot, long term recall was clear as a bell, which was fine for greeting old friends and neighbors that he had known from decades past.

My job that day was to be the advance man outside the door and explain the situation to arriving guests.

Folks cooperated beautifully and made no mention to actual age that afternoon. Cards were read aloud to dad, as macular degeneration had done in his eyesight, and if a nod to ninety was in the text, we discreetly changed the figure to eighty, or left it out altogether.

By the time his ninety-first birthday rolled around, there was no party, as he was in hospice care. He would leave us six weeks later.

However, children from a nearby school did show up at his room in the skilled nursing facility, bringing flowers, and singing him a happy birthday tune.

An elderly chaplain from the Salvation Army also stopped by, spoke to him kindly, patted his hand, and gave him a teddy bear.

Wisely, or perhaps, luckily enough - on the part of both young and old alike – there was no mention of age.

Top of Form

Mighty Winds Make Mighty Good Neighbors

Mighty Winds Make Mighty Good Neighbors

Noel Laflin

12-4-16

The wind came whipping Friday past,

And struck our tree with quite a blast.

Neighbors came with saws and grit,

And cleared the path that took the hit.

Here’s to great neighbors who took it upon themselves to deal with this downed pepper tree when we were not home.  The strong Santa Ana winds took it down late Friday night.  The neighbor to our left called at 11 pm to tell us about it.  My long-time neighbor to the right took this picture early Saturday morning and sent it my way, informing me that both the water and gas lines were intact.  A third  neighbor called a short time later to see if we were aware of the situation, and a fourth neighbor kept us apprised of the progress being made by two wonderful  other neighbors who showed up with chain saws and went to work.  Up until then, all I could visualize was breaking out the old buck saw and having at it today.  Instead, the driveway was cleared and we could park.

And some folks wonder as to why I’ve lived here for more than half my life. 

Christmas Eve Blues

Christmas Eve Blues

Noel Laflin

11-30-16

The Christmas Eve spirit flew out the chimney the moment the talk turned dark and conspiratorial.

Someone had mentioned the Holocaust.  And looking back on it, it may have been me. I was about to turn sixteen in two days.
  

“They exaggerated the numbers,” said old man Erik, lighting another Chesterfield and downing his beer. “There were no six million killed.  It wasn’t possible,” he concluded confidently.

“Roosevelt and the Jews saw to that,” replied Rudy, snuggled smug in his chair, legs stretched out across our old linoleum family room floor.

I looked at my father sitting to my right.  He was simmering with rage.

Slowly, he rose from his chair and left the room.  He was back in a moment with a tattered, black photo album clutched to his chest.

“I was at Dachau just weeks after liberation,” he said with a trembling voice.  There had been no time to clean up the place. I took pictures.  Would you like to see them?” he asked our two guests.

There was silence for a moment, before Rudy answered.
 

“It doesn’t change a thing,” he said.  The numbers were faked to break the German spirit.

“Ja,” whispered Erik, the tone of confidence wavering a bit.

My father walked over to the two men and set the old album on the coffee table.  He then went to the chair, removed his jacket and left his own home on Christmas Eve rather then ask his guests to leave.

He went for a long walk around the block – several times.