Hand Over the Monkey

Hand Over the Monkey

Noel Laflin

11-18-17

“Noel, it’s time to give the monkey to the nice lady,” urged our den mother.

 

“I think I want to keep him,” whispered eight-year-old me.

 

Joy Looney smiled at the nice lady holding a box full of homemade sock monkeys before returning her attention back my way.

 

“All of the other boys have given her their monkeys,” Mrs. Looney reasoned. “You know he’s going to be loved by someone very special,” she bartered.

 

“But I love him too,” I countered coyly as I had fondly taken to the soft red, brown, and cream creation that had taken me three Saturdays to cut, stitch and stuff during our weekly den meetings in Mrs. Looney’s garage.

 

And now, when it actually came time to hand over my proud masterpiece to the nice lady from the hospital – the one who would see to it that it made its way to some girl or boy who would benefit from the gift - I hesitated, chocked, blanched, and bargained.

 

It was only momentary hesitation, chocking, blanching, and bargaining on my part mind you, as you may have caught on by now, but there it all was nonetheless.

 

However, with the tact of Solomon and the patience of Job, Mrs. Looney eventually convinced me to put my monkey in the box with the others and led me back to my waiting mates.

 

No one teased me about the incident that I can recall.

 

I suspect some might have had similar thoughts of reluctance in handing over their monkeys as well.

Rib Eyes and Pumpkin Pie

Rib Eyes and Pumpkin Pie

Noel Laflin

11-15-17

After my mother’s death, my father and I would torment one another, reminiscing about, and at length, her fine cooking skills – especially around the holidays.

Thanksgiving Day was probably mom’s masterpiece as the food was fantastic, not to mention plentiful – plentiful enough that we frequently set the table for ten or more.  A revolving door of old-time neighbors, friends, former teachers, a beloved school janitor, and total strangers joined us year after year.  It is also what always brought me back home at least once a year.

But after mom died, we both realized that the traditional feast was never going to be the same again.

So, we did what guys do in such a situation and began a new tradition of barbecuing steaks on Thanksgiving.

Rib eyes and corn on the cob now took the place of turkey and stuffing.  Caesar salad and baked beans replaced cranberry relish and sweet potatoes. We toasted with ice cold beer instead of wine.

But, we stuck with pumpkin pie for dessert.

I mean, there are some traditions with which you just do not mess.

Small Victories

Small Victories

Noel Laflin

11-13-17

Sam calls me the prophet, and I call him the enforcer.

 

Between the two of us, along with others in the neighborhood, we keep an eye on our little pond – home to countless ducks, coots, turtles, and at least fifty species of birds that depend on this small water treatment reservoir in the heart of El Modena, at the far end of the city.

Over the years we have thrown out trespassing teenage fishermen – hoping to score selfies with their catches - scared the be-jesus out of rock-throwing children – aiming for ducks of course - and today staved off a small ecological disaster brought on by an unfortunate sewage spill into the pond some ten days ago.

As raw sewage rushed into the drains which feed the canal - which, in turn feed the pond - local agencies jumped into action, determining that the pond must be drained.  All two million gallons.

Water levels dropped to alarming levels.  By Thursday, hundreds of small feeder fish were beginning to die, due to lack of oxygen.  By today, larger fish were beginning to perish in the mudflats being left behind.  I was documenting it all with photos, and private messaging the local water agency with concern for the outcome.

 

The water district told me that it was the responsibility of the city to deal with the issue.  City workers were pointing fingers back at the water district for not providing updated water contamination reports.

All the while, the water level continued to drop and more fish were dying.  It wasn’t beginning to smell so swell downwind of the pond either.

It seemed to me that the draining needed to be stopped, and fresh water allowed to flow from the canal back into the pond in order to restore the needed balance.

Sam and I huddled briefly before approaching both city workers, as well as a representative from the water district. They stood by the pond, passively watching the water continue to flow out.  They all claimed to be middle men just following orders to drain the pond entirely.

We laid out our argument as to the folly of what they were doing, and demanded to know who they reported to respectively.  Names of supervisors, along with phone numbers for both the city and water district were eventually given to us, as it was apparent to all that we were not going to leave.

Sam, a true community organizer, got through to both fellows in charge and laid out our concerns.  He let both the city and water district know that we were prepared to go to the press immediately, with lots of photos in hand, and demand an explanation as to the inability of the two entities to work out their differences and avoid a very nasty ecological disaster.  No one, Sam assured them, wanted to see hundreds of dead fish and turtles in either the Times, Register or on social media, when it was all so unnecessary.

Within an hour, phones calls and private Face book messages from both the city and the water district were returned, assuring us that the pumping had been ordered to stop and that fresh water would be allowed to flow back into the reservoir.  By early afternoon, both things happened.  I called Sam with the good news that the pond was filling up once again.

Who says you can’t fight city hall – or a powerful water district for that matter?

Garden Glass

Garden Glass

10-23-17

Digging in the garden the other day, I came across a broken champagne glass hiding a couple of inches beneath a stepping stone.  There is not much to it – just its base and the stub of a stem.  It still has a pinkish hue.  I recognize it, as there used to be a set.  There is still one in the cupboard.

How it came to be here, however, I don’t recall.

Was it knocked from the balcony ledge by a tipsy, clumsy guest during some forgotten party?  Or for that matter, was the tipsy, clumsy guest the host?

Or, maybe we’d decided to bring in a new decade by tossing glasses against the fence at the stroke of midnight.  Naw, we always threw them into the fireplace.

