Cold Breakfast

Cold Breakfast

Noel Laflin

3-29-18

(from a longer piece - now just the beginning)

We called the camp cook Motorcycle Bill, partly because we never bothered to remember his last name and chiefly because he drove a large motorcycle.  He had a habit of spending his nights off in the back bar at Lloyds, in Running Springs - some five miles away - and then weaving the big bike dangerously through the hairpin curves back to camp in the wee hours of the morning.  

I don’t think he cared for kids, nor the daunting task of cooking in cramped, under-equipped kitchen quarters and then having to transport the often under-cooked, burnt, cold, or hard-as-a-rock grub to a bunch of Boy Scouts taunting him with dog food songs at every meal. 

We both had our points of view I guess.  We hated his cooking and he resented all of us, as well as the circumstances under which he had to perform his dreary task three times a day.  

No wonder we all sang and jeered.  

No wonder he drank.

It was a mutual dislike.

But then came the morning when we all showed up for breakfast, but none was forthcoming right off.

It seems Bill had met his demise by plowing his bike into a large tree on the way back from the bar hours earlier.

Two hundred heads bowed in a moment of silence when the announcement was made to both troops and staff.

A cold breakfast of milk and cereal was then produced.

It was a vast improvement over previous meals.

                                                                  

A Tug on the Sleeve

A Tug on the Sleeve

Noel Laflin
3-29-18

(from a longer piece  -  now just the ending)

Luggage had been checked in and Eric was resting comfortably in the wheelchair, as Frieda sat beside him.

Our old neighbors of twenty-five years were departing for Germany, a country much changed since their having departed there in 1929.

But as Eric was dying, and fearing for his wife’s well-being once she was on her own, they decided to head back to the land of their birth where distant relatives – ones they had never even met - would receive and care for them nonetheless.

“I think I’ll find the men’s room,” my dad said, as the four of us waited for a boarding call.  

My dad pulled me aside before he went in search of the restroom.

“Don’t let Eric give you any money while I’m gone,” he whispered.  “I know him, and he’ll wait till I leave.  We are not being paid for this, understand?”

“Got it, dad.  You better hurry.  They may be calling this flight soon.”  He dashed off.

 As soon as my father had disappeared, I felt a tug on my coat sleeve.  Eric pulled me toward him and leaned his face into mine.

“Don’t tell your papa that I gave you this.”  He pushed four folded twenties into my hand.

“Eric, I can’t accept this,” I said, hoping he’d talk me out of my less than fervent refusal.

“Jost take it, boy!” he growled.  “Don’t tell your papa.” 

 With that final admonition, he coughed and pushed himself back from me.  I pocketed the money.  I looked behind me and saw my father returning.

“Everything OK?” he asked, looking suspiciously at Eric and me.

“Ja, ja.  All’s goot,” said the stoic little German, looking threateningly at me.

“Hunky dory, dad,” I said.  I felt the eighty bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Just then the Lufthansa flight number was announced.

We wheeled Eric to the front of the line and were about to hand his care over to a flight attendant.  Hurried goodbyes were made, and Frieda began to cry. 

“Ja, Ja, it is OK now, Frieda,” Eric said, choking back his own tears.

“You be good to your mama and listen to your papa,” he told me.  “Good bye, good neighbors,” he cried, reaching for my father.  My dad took his extended hand and clasped his other hand on top of Eric's.  I did likewise and then embraced Frieda. 

We last saw them being led down the narrow ramp by members of the flight crew. Eric looked old and small in the wheelchair.  Frieda, looming large in contrast, followed patiently behind him, tucking an old lady’s hankie into her sweater pocket. 

I involuntarily tucked something deeper within my own pocket as well.

Mr. Armstrong

Mr. Armstrong

Noel Laflin

3-24-18

I studied the form with increased frustration and embarrassment, finally giving up and quietly made my way to the teacher's desk.

Lloyd Armstrong was a kind man, who served me well as my homeroom teacher in both grades five and six. I had watched him leave the classroom in tears the year before, after he'd had the misfortune of delivering the news of President Kennedy's assassination to a group of ten-year-olds.

And now it was I who was crying as I tried to hide my tears from my classmates.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked quietly.

"This question," I whispered, pointing to the line on the form that asked for my father's occupation.

"He lost his job two months ago," voice trembling. "I don't know what to write here!"

