Nesting

Nesting

Noel Laflin

11-30-19

Not so much as a single twig of the giant hawk nest remains in a high crook of yonder sycamore tree. It had taken a pair of red-shouldered hawks many days, if not weeks, to construct the nest last winter, and then, in the time it takes to say, Santa Ana Wind Event, it was blown away last month.

I bet those two hawks are even more bummed than I am over the loss of that nursery in the sky as it took so long to build, and served them well when it came to successfully raising four kids there.

That same pair is probably grumbling over their string of recent bad luck as the other magnificent nest they constructed just a stone’s throw away from this one, three years ago, was burned to a crisp when fire swept through their neck of the woods two years back. That particular batch of kids (three, if memory serves me right) had flown the coup several months prior to that, but still, it was a hell of a nice home, high and away in a canopy of thick sycamore limbs and leaves that could have made a comfortable home for years to come. Hawks often return to the same nest again and again, as do many birds.

And so I feel for their loss, of course, but have faith that they will return to the same area, if not the same tree, and start building anew – perhaps as early as the first of the New Year.

I would even lend a hand if called upon. Not likely, naturally, as I do not fly, but I would do my best to be of service in return for one more session of baby hawking portraits next spring.

Come Back to Me

Come Back to Me

Noel Laflin

9-8-19

My old friend Sue Scott once told me, as we sipped cheap Scotch whisky one lazy autumn afternoon (some forty years ago), how her mother liked to write on the upper margins of dollar bills. In oh-so-fine penmanship, according to Sue, it was always the same wording: Come back to me.

Not a single one of those autographed George Washington's ever made its way back to her mother during her lifetime, or so Sue said, taking another sip of Scotch and a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette.

But on the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death, and on Halloween at that, Sue was given back change at a local market. As she was putting the singles in her purse, one caught her eye.

In the upper margin, in oh-so-fine (and ever so recognizable) penmanship, were familiar words: Come back to me.

Cannonballs

Cannonballs

Noel Laflin

8-4-19

I look at the kids running about the hotel pool, splashing, jumping, hollering, and in general, having the time of their life. Pools and warm summer days can do that to you.

As a kid I would silently, but fervently, pray that our folks would land us a motel with a pool as we made long road trips across the west. Dad’s idea of a good motel was an inexpensive one. But occasionally prayers were answered and no matter the hour, I was performing my very best cannonball.

Kids have it better nowadays, at least when it comes to pools. And most motels have been replaced by nicer hotels as well, so there is that. And despite the cultural change regarding things like electronic devices and access to social media - concepts foreign to a generation reared back in the Eisenhower administration - pools will usually win out over a cellphone every time.

I am thinking of joining the crowd over there, but alas, I have forgotten the swim trunks. I can picture them back home sitting on the dresser feeling quite bitter for the oversight.

Just as well, I suppose, as I would not want to show up the kids of today what a cannonball of yesteryear really looks like.

Fireworks and Ravioli

Fireworks and Ravioli

Noel Laflin

7-4-19

When I was eleven years old our Boy Scout troop decided to operate a fireworks stand in order to raise funds.

We were given tickets to sell to friends and neighbors - each ticket was sold for a dollar, which they could then bring to the stand and apply to whatever kit they were going to buy.

I was doing alright with my sales when one neighbor said they wanted to buy the biggest box they could. It cost a hundred dollars.

Now, I could have sold them one ticket which they would have brought with them to apply to the big box in mind and then pay the additional ninety nine dollars at the actual time of purchase.  But I wanted to lock down their intentions, especially since they said they were willing to pay for the entire box up front.  So, I sat at their kitchen table, as they fed me homemade ravioli and lemonade, and filled out one hundred tickets. It took an hour, what with all the eating and childish hand-cramping effort to fill out those individual tickets. I remember a lot of laughter in that home too.

I left their house smiling, full, and had a hundred dollar bill in my pocket to boot.

Turns out we got to keep ten percent of all we sold, so I not only had a fine lunch, I made ten dollars in the process.

As an adult I would make a career of selling for the next forty years and can still recall some memorable sales calls.

But none of them ever came with an invite to come sit down at the kitchen table, laugh, be made to feel like part of the family, and be given the best homemade ravioli of my life.

Monks and Ghost

Monks and Ghost

Noel Laflin

7-10-19

Our tour guide, Kim, is a Korean national who taught himself Mandarin at an early age. Thus, he leads Taiwanese tours here; he has been doing so for eight years now.

He’s very funny. He told us about the time that one group of tourists went out drinking the first night and he had a call from the police to come collect them all after a barroom brawl at four in the morning. They all threatened to sue one another but instead became fast friends by the end of the trip.

Another tour group was composed of gangsters, who swore around the clock. Kim was doing likewise by the end of that trip too. The gangsters all liked Kim so much that they have returned over the years.

But the best story involved an entire busload of monks. One night two monks woke him up complaining about the ghost in their room. As Kim spoke Korean, and they did not, the monks felt that the ghost would listen to him if he asked it to leave.

Kim just switched rooms with them instead.

I love stories in any language, especially if I have David and his sister provide the translation.

Shirts

Shirts

Noel Laflin

7-11-19

Patty’s funeral is this Friday, but we are seven thousand miles away.

And as much as it pains David and me to not be there, we will honor the day by wearing pink and Hawaiian shirts here, even though we will be so very far from our gathered friends back home. Patty loved the color pink and her beloved husband - our old friend, Mark - loved wearing Hawaiian shirts.

But when I return, I will visit her grave, and Mark’s, often, as the cemetery is just on the other side of Santiago Creek, at the western end of Irvine Park. I spend a lot of time in that park, hiking its hills, absorbing its history - step by step - and photographing its birds, trees and wildflowers. As it is less than four miles from our home, it is another home of sorts.

So although I cannot say farewell to our young friend on Friday, I intend to say hello to Patty, and Mark, many times in the future.

Fairy Lies

Fairy Lies

Noel Laflin

6-15-19

I was speaking to my daughter a moment ago when the subject of parties came about.

Specifically, we talked about the one she threw here several years ago when I was conveniently out of the country.

I still give her a hard time over that as I occasionally come across bits of confetti in the most unlikely of places and marvel at the old champagne stains that still mark many of the book spines over in the dining room corner and other odds and ends about the house.

Before we hung up though, and just to make her feel better, I confided in an impromptu party I had at my parents’ house back when I was young.

One of the attendees ran naked through the house shaking Ajax from the canister he found in the bathroom. I distinctly remember him claiming to be Tinkerbell and wanting to spread pixie dust everywhere so that we could all fly.

A week later, after my parents returned from out of state, my mother was baffled by the gritty linoleum she encountered everywhere she stepped. My cleaning of my parents’ home had been about as effective as my daughter’s cleaning of my home forty-five years hence.

Questioning me about it, I just told my mother that fairies had no doubt broken in and thrown a party.

Not much of a lie there.