Monkey Time

Monkey Time

Noel Laflin

8-7-18

I just heard the clock in the spare room remind me that it was nine o’clock – or what some of us at work used to refer to as monkey time.

I know the time as the noise coming from this old clock sounds just like an excited chimp spotting Tarzan on his way home with an armload of bananas – thus, monkey time; with apologies of course for confusing the sound of chimps with monkeys. But you know what I mean.

I decided to take a picture just so you have a better understanding of what I’m talking about.

Now, years ago when I still had an honest job and a cubicle to prove it, this clock was always a hit. Lion time meant lunch. Tiger time meant the afternoon was getting along. A howling wolf meant end of day – generally. But if some of us were hearing the roar of an elephant, well that meant that we’d either come in early or were working late. The animals made no distinction between A.M. or P.M.

The cries of the aforementioned critters are pretty good. Others, like the polar bear, hippo, or rhinoceros are weak and can confuse, as once happened when some women walked past our sales room and took offence at the rhino’s announcement of one o’clock. They mistakenly thought that it was one of the three new fellows making piggy/oink-oink noises as they walked by. Who knew rhinos and pigs sounded so much alike?  Boy, that took some untangling as the guys were innocent of course. And although I was not present for the initial confusion, tears, accusations, and defense, I quickly deduced, upon hearing the story, that it was my animal clock that caused the ruckus. Demonstrating the rhino’s pitiful oink-oink to those involved – including H.R. - the case was quickly solved, resolved, and dismissed. But, hell, three innocent new hires nearly lost their very recent jobs due to the damn rhinoceros. I turned the volume down after things were cleared up and told the rhino to grow some balls.

Now, the clock was originally a birthday gift to Jay Stern, a beloved colleague, mentor, and friend. He adored animals more than people, and kept quite a tiny menagerie scattered about his office.

But he died quite suddenly two years later. So before folks could clean out his office, I stole the clock back, along with a small wooden elephant that sat upon his desk. Years later I placed that small elephant on his gravestone. It mingled with the other miniature tokens left there by his family.

The clock then moved with me wherever I was reassigned space over the next decade.

And although I gave away most of the treasures scattered about my office playroom when I retired from the job – including three juggling balls, a ‘Teach Yourself to Juggle' instruction book, two singing/dancing Obama dolls, a vast Altoid tin collection (there were over 200 tins), a six-foot-tall pirate skeleton, and a couple of Betty Boop snow globes, I kept the clock.

It wasn’t the damn rhino that got me. It was just time.

Rain and Raccoons

Rain and Raccoons

Noel Laflin

8-2-18

When I was a kid, we’d drive out to Modjeska Canyon to visit friends who lived in the last house at the very end of the canyon.

Their home sat under giant shady oaks, was built of stone, and had a tin roof. When rain or hail hit that roof, it produced an amazing sound – especially if you were only nine or ten years old at the time.

The old fellow who owned the house had also created a series of natural pools just yards from the house by slowing the creek with large, smooth river stones. It was a glorious place to splash about on a warm summer day.

His wife liked to feed the raccoons stale doughnuts when they would show up each evening, begging at the back screen door.

Then crickets would serenade outside as darkness fell.

Soon there were a gazillion stars peeping through the branches of the oaks. Coyotes could be heard howling at the moon. It made the visiting raccoons nervous.

Before long, tired children would fall asleep in the back seat of the car on the long drive back to Anaheim, dreaming of rain, raccoons, and cool mountain streams. Or, maybe, those are just the daydreams of an old guy today.

 

Shirts

Shirts

Noel Laflin

7-29-18

I can’t remember the last time I bought myself a shirt.

And despite the annual culling of clothes over the years, I still have a closet-full.

There are the former button-down collar varieties from days of working past – most still in thin plastic protectors placed by the once-frequented neighborhood dry cleaner. I have not seen that nice lady who used to work there in four years now.  I think it’s maybe time to donate or recycle these guys.  I will keep a couple of the white ones just in case there’s a wedding or funeral in the future.

There are the nice shirts that David, Krysten, and my sister-in-law give to me as gifts. These I save for special occasions, like going out for dinner – or Christmas Day.

Those that I have acquired on my own over the last twenty years are now stained with daily forays into the garden.  The garden leaves some permanent reminders of battles both won and lost.  Holes and blood stains permeate most of them.

But as old and ratty as they may be, I find parting with some of them to be hard.

Because they are white – or once were, before blood, sweat, and tears marred the fabric, I wear them on hot days especially, since they better reflect sunlight and keep me cooler - and that is good when out shooting photos for hours at a time.

I also know that I’m just going to trash any new shirt in quick order once I wear it into the backyard jungle.

But mostly, I find parting with these last, well-worn ancient pieces of garb difficult to do, as they remind me of old friends, and worthy causes past.

Crappy Day

Crappy Day

Noel Laflin

7-28-18

“I’ve had a crappy day,” Brian said, stopping by my driveway last evening.  He straddled his bike and sighed.

“How so?” I enquired, always comfortable around this good-hearted neighbor of several decades.

“Well, I was installing a shower door at a client’s house this afternoon and broke the darn thing.  It was an eight hundred dollar door.  This was a first for me.  All I did was gently tap the edge of it for the final alignment and it shattered, cascading down around me like a million tiny stars.”

“Ouch!” I replied in consolation, suddenly recalling a time when an old glass table top unexpectedly exploded on me while carefully moving it from house to garage. I had tiny beads of glass in my hair for days.

“So on my way to the hardware store to find a temporary shower rod and curtain, a lady flags me down and says she has locked her keys in her car and that her baby is in the back seat.  Thinking right off, it might be a con, I was suspicious.  But then I thought what if it’s true?  I finally told her alright, I’ll take a look.”