Mr. Armstrong looked at the standardized form updating student information - the paper that would just be hidden away in some forgotten old wooden file cabinet.

"What's your daddy doing today?" he asked causally, removing his glasses and cleaning them absently with his tie.

"He's painting a friend's house," I replied, knowing that my father was doing whatever he could to bring in needed cash.

"Then we have your answer to that pesky question," smiled Mr. Armstrong.

"What?" I asked a bit perplexed - "House painter?"

"No, son," he replied - "Artist."

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Lizard Impersonation

Lizard Impersonation

Noel Laflin

3-25-18

Many of us are recalling our time with Jack Schlatter and trying to put the experience into words either to be written down, spoken into the blinking eye of a friend's video recorder, or perhaps both.

You see, there's a project under foot to record those memories, express those thoughts, and remind one another just how fortunate we were to have known this fellow.

Some of us were lucky enough to transition from the youthful salutation of 'Hello Mr. Schlatter,' to, as we grew older, and much to his insistence, 'Hi Jack!'

Others, numbering in the tens of thousands perhaps, will only remember the former greeting, as they and Mr. Schlatter only met once when he entered their classroom - like an aging heavyweight boxer who has yet to throw in the towel - the large jolly fellow with a boyish grin on his face, a ready joke on his lips, and a bellowing proclamation, 'Hi there! My name is Jack Schlatter and I have the honor of learning from all of you today! Anyone ever seen my lizard imitation?' And faster than the blink of an eye, this funny man had crossed his eyes, scrunched up his face, and flicked his tongue in search of an imaginary fly.

Consequently, whether the classroom chairs were either large or small, the infatuation of those seated within had begun.

And though it might have been fifty years ago, I so remember that lizard in search of a fly, albeit on a younger face, and my own first infatuation with this remarkable fellow.

Sugar Coating

Sugar Coating

Noel Laflin

3-26-18

Sixty-five years ago today, American medical researcher Dr. Jonas Salk announced that he had successfully tested a vaccine against polio.

I was three months old, to the day.

Ten years later, I remember standing in a very long line with my family waiting to get the new Sabin polio vaccine via sugar cube. I think half the population of Anaheim passed through the new Sycamoe Junior High cafeteria that day.

I'd attend my first dance there two years later, hear my first lecture regarding the evils of marijuana, eat my lunch just outside its doors over five hundred times, and practice for a play on the stage where a neighborhood band had once entranced a couple of hundred young teens with their rendition of 'House of the Rising Sun.'

But my first and most lasting impression was of that long line of friends, family, neighbors, and total strangers standing like congenial congregants awaiting to partake in our new scientific communion together.

Sandy Did Of Course

Sandy Did Of Course

Noel Laflin

3-23-18

Although we’d never met, she was a friend.

It started with her liking a bird photo on Face book a few years back – and then more friendly ‘likes’ and comments on those that followed.

Friend requests were exchanged and accepted.

Over the years, Sandy was a fan of my stories. Even if few others read a particular one, she could be counted on as one who did, and always let me know with another friendly ‘like’ or complement.

Curious about Sandy, I viewed her page and noted that she was eighty years old at the time, active in her church, a noted quilter who showed amazing talent, and admired by friends and family alike.

Age has got nothing on this fine friend I concluded.

And then the sad message from a nephew, and then her daughter, on Face book today, that Sandy has died.

I feel their loss. And I feel terrible for not even realizing that she had been hospitalized a week ago, put on hospice care just two days back, and then died peacefully at home last night.  She was eighty-three.

Sandy last commented on a post of mine from two weeks ago. It was a short story that few took notice of. 

But she did of course.

Unexpected Laugh

Unexpected Laugh

Noel Laflin

3-21-18

One night, long ago, I mentioned to my folks that I was heading out with friends to see the new comedy, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Smarter Brother.

An hour later, and five minutes into the funny flick, I heard the distinctive laugh of my father some rows back.

He and my mother had decided to catch the show themselves – a nice, serendipitous move on their part.

Thus it was unexpected, this laugh I knew so well, but welcomed in the dark.

My friends and I chortled every time we heard my father snort with glee – which was often.  It was infectious.

Both my folks and one of those two friends from that evening are long departed, as are all of the stars of that funny film of forty years past.

But the distinctive laughter of that night, coming as unexpected as it did in that dark theater, is still a comfort today.