Ruby Dillon

Ruby Dillon

Noel Laflin

9-5-18

Ruby Dillon could pack away a fifth of bourbon every night.

My father and I both knew this as we took her trash cans out to the curb every Thursday. One can was filled with grass clippings – the heavy damp canister I created every Saturday afternoon. The other can clanged with empty bottles – the ones Ruby created every evening after work and throughout the weekend.

Despite her being a drunk for much of her time living next door to us, we loved and cared for her nonetheless. We had become her adopted family – my folks were like younger siblings. My brother, sister, and I were the children she’d never had.

She was a tough broad (she would have approved of the description) having grown up during the heyday of the Roaring Twenties and then Chicago’s tough Depression era of the 1930’s. She barely stood five foot tall – in heels - and smoked a couple of packs of Viceroys every day – up until a lung had to removed somewhere in the mid 1960’s.

Ruby would get to drinking and wander over to our house much of the time. My mother had the patience of a saint, listening to Ruby’s rambling reminisces of two dead husbands, a house once filled with roses, the deplorable state of the country. When mom would leave the family room to start another pot of coffee – being that she had traded in Ruby’s highball glass for a mug, my sister and I might accidentally wander into the room and be corralled into keeping Ruby company – so that she did not wander back home to refill her glass.

Sometimes she would get away and one of us would eventually head on over, and put her to bed.

Other times we mistakenly thought her safely tucked away for the night, such as one memorable New Year’s Eve when she awoke, shambled over to our house and showed up in our living room in nothing but a raincoat. She dropped the coat and proclaimed to one and all, ‘I’m naked as a jay-bird!’ And she was. My mother, true to form, quickly bundled Ruby up, took her into the kitchen and replaced the highball glass with a steaming cup of coffee.

And the party resumed.

Amazingly enough, come seven each weekday morning, there was Ruby heading to her car looking like a million bucks. She was a top notch secretary and never missed a day of work.

But there came a point where the drinking finally caught up to her.

Out of the blue one day, she asked my father to take her to an Al Anon meeting, which he was happy to do. While there, she had a fit and collapsed, an ambulance was summoned and Ruby was admitted to the hospital.

My parents recounted visits there as she went through alcohol withdraw – the restrains on the bed. the wild talk, the pantomiming of taking a drink or smoking an imaginary Viceroy. She fought a tough battle – but eventually won.

She remained our sober neighbor before moving to Long Beach where she remained sober. My mother and father still looked in on her every week.

Eventually there came a time when time itself caught up with Ruby and she moved into a senior center. Shortly thereafter she took a fall, broke her shoulder and died two days later.

My parents saw to all of the arrangements as she had named them executors of her will and estate. It was just our small family at her funeral, as we were all that was of her family.

She left everything to my folks and I inherited her cat, along with the memories of that tough gal.

My sister sent me an email this morning reminding me it was Ruby’s birthday today, September 5th.

That got me to reminiscing – minus the highball.

Cruella

Cruella

Noel Laflin

9-5-18

The movie was going along splendidly until Cruella de Vil made her entrance onto the big screen.

Within no time at all, my kid sister, who was maybe five or six at the time, was suddenly out of her seat and on the popcorn strewn, soda soaked, sticky, red, concrete theater floor wailing.

To this day, I have no idea whether we stayed for the rest of the film or not. I do remember my older brother Bob and I had little success in calming down our frightened sibling.

Susi’s reaction was not that all unusual, or so I have since learned. Neil Patrick Harris said pretty much the same thing when the flamboyantly dressed, smoke curling villain appeared during his first viewing of the Disney classic. I recall hearing that comment during an interview with the actor a few years ago and immediately flashed to that day at the old Fox Theater in downtown Anaheim back in 1961.

Some thirty-odd years later, Richard Beltran and I got to meet the real person behind the voice of Cruella, as Betty Lou Gerson was chatting up visitors and hawking autographed photos at a Hollywood event. A lot of old-time entertainers were there, including, Adriana Caselotti (the voice behind Snow White), Billy Barty, a very old Little Rascal, Julie Newmar, and Betty Lou.

Everyone was very nice. Julie was still statuesque, Billy still short, and Adriana still singing about a prince who would come. I told Betty Lou, who was eighty years old at the time and extremely pleasant, about the episode regarding my sister.

And, Susanne Laflin, if you are reading this – which I know you are – Betty Lou felt bad about that.

Elevating Pugilists

Elevating Pugilists

Noel Laflin

9-2-18

Forty-five years ago I found myself crammed into an elevator at the Ambassador Hotel and was suddenly face-to-face with Gene Tunney, the former heavyweight champion of an era long gone. He was in high spirits as his son had just won the California U.S. Senate seat against former actor, George Murphy. I worked on the Tunney campaign as a young volunteer, thus accounting for my ending up in that high-flying elevator with the guy who beat Jack Dempsey in 1928.

Then, a couple of years ago, I found myself talking to former champ, Michael Spinks, in an elevator in a casino out in Indio. Mike Tyson had ended the man's career pretty dramatically thirty years earlier and Spinks had the smarts to retire with his faculties still intact. He was attending a boxing meet-and-greet event that night and I was there for the free food, so our paths briefly crossed. He was a very nice man, humble and soft spoken. I liked him.

