A Fine Wine Would Be In Order

A Fine Wine Would Be In Order

Noel Laflin

5-17-18

I met a young man named Tom Pistulka, forty years ago today.

He was twenty and I was twenty-five in the spring of 1978.

Over the next eight years he taught me the finer points of gardening, pond and fountain building, caring for koi, and the importance of cross-pollinating to ensure a better plum crop.

In return, I guided him toward the pleasure of reading a good novel.  Up until then, he’d only read technical journals.  He would soon be out-reading me with the likes of Mary Renault and other great authors.

Our homes were always eclectic environments filled with large fish aquariums, bird aviaries, Tom’s artwork, and hundreds of orchids.  We held parties nearly every weekend.

 

We served a sacred punch on high holidays – like the winter and summer solstice and autumnal and spring equinoxes.

Tom was a little heathen at heart, but loved Christmas.  I adopted his pagan ways.

We’d go to the Old Spaghetti Factory on Balboa Island each May 17^th and order a bottle of Petite Sirah to accompany the meal – okay, perhaps two bottles of Petite Sirah - as that was the wine we drank upon our first meeting.

Like too many, we grew apart somewhere in the mid-eighties and became distant for a while.

But when he grew ill in the early nineties, we bonded once more.

I cared for his garden in Ojai when he could not summon the energy to do so.

I slowly walked with him when he wanted to show me a particular giant oak under which he wanted his ashes spread as his departure was drawing near. I was reminded of ‘The Little Prince’ about to summon the snake.  I did not share the thought with Tom.  I was too sad to do so.

I overheard him talking with Jesus when delirium was setting in.

And then Tom died way too soon at age thirty-five on the morning of Christmas Eve, perhaps the day he loved most.

I wish he were still around so that he might come by – today of all days – so that we might reminisce and he could see our garden – the one he laid out some thirty-five years ago.  I’d show him the hummingbird nest in the acacia tree we planted that first year.  He’d be amazed how big that tree is now.

I would tell him how the wild raccoons still pester the koi.  I would ask  his opinion on several gardening questions and plant identification. I would want to know what his latest art projects entailed and how his own, no doubt fabulous, garden was faring.

In return, I’d recommend some good books and show him lots of hummingbird pictures – especially ones taken in the acacia tree.

We’d be two old friends toasting fine memories in the shade of that tree.  A good bottle of Petite Sirah, would be in order.

Elections

Elections

Noel Laflin

5-16-18

Primary election ballots have arrived and I am reminded of how some of my childhood neighbors would seek my mother’s counsel regarding elections past.

Old man Art, a tobacco-spitting cranky racist came to my mother for just such advice some fifty years ago.

“Vi,” he said, “you’re the smartest person I know. Would you kindly mark up my sample ballot for me? I have no idea who these people are.”

So my mother did as requested and marked his sample ballot as she intended to vote.

Art was grateful and followed my mom's suggestions to a tee.

Had he known he’d just voted for the first black man in his life, a fellow running for higher state office – in the field of education, as I recall – Art might have not sought out my mother’s help.

And he was most likely the first Democrat Art ever voted for as well - in fact he voted for a whole bunch of them.

When My Turn Comes

When My Turn Comes

Noel Laflin

5-8-18

When I go, I’d like to leave this world like my old friend, Robin.

She battled cancer armed with some of the most amazing faith, hope, and love I have ever witnessed, knowing full well that her days were numbered.

This did not stop her from positive posts on social media, phone calls to friends across the country, and a deluge of encouraging card-filled words to hundreds across the land.

We became friends at age five when we met in kindergarten but lost track of one another until the age of email.

But I am grateful for the memories both young and old.

Some will know her as Roberta Lynn Brazzle, but I asked her once if I could still call her by the name I came to love sixty years ago, Robin, as Robins are such pretty birds.

She just laughed, and said of course.

Robin would call and send beautiful cards my way, as she did for so many. I have kept them all, knowing that she would be leaving us soon.

In return, I would dedicate pretty bird photos her way, and tried my best to sound as upbeat in my correspondence back her way.

I don’t know if I can ever match her faith or amazingly positive attitude facing an all-too-certain outcome.

But by her unflinching example, I will certainly try, if given the chance, when my turn comes.

Chronicling a Launch

Chronicling a Launch

Noel Laflin

5-5-18

Now it’s true that the launch this early morning of the Mars InSight rocket may not have been as spectacular as the Vandenberg rocket that lit up the California sunset last December. A friend reminded me of that fact about four-fifteen this morning as he too was up at an ungodly hour. But what made this viewing so important to me is that this launch is the first interplanetary mission ever to depart from the West Coast.

And, it’s heading to Mars!

So break out ‘The Martian Chronicles,’ and your Andy Wier – we are heading back to the Red Planet once more to further dig up its secrets.

