Well, Let Him Out!

Noel Laflin

10-29-20

Sir Walter Raleigh, adventurer, fancy dresser, flirt, and one-time favorite of the queen, was beheaded on this day in 1618 for conspiring to overthrow King James.

Now, I hate to brag, but as a kid I like to think that I actually knew something about both historical figures.

I knew, for example, that King James must have written the Bible, as I saw his name stamped on them all the time. And the passages within were pretty flowery in verse – filled with thees and thou’s – definitely written by a king.

And boy was I an expert on Raleigh as this was a very popular pipe tobacco found in every store  way back when, as well as the only brand of cigarettes preferred by a favorite aunt.  She smoked them because of the coupons.  My folks only collected Blue Chip and S&H stamps from local markets – thus, I never learned much history from those.

But speaking of markets, we would sometimes call one on a dare and enquire whether they had Sir Walter Raleigh in a can. When a new clerk – one who had not experienced the prank as yet – would reply, “Why, yes we do,” we would screech with delight and yell back, “Well, let him out!”

Ah, childhood history.  I was an expert.

Rock Walls

 Rock Walls

Noel Laflin

10-20-20

There are literally miles of stones hand placed by WPA masons some eighty-some-odd-years ago into cement-based retaining walls and drainage channels spread throughout Irvine Park. I couldn’t tell you the exact number of rocks brought up from Santiago Creek and put into place over the years, but there are thousands. I know this to be a fact as I have followed the majority of those walls and drains looking for the gift of an occasional fossil embedded in a pretty rock or the name of an emboldened mason left behind.

And to think that I used to get stoned in a completely different fashion when I was young.

Good to the Last Drop

 

Good to the Last Drop

Noel Laflin

10-16-20

I broke my leg shortly following my fifteenth birthday, spent the night in the hospital, had three parts of the left tibia realigned the next morning, watched as a ten pound cast was woven from toe to crotch, and then sent home straddling the entire length of the back seat of my dad’s station wagon.

No sooner had I been laid to rest in my hastily made makeshift bed then I told my dad that I really needed to pee – as I had not done so in the last twenty-four hours.

Since the bathroom was just too far away, and we had not even procured a set of crutches as yet, my father yelled to my mother, “Vi, we need an empty coffee can, pronto!’

Scavenging beneath the kitchen sink where such items were bound to reside – being good for storing bacon grease, etc. – my mom rushed one to my dad, who had by then gotten me to my feet and propped me up.

A true gusher ensued.  As the can was rapidly filling, I whispered to dad, “I’m not done …”

Dad yelled to my mom once again, “Vi, we’re gonna need another can!”

Mom rushed in with reinforcements, a well-timed swap on the part of my father played out, and the second can was nearly filled.

When all was said and done and I was gently laid back to rest, my father gingerly walked the coffee cans to the bathroom.

He started to laugh when he read the labels, yelling out to my mother one last time, “Hey, Vi, God Bless Maxwell House – “Good to the last drop!”

My mom switched to Folgers shortly thereafter.

 

Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

 

Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

Noel Laflin

10-11-20

 

Every day, nowadays, is something-or-other National Something Day. 

Yesterday, for example, it was National Cake Decorating Day.

Tomorrow is National Kick Butt Day.

Today you can celebrate National Sausage Pizza Day, Clergy Appreciation Day – started by Hallmark cards, of course – and last, but by no means least, National Coming Out Day.

I was just reading some stats which concluded that 9.5 percent of today’s youth, between the ages of 13-17, identify as LGBTQ, an astonishing number to me.  Shoot, when I fell into that age category – twenty years before the first National Coming Out Day was first celebrated - I thought gay meant happy – such were the times and my lack of street lingo, let alone sexual experience.  But I had an inkling about what I might be back then, even if I didn’t have a word for it, other than queer. And queer was the last thing you wanted to be as a teenager in the 1960’s.

But by the mid ‘70’s, I had finally come out to myself, and that was a fine start. Eventually, that led to discussions with family and straight friends – all of which went really well, looking back on it.

That article I alluded to earlier mentions that coming out is not a one shot deal – but rather a series of coming out scenarios – sometimes lasting for years. And for some folks – both young and old alike – it just doesn’t ever happen at all.  Sometimes that’s by choice, which is fine, and sometimes because of perceived persecution or violence brought upon them if they did so, which is not fine.  But that’s just the way it is unfortunately.

