Light in the Eyes

Light in the Eyes

Noel Laflin

2-22-23

It's the birthday of Edna St. Vincent Millay, born in 1892.

My mother was fond of her poetry, which made me fond of many of her pieces, too.

Following my mom's death, my brother, sister, father and I gave thought as to what we should have engraved on her gravestone. So, I searched the bible, and several of her old poetry books. The Millay chapter was bookmarked frequently and my eyes lingered on one poem in particular, Dirge Without Music. I knew I had found the appropriate epitaph. My siblings and father agreed and this is what we chose:

"More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world."

What's in a Name?

 

What’s in a Name?

Noel Laflin

2-22-23

My parents once told me that I was almost named Chris instead of Noel, but changed their minds when they thought it through as there was already a boy named Kris living two doors down.

“We figured we would either end up with two kids showing up, or the wrong one,” my mother recalled.  “Back then, the only way to get you kids home was by yelling out the back door that dinner was ready, or you were in trouble,” she concluded.

So, they gave me Christopher as a middle name instead.

Their plan worked out well until the neighbors to the left of us produced a boy shortly thereafter and named him Joel.

Needless to say, both my folks and the next door neighbors frequently had the wrong kid showing up for dinner.

Pictured here are Kris and Noel. There was no room for Joel, however. He was probably in trouble anyway.

Popcorn

Popcorn

Noel Laflin

2-22-23

I love popcorn; consequently, we are never out of it in this house

I also like the closing piece of history quoted here as it mentions just how well corn stands up to time.

We, three friends and I, were rafting through Cataract Canyon many years ago, camped at a beautiful spot called Spanish Bottom, and took a laborious hike up to a bluff high above known as the Dollhouse, a vast plateau laced with ancient burial caves and one particular secluded cliff dwelling which provided a magnificent view of both the muddy Colorado River and Canyonlands stretched out far below.

Our small party of four had lunch within the shade of this millennium-old structure, only to discover broken clay pots in the far back, some of which still contained small dried-out ears of corn. We were in a very old granary, apparently.

The ancients of this area left mysteriously some 500 years ago. Most speculate that it was due to a massive long lasting drought which parched the southwest for years.

Regardless of the reason for the mass exodus, some food staples were left behind.

I do not know if the remnants of corn we saw was of the popping kind, as we left it in place, but it was a find that I have never forgotten all these years later.

And on that note, I believe it's time for some popcorn, a beer, perhaps, and a little history about my favorite snack. Heck, sometimes it's just dinner.

"On this date in 1630, Quadequine, brother of Massasoit, leader of the Wampanoag tribe, introduced popcorn to the English colonists. He offered the treat as a token of goodwill during peace negotiations. The colonists called it popped corn, parching corn, or rice corn, and it was popped on top of heated stones or by placing the kernels, or cobs, into the hot embers of a fire. The discovery of popcorn was not new; people had been consuming it since 300 B.C. In 1948 and 1950 ears of popcorn believed to be 4,000 years old were discovered in the Bat Caves of west-central New Mexico. In 1650, the Spaniard Cobo said of the Peruvian Indians, “They toast a certain kind of corn until it bursts. They call it pisancalla, and they use it as a confection.” The popularity of popcorn has rarely waned, even during the Depression, when its relative inexpensive cost, at 5 or 10 cents a bag, made it one of the few luxuries even the down-and-out could afford. Americans consume more than 17.3 billion quarts of popcorn each year." The Writer's Almanac

Still Dancing

 Still Dancing

Noel Laflin

1-29-23

We celebrate an anniversary as it was this day in January, 2015 that we were married at the old courthouse in Santa Ana.

The ceremony was brief, but charming, in the alcove set aside for such happenings; the celebrant and witness were two lovely young women who worked there; and the three quarters put into the meter in the parking lot gave us enough time to see everything through. It’s a good thing, too, as I am not sure we had another quarter had things run a bit longer. Our intention was to just get a license, but when the offer to do the deed that very day presented itself by lovely lady number one, well, we said, “Heck, why not!” She smiled, left her post at the counter, and within a minute returned now dressed in a fine wedding cloak. Her assistant placed a sign on the counter saying that they would be back shortly, and followed us into the next room to bear witness. There were hugs all around afterward with these awesome strangers, who had now become instant friends. And there was even time to spare on the parking meter outside.

My folks ran off and eloped some eighty years ago, too, and things worked out well for them, so I suppose that could have been a distant prompt of sorts. They had only known one another for about a year. David and I had the advantage of getting to know one another for nearly fifteen years up until that point, so I guess we knew all about ‘for better or worse, sicker or poorer’, etc. But it was good to hear it aloud and swear by it.

Anyway, it proved to be a fine decision on our part.