As Bradbury once borrowed from Whitman, and in turn I now borrow from both gentlemen, ‘I sing the body electric!’ For that is exactly how I felt watching that rocket roar across the dark, passing directly in my sight line of Venus before beginning to climb, and climb, until it was just a red shimmering blip in the heavens – mimicking the very planet it will land upon six months hence.

Penmanship - or the Lack Thereof

Penmanship – or the Lack Thereof

Noel Laflin

May 1, 2018

In reviewing old letters written by my folks, I noted to my sister what fine penmanship they both had – something she inherited, but something that my brother and I did not, sadly.

Case in point: I returned home late from work one evening – some forty two years ago – and found my folks’ house dark and empty.

There was a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table – left there by my brother, which was unusual as he did not live there any longer.

Now, Bobby’s handwriting rivals that of any doctor, but on this occasion it was even worse.

However, what I could make out was that there had been an accident at woodshop – something my dad and brother attended twice a week at the local high school – and that they’d taken my dad to the hospital.

There was more to that note, but I’ll be damned if I could make it out. So there I was, in the dark as to both the nature of the accident as well as to which hospital they’d taken him. I assumed my mom had gone along as well. That was probably in the note too.

Knowing my dad, he probably resisted wanting to go to the hospital, and was thus driven home. My mom must have talked sense into him at that point. Again, these were all speculations on my part, but it accounted for my brother having been at the house. I thought I was getting somewhere.

I eventually found my mother and brother in the waiting room of the third hospital I visited that night. The doctor was just explaining to them, via x-rays, how the surgery to my father’s shattered wrist had gone. It seems a chopping block had gotten stuck in a wood-planer, kicked itself free and then smashed into my dad’s right arm. He would be setting off metal detectors for the rest of his life, but he was mending well, the surgeon assured us.

I was happy with the outcome, but vexed with my brother of course.

However, I should have known straight off which hospital he’d go to in a situation like this, as it was the same one he’d driven me to eight years earlier after I’d broken my leg.

Thus, despite his penmanship, he – like a doctor - is still a good guy to have around in an emergency.

The Impossible Takes a Little Longer

“The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer.”

The phrases has been linked to the French statesman Charles Alexandre de Calonne in response to a question posed by Marie Antoinette, the American essayist George Santayana, the Norwegian polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen, and the Seabees, as well as other branches of the military.

I don’t really care who first said it.  I am just happy to have first seen it on a favorite teacher’s wall some fifty- odd years ago.

It’s the only thing I can actually quote verbatim from 7^th grade.

 

But it’s enough.

So I’ll just thank a teacher.

China Doll

The China Doll

Noel Laflin

4-13-18

(condensed from longer original post) 

Located on the corner of Sycamore and East Street, he China Doll was all of a three-minute walk from my house.

The proprietress, Sal, with whom I’d interviewed just the night before, was a large woman. Like a super tanker idly adrift at sea, she dwarfed Lily, the petite waitress flitting about the establishment.

Upon seeing me, Sal reached under the hostess’ stand and threw an apron my way.  

“Put it on, kid,” she hollered, “I’ll give you the lowdown around here.  Chop, chop.  Let’s go!  Time is money, ya know.”  

I struggled with the strings behind my back, trying to get the thing tied as Sal slowly navigated us toward the kitchen.  Before we got to the swinging door, however, she made a slow right turn.  I followed, at a safe distance.

“OK, kid, aside from the scraping, rinsing, washing and drying in the back, as well as dumping the trash, you’ll also be responsible for keeping this area well stocked with clean plates, platters, tea cups, glasses, etc.   You won’t be busing any of the tables, that’s Lilly’s job.



“Since we’re back here,” Sal paused, “I just wanted to warn you about the cookies.”

“Cookies?” I asked, a tad confused.

“Yeah, cookies.  These things right here.”  She was pointing to a large pink box filled with fragrant almond cookies sitting next to the beer cooler. She grabbed one and shoved it whole into her garishly made up mouth. 

“Now,” she mumbled,  “I know it will be tempting to swipe one or two of these when you’re back here stocking things,” she croaked, spitting almond dust my way,  “but don’t even think about it,” Sal threatened.  “They’re too expensive to be wasted on the help.”  She palmed one more as she did an about face, forcing me to back out of the tight area. 

“You can have any broken ones you find. Touch these good ones though, and I’ll break your arm.”  She tossed the second almond cookie into her wide mouth and pulverized it with a smile.

Now that we got that clear,” as she dusted her hands, “come on back and meet the cooks.

I could hear a commotion coming from the kitchen, in both Cantonese and English. Pots and pans were being slammed about. A metal trash can lid clanged into place. I inched closer in order to hear better as well as align myself with that pink box. 

I snitched a cookie, broke it cleanly in half, and hid it in my apron pocket.

I was beginning to take to the place already.