My life has been a cakewalk in comparison to the folks who can’t come out.  I was fortunate to have a loving family and enlightened straight friends - although I once had an employer who wasn’t so enlightened by my acknowledgement of being gay, and it cost me that job.  But life, by way of a straight friend, provided me a better job a short time later, so there is that. And besides, that organization that fired me is now in bankruptcy due to their antiquated way of thinking and will most likely just shrivel up and die any day now. So, there is that too.  Ain't karma a bitch sometimes ...

And so, this October 11, 2020, you can either celebrate your sausage pizza or your pastor – I’ll take the pizza, by the way.  Or maybe for some, they can step out of the closet instead, if so inclined.

And if so inclined to take that first step, close that closet door firmly behind you.

The world has a much more colorful wardrobe just waiting for you to try on. In fact, there’s damn near a rainbow of colors from which to choose.

 

 

 

 

Hotdogs

 Hotdogs

Noel Laflin

9-27-20

I like hotdogs. I always have. They are a go-to comfort food for me, much like Mac and Cheese is for others. In fact, I just pan fried a couple for David and me.

Now, before anyone begins to lecture me with the opening, “Do you know what goes into hotdogs?” let me assure you, I don’t care.

To be honest, however, there were times in my life that I made exceptions to that claim as the hot dogs at summer camp were atrocious, and I avoided them at all costs. Another time occurred when a friend experimented with non-meat hotdogs. They had the texture of sawdust and were a disaster to one’s taste buds.

For years I worked next door to a Der Wienerschnitzel and visited the place all too often. When our company up and moved, the owner of the Wienerschnitzel nearly cried and gave me the last dog for free. He also said that I singlehandedly helped put his oldest child through college. High praise indeed! And as luck would have it, or maybe it's providence, I live within walking distance of another Der Wienerschnitzel out here in Orange.

I also remember a weekend when my daughter was playing in a softball tournament and I consumed ten hotdogs over a two day period. The concessioner offered me an eleventh dog for free, but I had to pass on that one. I mean, I have my limits.

Overall, I like a good dog whether it be hot off a grill, gingerly removed from a metal coat hanger patiently roasted over a beach barbeque pit, wrapped in bacon, wrapped in pop up crescent dough, pan fried, or turning slowly at the local 7-Eleven counter. I just like them. And with plenty of mustard.

But the strangest way that I ever heard of cooking a hotdog was related to me, years ago, by a friend who said his grandfather prepared hotdogs for the family picnic by placing them in the radiator of his Model A Ford. According to my friend, his grandfather would stop the car about a mile or so from their final destination, open the radiator cap, and feed a string of hotdogs into the hot water, replace the cap, and drive on. The dogs were ready by the time they arrived. This was, obviously, before the invention of coolant/antifreeze.

My only question to my friend, upon hearing this story, was whether his grandfather remembered to bring mustard.

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Notable

Notable

Noel Laflin

9-26-20

I had a sociology instructor at college who once told the story of how he, as a teen, would often come home late at night and run his finger down the entire length of his mother’s piano, always stopping short of hitting the very last key.

He would then go to bed and just wait until his mother, a perfectionist, and a bit of a compulsive, would wearily arise from her own bed, creep downstairs, and tap out the final key.

Our instructor said that it was his way of letting her know that he was home. Her hitting the last key was her way of acknowledgement. 

He also added that he was a bit of an ass as a kid.

I am sure his mother agreed.

There’s not much that I remember from college days, but for some reason, that lesson was notable.

Late Night Call

Late Night Call

Noel Laflin

9-20-20

Years ago, my friend Jim got a call from his mom late one night, and all she said was, “Come quick! The cactus is blooming!’  And off went Jim.  I went along for the ride as I had never seen a night blooming cactus before.

And although it’s been forty-plus years, I have never forgotten the excitement in his mother’s voice, nor any resistance in her son’s attitude when it came to dropping what he was doing, hop in his truck, and drive across town to witness such a simple spectacle – that of a magnificent flower opening at night.

Once I saw the massive bloom for myself, well, I understood why the call and why the response.

I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but it dawns on me now that the cereus that has been clinging to our front walkway wall these last several decades, throwing out night blooms every September  - and at this very moment is once again slowly preparing  for this evening’s one night show -  may have been a cutting from Jim’s mom.

The lover of night blooms is long gone from this Earth, and I lost track of her son decades ago too.  But if I knew where he was nowadays, I’d ring him up and simply say, “Come quick! Your mother’s cactus is blooming!” And I bet he’d show up.

Because sometimes, simple spectacles are worth the call as are long overdue reunions.