Owed to KENO

Owed to KENO

Noel Laflin

12-19-15

KENO is a game of chance
Where numbers flash 
And red squares dance. 
Place 'em high, 
Hide 'em low,
Hold your breath, 
And start the show. 
But Lady Luck can be quite fickle,
As I've lost another nickel.

Christmas in August

Christmas in August

Noel Laflin

12-14-15

 An impromptu Christmas in August gathering at Green Valley Lake, 8-2-15

Sometime in the early 1970’s, the traditional end of the year staff party switched from being a date night with girlfriends, held in the cozy old Scoutmaster’s lounge, to a Christmas in August themed affair in the mess hall – just for staff.

The heretofore parties marking the end of camp, the buttoning down for the off-season, and the final farewells to old and new friends alike took on a distinctively differ feeling with the change in venue – a change that I was grateful for as I never had a girlfriend to invite to camp anyway.

In the old days, the lounge was hastily cleaned and a stack of firewood was laid within the ancient stone fireplace.  The soda machine was moved from the trading post and placed beneath the covered patio; the drinks were free.

Girlfriends or wives would begin to show up about the time guys were still fighting over the single sink and mirror in the old head on staff hill - trying to get in a last minute shave or tame a troublesome cowlick.

Meanwhile, Fred La Velle wondered if his invited date, Trisha Nixon, would show for the party in 1969.

She did not unfortunately.  Just as well, as all of those Secret Service fellows would have put a damper on couples attempting to take a stroll in the woods no doubt.

Tommy James and the Shondells, The Animals, Herman’s Hermits, and The Beach Boys could be heard coming from someone’s reel-to-reel, now moved into the old lounge – the beat-up furniture having been pushed up against the pale white walls so a small dance floor could be had in front of an inviting fire.

And those of us without girlfriends would shyly make our way to the soda machine, maybe take a peek inside where couples danced, and eventually slink away to the pool steps and hold council amongst ourselves – retelling favorite anecdotes from the summer, sneaking in a smoke or two, and being content with a cool summer night, bright stars above, and thoughts of the long drive home in the morning.

All of this changed, however, when someone had the idea of making the year-end gathering a Christmas party; the rationale being that we were a family bereft of actually gathering together in December, so why not do it early – Christmas in August, as it became known.  I am pretty certain that it was Gene Bergner’s idea.

And so the mess hall was decked out with fresh cut boughs of evergreens, and a perfect young white fir selected and then sacrificed to be our fully decorated Christmas tree. A fire was laid in the fireplace and Christmas tunes emanated from someone's borrowed stereo or eight track.

The cooks and kitchen staff labored all day with the food preparations.  Turkeys were roasted, drippings saved and thickened into gravy, potatoes peeled then mashed, day old bread turned into stuffing, cranberries cooked, pumpkin pies baked.

There was a feast, followed by awards for some, presents for all, and testimonials from many.

By the end of the night we said our last goodbyes and headed out into the cool mountain air, thinking about the long drive home in the morning.

The party theme may have morphed over the decades, but the final thoughts of camp rarely did. 

The Christmas Call

The Christmas Call

Noel Laflin

12-14-15

Each year our elderly neighbors from two doors down the street would join us on Christmas Day - but not until they had first spoken, or attempted to speak, to their nieces and nephews in East Germany. It was a hit or miss scenario every year as the few lines into communist-held land were jam packed with folks from across the globe, as well as Germans living but a kilometer away in the West, desperately trying to get through to family trapped in Eastern provinces - especially on Christmas Day.

Whether the Christmas call was successful or not, there were always tears afterwards; tears of joy or sadness, tears of loneliness or guilt, tears of missing family so very far away.

And although I was just a kid, I understood those tears streaming across the cheeks of these two beloved neighbors when they did eventually shuffle down the street and join us for festivities in our home.  If they arrived early in the day, we knew the call had been successful.  If they put in a later appearance - well, it was best not to ask, but to merely make sure that there was plenty of wine and schnapps on hand - and see to it that their glasses were never empty. 

Not Forgotten

Not Forgotten

Noel Laflin

December 1, 2015

On this, the 28th anniversary of the World AIDS Day Observance:

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

Strange Loot - Naked Truth

Strange Loot - Naked Truth

Noel Laflin

11-29-15

When my dad returned from the war in Europe seventy years ago, he brought home some unsavory mementos. 

As a kid I was fascinated with both the German Luger as well as the shiny S.S. dagger in its fancy case. We were only allowed to examine these weapons under his supervision, even though there were no bullets in the handgun. But that very long sharp knife could have done some real damage if mishandled. 

There was a German helmet that he did allow us to manhandle. I can still feel its heavy weight on my young head when we played our neighborhood war games. Losers always had to be the Germans of course. 

There was a chunk of marble that made its way home from Adolf Hitler's fireplace in Berchtesgaden and a chrome-plated hook that held a toilet bowl brush in Herman Goering's private bathroom. It, along with the piece of fireplace marble, was liberated by my father when he and his company were allowed to pillage the village.  All of the really interesting souvenirs had already been looted by other G.I.'s, according to my dad. Everyone had overlooked the toilet bowl brush holder, however. But my inquisitive father spotted it behind the porcelain throne that once bore the weight of a very fat man's ass, and with the aid of an army knife loosened and pocketed the strange keepsake. 

