National Comic Book Day

National Comic Book Day

Noel Laflin

9-25-18

Here’s a nod to National Comic Book Day, as it was those flimsy, inexpensive, and colorful rags that first made me want to read.

Yes, Mrs. Paden had much to do with it too I suppose. That is what first grade is all about after all.

But Dick and Jane paled in comparison to the likes of Archie, Scrooge McDuck, Superman, Green Lantern, and the like.

Even Classic Comics held my attention. It’s how I got my first glimpse into the world of Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities.” I especially liked that guillotine and the evil looking knitting women.

When we traveled east each summer, my brother and I took all of the comic books we owned and traded them with cousins along the way. They were fine barter for those our age.

I understand that one who collects comic books is known as a pannapictagraphist.

Although it was long ago, it’s comforting to know that I once might have qualified for such a magnificent sounding moniker.

I am just glad the word was never used in any of the comic books I once treasured and traded away, as it never would have fit into any villain’s conversation bubble.

Nor would I have been able to pronounce it.

Memorial Board

Memorial Board

Noel Laflin

9-23-18

I saw a fellow’s picture on a memorial board buried in some photos posted by a friend who had just attended a recent school reunion.

And although I vaguely recall being told of his passing by a former instructor from that era, it still came as a small pang in remembering him.

We were not intimate friends by any means, as he was older and two grades ahead of me back then, but I remember his dramatic abilities quite well – especially his role in a junior high production of ‘Our Town.’

He played the part of Simon Stimson, the drunken church choir director and organist. All of the roles were memorable to the twelve-year old me in the audience that evening. But I thought he stole the show.

As the small choir practiced the hymn, ‘Blest Be The Tie That Binds,’ the surly director/organist would berate and chastise his fellow Congregationalists with drunken witticism. “Now look here, everybody, get it out of your head that music’s only good when it’s loud. You leave loudness to the Methodists. You couldn’t beat ‘em even if you wanted to. Now again, tenors!’ The role called for dramatic flair, and our former schoolmate delivered in like measure.

It was my first introduction to the play as well as the song. Both remain a favorite to this day.

Whenever I hear the old hymn, I recall the fellow whose picture is now on a memorial board. And I smile at the memory of a well-played role.

The Shoe Box

The Shoe Box

Noel Laflin

9-21-18

I knew a woman who, once upon a time – and long ago – drove over to my house and handed me a beat up shoe box containing a loaded .22 revolver.

“That son-of-a-bitch husband of mine has waved this damn thing at me for the last time. After he passed out, I took it, and drove straight here. Do with it what you will. I’m divorcing the bastard.”

True to her word, she did.

The son-of-a-bitch husband died of cirrhosis of the liver a few short years later.

The woman is long dead too now. She simply died of old age.

The weapon was emptied, cleaned, disassembled, and hidden well away from small children – or anyone else for that matter.

The next time someone shows up unexpectedly with a beat up shoe box, I hope it just contains something nicer – like a kitten or homemade cookies perhaps.  The only thing loaded that I would want to see in that box would be brownies.

The hummingbird who claimed the balcony as his own years ago just heard me reading this aloud before posting and added his two cents worth. He is hoping the hypothetical box contains cookies - sugar cookies to be exact - and not a kitten.

He's ambivalent about the brownies. 

Regardless, he's got a point.

Vote Canceling

Vote Canceling

Noel Laflin

9-20-18

“Come, mother, let’s go cancel each other’s vote.”

These were the words my grandfather would say to my grandmother, as he would gently take her hand before heading out the door to vote every four years, as he was a republican and she, a democrat.

As my grandfather died six months before I was born, I learned of the oft repeated exchange through my mother years later.

Doing the math, I guess those patriotic strolls out the door took place back in the Roosevelt era – probably going all the way back to Harding/Cox actually, as that would have been the first election my grandmother, a woman, would have had the chance in which to vote. I bet she voted for Cox, the democrat.

I’m inclined to think that it was a kinder time back then.