Then again, I remember a New Year’s Eve party hosted by my daughter, while I was conveniently out of the country a number of years back; I still have household objects stained with remnants of spilled champagne.

Not knowing how the glass ended up in the garden is really all right by me, as small mysteries such as this inevitably lead to fine memories of good times past.

But as I just checked the cupboard once more, I now notice that all the former sets of champagne glasses are down to just one soldier each.

 

Consequently, from here on out, guests and hosts alike are relegated to Dixie cups.

Lost Secret

Lost Secret

Noel Laflin

10-19-17

We came upon the huge nest in early February.  It was a lone hawk flying into a tall, well hidden sycamore that told us we had potentially stumbled on to something special.

And special it was.  Over the next four months my friend Jay and I made numerous treks across Irvine Park’s Santiago Creek – sometimes flowing with water as La Nina blessed us with downpours – but often times dry as a bone; we entered the thick grove of sycamores, oaks, poison oak, and clinging fox tails, wound our way down an overlooked, narrow trail, and grew quiet as we neared our viewing spot.

Initially easy to locate, as there were few leaves in winter, the nest became more difficult to spot over time once new growth began to fill the woods – especially large green sycamore leaves.

We must have circled the tree a dozen times trying to find a vantage point by which to aim our cameras and spy up and into the leafy avian world above.  As it turned out, there was really only one place to shoot.  It was probably half the length of a football field away, and several stories up. But that is where we stood, aimed, and hoped for the best, week after week.

We kept the exact location of the nest very secret.  In fact, it was so well camouflaged that by the first day of spring we frequently lost sight of the secret altogether, even when standing directly beneath it.

By early May, we were rewarded with the sighting of a downy head popping up through the dense leaves in the dark mass, very well hidden, swaying in the breeze way above.  Jay had determined early on, with the numerous sightings of the parents, that this was a red-shouldered hawk family.  By mid month we had further determined that it was a family of five altogether – proud parents and their offspring.

The three youngsters all fledged and flew the nest by early June. We documented their individual flights of freedom for weeks.  We last saw one being fed in the center of the park, marveling at its rapid growth and curious nature.  As Jay noted, “It was amazing to watch nature and the interaction of the hawks.  It was especially amazing to watch the chicks grow, test their wings and finally fledge.”

The massive Canyon Two fire destroyed our secret location in October of 2017, along with much of the entire grove of lush oaks and sycamores that stretches along the creek bed.  Getting as close as the massive cordoned-off area allowed, we peered through our camera lenses, looking for anything familiar. We eventually saw the remains of a sycamore tree that was once difficult to find.  There was a dark charred spot, way up that tree, right about where a well-camouflaged nest once lay.

Housewarming

Housewarming

Noel Laflin

10-15-17

Thirty-four years ago today, on a warm October Sunday morning, I spied a billboard just outside of Mimi’s Café.  It said, ‘New Condos’ - with an arrow pointing east.

Curiosity got the better of me as I followed signs that led to a new development just at the base of Panorama Hill, way out in East Orange.  It was so far out of town that roosters could be heard crowing throughout the old El Modena neighborhood.

Unshaven, dressed in a ratty t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops, I toured the models and discovered a unit that I might just be able to afford.

Within two hours I was writing a hot check; all the while explaining to the banking rep that this retainer would be good by Wednesday.  He just smiled and said to postdate it.

By Tuesday, I had begged, borrowed and cajoled my way to come up with the down payment, and then persuaded my boss to write a preposterous letter saying that I would be due a bonus at the end of the year.  The bank said I needed said bonus to swing the deal. The boss agreed to write the letter, on the condition that he be invited to the housewarming.  He also reminded me that there really was no bonus coming my way at the end of the year.

 

Escrow closed in twenty-six days and I suddenly found myself with both a new home, and a thirty-year mortgage.

This was a fine starter home, I reassured myself; I might actually stay here for the next three-to-five years.

Although that turned out not to be the case, as I extended my stay, the boss did come to the housewarming.

 

And as promised, there was no bonus – other than the crowing of roosters.

Gene

Gene

Noel Laflin

8-19-17

Tomorrow is the birthday of Gene Bergner.

Smokey, as he would eventually and affectionately be known by thousands, arrived as Ahwahnee's new camp ranger in the summer of 1969 - a camping season still beleaguered by the after effects of one of the worst winters to ever hit the mountain. Consequently it was also the summer of very bad food, as the kitchen had been leveled by heavy snow loads, and chow was being prepared in an upper parking lot building and trucked three times a day down to the dining hall, which had miraculously stayed intact. And although we were a lean and hungry staff, we still put on one hell of a good show for a couple of thousand Scouts that season.

It was also the summer of the moon landing, Viet Nam, and Woodstock. Credence Clearwater Revival was a new band on the rise and Elvis was making a comeback, or so we envisioned, as we listened to our tiny, tinny transistor radios up on Staff Hill, Lightningville, Sherwood Forest, or out in The Land of Nod.

But for the men of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff, it was a time to welcome a new guy and his wife to our humble abode, some sixty-seven hundred feet above sea level - some sixty-seven hundred feet above our ordinary lives down below.

Little did this sixteen-year-old realize at the time the role Gene Bergner would come to play in so many of our lives over the next decade. Little did any of us realize what a jewel of a man had suddenly appeared in our midst, and the loving shine he would give our land, up until the very last campfire had burned itself out.