Over the course of seven decades, the gun and dagger were either given away or sold off apparently. This is just as well, I suppose. The chunk of marble and helmet have been mislaid or lost as well. 

All that remains is the chrome-plated toilet bowl brush hook. It was always in my possession as my father had put it on the back of the closet door in my bedroom when I was a kid.  I used to hang my pajamas on it. As I grew old enough to understand such things, he told me of its origin. I went to the library and looked up Hitler's second in command. I shuddered as I read his biography and ultimate demise. 

I removed the hook from the back of the door shortly thereafter and stopped wearing pajamas altogether from that day on.

Where are the Bedrooms?

Where are the Bedrooms?

Noel Laflin

Thanksgiving Day, 2015

When I first entered the house that would eventually become my home for the next three decades, I was confused.

As I stood with hand upon a stair rail - the steps leading downward - and scanned the open floor plan of a high-vaulted living room, dining room, and kitchen, I wondered aloud where the bedrooms were.

It was quickly pointed out to me that the stair rail, upon which my hand rested, might be a clue. 

I have never claimed to be too bright.

But I figured it out pretty quickly after that – this was an upside down house – not in the sense of a messed up mortgage – just the layout of the place.

And I loved it.

Said I’d take it, on the spot.

Been here ever since the move in day, that week of Thanksgiving, 1983.

Now, the great advantage of living in an upside down home, especially in the grip of any hot summer, is the cooler night air that flows off the garden and into the bedrooms sitting below grade.  It’s a constant twelve degrees cooler as a matter of fact.  This usually means a fine night’s sleep. Maybe the feather comforter is drawn just a bit more snugly in the winter, of course, but as the summers continue to warm each year, I’ll take the trade off any day.

Besides, after thirty years, the place is paid for.

And that’s an upside to an upside down house on any level.

Bell Ringing

Bell Ringing

Noel Laflin

11-15-15

Gladis and Gene Bergner

There was a tradition at the old Scout office on Bear Street, way back in the 1970’s, of ringing a rather large, loud bell when a new Cub pack, Scout troop, or Explorer post was formed.

When that bell sounded, folks stopped what they were doing and went on over to congratulate the guy responsible for making all the noise.

Numbers were important to professional Scouting, as it ensured gainful employment.  The ringing of that bell signified further job security as a new pack, troop, or post meant new members, which then meant matching funds from the United Way, which ultimately meant the continuation of our council and the professionals keeping their jobs.  Hearing that bell ring for the first time in the fall of 1976 was my first life lesson in Sales 101: you wanted to be the guy ringing it on a fairly regular basis.

But the best memory of that clapper striking metal happened the morning after Gene and Gladis Bergner came to town and lent me a hand in the formation of a new Cub Scout Pack.  You can always count on Ahwahnee folk to get a job done right.
 

It wasn’t planned – but that’s the joy and surprise in happenstance - that, and a bottle of cheap wine.

You see, prior to meeting of a room full of squirrely eight and nine-year-olds later that evening, the Bergners had dinner at my apartment.  I have no idea what I prepared, but there was wine - I do remember the cheap wine.  And Gene and I had just a bit too much.

Now, I had not planned on asking my old friend to accompany me to the meeting, but he jumped at the chance when he learned that there was an audience involved.

 

“Do you think they’d like the Walrus Hunt song?” Gene asked excitedly.

“Most definitely, boss,” I replied.

“Great!” Gene shouted.  “Let’s go!”

The only problem was, he and I were too impaired to drive.

I was about to phone one of the district volunteers, informing them that they'd be on their on for this meeting, when Gladis - bless her heart - kindly spoke up and offered to chauffeur.

So, off we changed – Gene was always prepared as there was a spare uniform in their camper – and Gladis drove us to the meeting.

Now, I had done all of the needed preliminaries for this hoped-for Cub pack that would be sponsored by an elementary school in Lake Forest.  I had spoken to all of the second, third and fourth grade classes the day prior, and handed out fliers to every boy in every classroom.  The fliers were addressed to the parents, urging them to come to a meeting at the school on Wednesday night and learn about Cub Scouting.  It was the standard drill.  There were meetings like this at nearly every elementary school across the country, throughout the fall, as this was the primary time for number crunching and hitting your membership goals.

Well, folks turned out that night. And, as many of you well know, if you put Gene in front of any curious crowd, he’s going to win them over – Walrus Hunt song or not.  And that night, nearly forty years ago, was no different.

The folks of Lake Forest loved the song, by the way.

 

By the end of the evening we had a cub master, two assistants, committee members, four den leaders and forty-five kids signed up as Cub Scouts in this brand new pack.  There were even calls from the audience for Gene to be the cub master.  I thought he was going to accept at one point, until I reminded him that he lived a hundred miles away.  He then politely declined the proposed draft and went on with the jovial dog-and-pony show.

The ringing of the bell the next morning, despite the slight hangover, was music to my ears and a memory that I cherish.