To quote Thornton Wilder, “People are meant to go through life two by two. ‘Taint natural to be lonesome.” Had I been more prepared that morning, I would have had our new friend add that part as it also reminds me of dancing, something that brought the two of us together in the first place.

Nevertheless, thank you Thornton and those other two familiar ghosts for whatever role you all may have played. But mostly, thank you David for deciding to go through life, with me, like synchronized dance steps, two by two. Sometimes it's slow-slow, followed by quick-quick, or maybe just a lovely waltz or shadow dance, but the goal is to never let go of one another as long as the music plays.

Diurnal in Nature

Diurnal in Nature

Noel Laflin

1-21-23

One great feature of reading books on Kindle is that when you come across a word that you are unfamiliar with, you just press down on that pesky word and you are taken to a dictionary and its meaning.

Sometimes this becomes a rabbit hole for me, as you can scroll all the words in alphabetical order, and their meanings, either before or after the one you've just read, which in my case today was diurnal. Feel free to look it up, too, if need be. I'd tell you myself, but as teachers used to sarcastically ask me, do I look like a dictionary?

And so I was so easily led to other offerings such as diva, divergent, ditto, dittohead, divorcee, divvy, etc.; a fun distraction.

But, consequently, sometimes, you forget what you were doing in the first place and begin to wonder, just where do the crawdads sing anyway? I don't know as yet, but I do believe that they are diurnal in nature.

Lost Coin

 

Lost Coin

Noel Laflin

1-10-23

I attended a fine memorial service for a friend on Saturday.  There were more than a hundred folks present, as the man was well-liked, and a friend to many of us.

Some knew him through his church.  Others knew him via sporting events. I knew him as a humble, honest businessman operating a family run coin shop here in town.  We struck up a friendship nearly fifteen years ago when I discovered the small storefront operation, the one squeezed between two used book stores, and he sold me a pretty silver coin that I needed for a gift.  I returned to his family run business too many times to count. since then, and he always treated me squarely, honestly, and would throw in an unasked for discount time and again when I came searching for more gifts – usually in the form of old Morgan Silver Dollars. He knew, over time, that they were a favorite of mine – and of his too, apparently, as the friendly dog who shared the shop was named Morgan.

At the memorial service I struck up a conversation with a young fellow and I told him of my interactions with the friend we were there to honor.  I wondered how this nice young man knew our mutual friend – sports, coin store, church?

Turns out it was a church connection as he was the minister who led the brief service. 

And when he stood and told the parable of the lost coin, I loved the reference; it was always one that got my attention back in my church days.  And I bet our friend would have liked it too:

“Suppose a woman has ten silver coins, but loses one. She will light a lamp, sweep the house, and look carefully for the coin until she finds it. And when she finds it, she will call her friends and neighbors and say, 'Be happy with me because I have found the coin that I lost.” –Luke 15

I would light a lamp, sweep the floor, and look carefully for just such a coin, too, especially it if was one that had Tony sold me.

 

 

Boot Hill

 

Boot Hill

Noel Laflin

1-8-23

 

The entire bottom gripping section came off the left foot of an old pair of boots today. I was forced to stop, and upon investigation saw that the right boot's bottom was about to peel away, too 

 

Crazy Glue (or something stronger) might do the fixing trick, but I am inclined to just get a new pair, as these are pretty old. I am just glad I was walking back home from across the street, and not stuck in a muddy bog deep down in a steep ravine somewhere when the uncoupling occurred.

 

I had a friend at summer camp who would bury his stinky boots at the end of each season. I thought it wasteful, until I shared a small cabin with him one summer and understood why he took such drastic measures. His having to leave his boots outside each night was absolutely necessary, and clued me in as to the sweating, sweet stink, and eventual burying ritual. He said it was due to his diabetes, and I believe he had a valid point.

 

We thought of planting an oak or fir seedling above each discarded pair of boots, so as to mark each grave property, but figured any seedling with any sense would up an move half a mile away once our backs were turned.

 

Consequently, there are six or seven unmarked graves up on our old mountain hiding perils with a half-life unmeasured -  a lost Boot Hill, if you will.

 

My boots don't smell to such a degree, fortunately; they’re just old and broken. I am going to miss them, but not anywhere near how much I miss my friend, despite his stinky footwear, from half a century ago. But as he was always a fan of my feeble tales, I bet he would have smiled with the telling of this one; he rests upon that very mountain, too, now. But the old boots he buried there are at least half a mile away.

 

Now, time to make plans for a proper burial - or maybe just the recycle bin instead, and a quick prayer of thanks for boots that were definitely made for walking, until, very much like my old friend from so long ago,  they just grew too tuckered out for walking and called it quits one day.