“And …” I prompted.

“Sure enough, there was a crying baby in a car seat in the back seat of her locked car.”

“What did you do?” I asked, thoroughly engrossed in the new turn of events.

“At first I tried the coat hanger trick, and had the keys all the way to the top of the window before they slipped off and fell between the door and the seat.  Then I grabbed a hammer from the truck and attempted to break a window.  But the darn glass wouldn’t even crack!  I mean, I can break a shower door with a slight tap and can’t break a car window with repeated hammer blows?  The irony of that, huh? And then the kid stopped crying, at which point I told the lady that perhaps we should call the fire department ASAP."

I was beginning to fear that his crappy day was about to get worse.

“But, I went back to the coat hanger and finally snagged the keys and got them through the window.  The baby was fine; the lady threw me a hurried thanks, and drove off.  I still have the shower mess to contend with.  Thus, ends my crappy day.”

I stood there during this unexpected driveway moment and looked at Brian with sudden admiration.

“How can you say this was a crappy day?  You saved a kid, my friend!  Shower doors can be replaced, but this …”

“Well, I guess I hadn’t looked at it quite that way,” he shyly conceded, smiled, said good bye, and pedaled on home.

We should all have such crappy days – minus the breaking of an eight hundred dollar shower door of course.

In Box Number Two

I have opened a second box of letters from my folks.  The first box contained well over a hundred correspondences – there are probably another six hundred or more letters to read.

There’s no chronology to these intimate insights, but that doesn’t matter really. That can come later.  For now, I just read, and read, and read – sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes cringing …

The top batch is from 1945, mostly from my mother.  The third letter down had me spitting out a drink, much the way Back to the Future’s Marty McFly does in the ‘parked car’ scene with his mother when he sees her lighting a cigarette and says, “Jesus! You smoke too?”

In a July 23, 1945 letter my mom writes back an answer to a car question posed by my dad:

“Trying to get a station wagon after the war is a good idea.  I remember you always talked of one. It surely would solve a lot of problems. You and I should have had one during our ‘courting days.  The back seat would have been big enough then!!!”

---

Circumstances were such that my mom and dad were married for over three years, and yet, due to my dad having to report to boot camp a month after their wedding, they had never had a chance to celebrate either of their birthdays in person during that time. I did not realize this until I came upon this letter tonight.

“Detroit Lakes, Minn.
June 5, 1945 (my mother’s 30th birthday)

My Darling Husband,
It’s a funny thing. A few years ago I considered 30 rather much like old age, but now when I have reached it I feel as young as ever.
Good night now. I wish you were her to give me a birthday kiss. I’ve never had one from you.
Forever yours,
Vi”

---

I just discovered in a 1945 letter from my mom to my dad that she envisioned having four kids - named: Mary Elizabeth, Marcia Suzanne, Stephen, and Peter.
They ended up with three - named: Robert Allen, Noel Christopher, and Susanne Elizabeth. 
Score a partial win for Susi anyway.

Thunderbolt

Thunderbolt

Noel Laflin

7-25-18

It’s a hot, sultry summer day and there’s a sudden fire racing up the slopes to Idyllwild. I’m watching and listening to news helicopter pilots describe the smoky scene as folks are being evacuated and large planes make run after run across the mountain, dropping red fire retardant across the rugged terrain.

I witnessed a fire just outside of that town once, as a sudden summer storm moved in out of nowhere and lightning blasted a large pine tree standing just feet from the old Kiwanis Lodge, the one in which a hundred Cub Scouts and their dads were staying for the weekend. The coming to that old lodge, the one that could sleep and feed a hundred kids and their dads quite comfortably, was an annual event - and usually a fun one.

But the monstrous thunderclap accompanying the strike was so loud and so very close that day that it knocked a few of us standing on the steps of the old lodge right to the ground. With ears still ringing, we watched as volunteer firemen from Idyllwild raced in and jumped into action.

It was high drama for eight-and-nine-year-old kids like us.

Several men aimed a hose high into the air in order to quench the flames riding up the tree.

Then one man dropped to the ground, clutching his chest.

A hundred Cub Scouts and their dads watched as the man died on the scene from a heart attack.

Some of the crew held onto the snake-like hose to make sure the fire was under control, while others attended to their comrade.

But it was too late, as the attack was sudden and lightning quick, just like the thunderbolt that struck our quiet neck of the woods that hot, sultry summer day of long ago.

Lack The Knife

Lack The Knife

Noel Laflin

7-21-18

It’s been so long that I last attended an Angel’s ballgame, that I was not aware of the security screening now in place. Kinda like the airport, only out in the warm sunshine. And just like the airport, I had to forfeit yet another little Swiss Army knife – the one Krysten gave me for Christmas years ago – which was the replacement she had given me for the one I had to forfeit at John Wayne Airport six years ago – the one so small, it attaches to a key chain - so small that I always forget it's on my key chain, until I need to open an envelope, cut away something, or pick at my teeth with the built-in plastic toothpick. Coincidentally, the fellow ahead of me lost his miniature Swiss Army knife as well. His was black - mine red. If we had any smarts we would have raided a particular trash can after the game. Lord only knows what else we'd have found.

Now, the last time I attended an Angel’s game, the only suspicious item in my pocket was a sandwich, which upon a verbal description by me alone, they let me keep. Thank God, as I was hungry.

So, Krysten NewComer, if you are reading this, never fear, I have just ordered a replacement and it will be here on Monday.

I guess you’re still on the hook for deciding a new Christmas gift for 2018, however – unless I am surprised, between now and then, at some new security check point - like at Albertsons or something.

*Update: The replacement knife arrived a day early.  I am back in business.