Hot Lunch

Hot Lunch

Noel Laflin

9-10-18

There was one benefit to my father being laid-off long ago – and that was coming home to a hot lunch every day.

As it only took ten minutes to ride my bike from school to home, and then another ten minutes back to beat the bell, this meant that I had forty minutes to chow down with my dad at the kitchen table.

He did a lot of odd jobs during the lay-off, but always made time to be home in time to fix me a meal.

It was frequently left-over’s doctored up in some dad-fashion. I remember my mother’s enchiladas being a favorite re-heat. When all else failed, there were always Sloppy Joes or grilled cheese sandwiches to fill the bill. He was also a fan of soup.

Then it was a hurried ‘thank you,’ a peck on the cheek, and a mad dash back to fifth grade. And it was frequently my mother blowing the whistle at me as I skidded willy-nilly, one-legged into the bike stands. She had become a teacher’s aide at our school to help supplement the family income and patrolled the playground like a hawk, looking for rule-breakers like me. I never failed her in that regard.

Looking back on it now, I realize that my father needed some order and purpose to his life during that time. He needed a regimen to fill those days while searching for a new job. I would know the drill several times over later in life.

But my being ten-years old and hungry – and willing to ride home for a hot lunch every day, gave him just one more reason to get up and face each new day.

By sixth grade, I was back to sack lunches.

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

Noel Laflin

9-9-18

With autumn in the air and leaves falling about, I am reminded of Catherine. We met when she was already a nonagenarian.

When she died, she left behind a vast collection of books neatly lining the shelves of her spare room. As a devoted reader to her dying day, she always referred to it as her treasure room.

“Better than money,” she was fond of saying.

“Well, almost,” she would amend with a sly smile.

It fell to her daughter, who was no spring chicken herself by then, to clean up the place and sort through her mother’s possessions. After ninety-five years of living, however, Catherine had very few, other than some old pieces of furniture and lots of books. Perhaps it was the memory of traveling with so few possessions from a century past that led her to a life devoid of clutter – other than her treasured books of course.

Catherine had come out west with her family when she was just five. They joined one of last wagon trains and followed the Oregon Trail. And although very young, and perhaps one of the last to do so by horse-drawn wagon, she recalled memories of the journey – high mountains, dusty trails, star-filled nights, campfires, the falling of leaves as autumn set in once they reached their destination. It was always a pleasure to be in her company when she began to reminisce about such things.

The reminiscing was over following her death unfortunately. There was just the practical now at hand. Thus, furniture was either saved or donated and the books were placed in cardboard boxes.

One of the novels, a Western, according to her daughter, was knocked off the shelf accidentally. As it landed, a hundred dollar bill poked its head out of the middle of the pages.

Soon, every book was retrieved from its box and shook vigorously, along with those still on the shelf.

By the time the dust settled and the bills counted, more than six thousand dollars went floating about Catherine’s treasure room – just like leaves falling in autumn.

See's Candy

See's Candy

Noel Laflin

9-8-18

I’ve been thinking about See’s Candy as I just saw a video on how they make it. There was even a few seconds dedicated to the making of their Victoria Toffee.

It may only be seven in the morning, but my mouth is already watering. It’s probably genetic as this reminds me of the time, long ago, that I brought a pound of See's Victoria Toffee over to my folks to note their wedding anniversary.
 
I dropped it off one early evening, had a chat with my parents, wished them both a very happy anniversary, and headed off for a business meeting.

I called my mom the next morning regarding something else, and at the close of the conversation asked if she had a chance to sample the candy as yet.

There was a pause, and she said yes, she had had a bite.

That was all she got, she explained, as she too had left shortly after I had the evening before, heading off to a church function of some sort.

When she returned, two hours later, my father had opened the box in her absence and eaten all but one small chunk, which he thoughtfully left for her.

I eventually went to work for a company that gave out See's Candy at Christmastime. When placing my order each year for just how many boxes I would need to hand out to clients, I always padded the order by at least two pounds: one for dad, and a separate one for mom. 

Oh, and maybe just a couple more for me too.