Last night I was about to board that same desert elevator when a mob of folks surrounded a young fighter, seeking autographs and selfies with the champ.

I didn't recognize him, as I don't follow boxing nowadays. But there were some big bouts here earlier and adoring fans certainly knew this fellow.

I could have taken that elevator too, but waited for the next one as I felt guilty for not even knowing his name.

Guess I'm holding out for Tyson or Foreman next time, and lamenting that Ali is no longer a contender for such a chance encounter.

Weighing In

Weighing In

Noel Laflin

8-29-18

Years ago, claims were made that if we were to weigh all the ants in the world, they would weigh as much as all the people of the world. I remember hearing the story and was both amazed and horrified by the thought.

The claim has since been challenged and discredited by others thankfully. Francis Ratnieks, Professor of Apiculture at the University of Sussex summed it up best when he wrote:

"I think if we went back 2,000 years, certainly the ants would've outweighed the humans... but at roughly the time that America became independent [1776], or a little bit before that, that's when we humans became more impressive in our weight than the ants.”

"We must also remember that humans are getting fatter all the time. We're not just increasing in population, we're increasing in fatness, so I think we've left the ants behind."

That makes me feel a little better.

Regardless of the actual truth to the matter, it’s been quite the summer for ants around here. I thought at first it might be just us, but then saw a friend ask if others were experiencing similar tiny home invasions.  That post exploded with overwhelming comments like: ‘Hell, Yes!’ And then folks went into detail as to what they were encountering and strategies employed.

Seems the prolonged drought and record heat this summer are behind the ants’ search for moisture.  There have been beelines made for every conceivable water source, from bathroom sinks to toilet tanks.  And there are few things less concerting than the thought of placing one’s derriere upon a porcelain throne where tiny saboteurs might be lurking.

History Lessons

History Lessons

Noel Laflin

8-28-18

I read posts on history every day as I can’t seem to help myself. Much of the time I marvel at what took place on a particular day and year. Sometimes I cringe, and wish I could rewrite a particularly sad post.

One event on this, the 28th day of August, stands out as if it were yesterday since it’s the 50th anniversary of the mass rioting in and around the streets of the Democratic Convention in Chicago. Hubert Humphrey, after three contentious hours of debate, would get the the nod to lead the ticket, folks supporting Eugene McCarthy protested, cops bashed in many a youngster’s (and oldster’s) head, Nixon called for law and order and eventually won on that platform. America was never the same again.

I was fifteen, listening to events unfold on a tinny transistor radio deep in the woods at summer camp. I had so many mixed, adolescent emotions following the week-long debacle as my own brother was in Vietnam at the time, and yet I longed to be a demonstrator taking to the streets.

Retirement

Retirement

Noel Laflin

8-28-18

Four years ago today, I attended a last sales meeting, said my goodbyes to many colleagues and friends, tossed the company cell phone to the boss, collected a final check, and headed home – filled with relief, excitement, and butterflies. What next, I wondered?

I boasted that I was trading in work shoes for sandals and tennis shoes, which did become the norm by mid-afternoon.

I thought I might travel more, which has certainly become the case.

I hoped I would write more, and gratefully I have – for better or worse.

Finally, I thought I should take up a camera and see what I could do with it.

So, a couple of days later I took a photo of my foot, bandage around a blister and all, encased in a sandal, having traveled to, climbed up, and sitting high atop Mt. San Jacinto. Then I wrote about it.

There – mission accomplished.

What next, I wonder?

Humanitarian

Humanitarian

Noel Laflin

8-22-18

Many years ago Tom and I were walking about Costa Mesa late one night. When we couldn't sleep, midnight strolls were often in order. Tom had grown up in that city and knew his way around pointing out his boyhood home, schools, parks, an alley where once he'd been cornered by high school bullies, but ultimately rescued by his best friend. There were always stories from his past connected to where we wandered.

Along the way home he saw a perfectly fine prickly pear cactus discarded atop someone’s trash can.

“This guy needs rescuing,” he said, grabbing some newspaper from the trashcan and carefully wrapping it.

I did not object, as it would have been pointless to do so. Besides, we had a patio garden filled with rescued plants. They all flourished under his care.

A cop spotted us a short time later and pulled over, shining his light on both us and the strange bundle.

“Whatcha ya got there, son?” he asked Tom, expecting to find contraband of some sort no doubt.

“It’s a cactus – I’m rescuing it,” replied Tom, unwrapping the top layer of newsprint to prove his claim. I thought of his best friend who had once rescued him in an alley not far from where we stood, but kept that to myself.

The cop, taking a closer look shook his head and said rather sarcastically, “Well, aren’t you the humanitarian!”

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Tom.

Still shaking his head, the cop seemed satisfied, nonetheless, told us to have a good night and went on his way to find some really bad guys.

A year later Tom slipped from a short ladder and took a plunge, head first, into that very cactus, which had lived and grown under his care.

Unbroken, he picked himself off the patio floor and went into the house. He found a mirror, rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and tweezers and went to work repairing his face.

When I got home that night I was met by a lad who looked as if he’d just developed the worse case of chicken pox and measles combined.

Before I could even ask what happened, he took me by the hand and led me to the garden patio and showed me two potted cacti, where once there had been one.

“I rescued a cactus today,” he said.