A Golden Moment

Noel Laflin

8-25-23

 

A weird thing happened when Tropical Storm Hillary passed through on Sunday, as our musical clock, which had been silent for way too long, came back to life in a surprising manner.

 

It's been a faithful clock, spewing out musical tunes every hour, on the hour, for nearly thirty years - until it just seemed to give up the ghost almost a year ago.

 

Nothing we tried could fix the problem so I figured the wiring was shot inside. It still kept time, as the pendulum kept a steady rhythm, but the little guys with golden hammers wouldn't rise, bells did not ring, and none of the six classical tunes would play.

 

But, as already noted, the much feared storm arrived, humidity rose, and out of the blue, so did the little guys with hammers, and presto, the music was back!

 

David and I both whooped with joy, just as Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring began to play.

 

It's the little things in life that give us joy, including little golden men and their little golden hammers banging out a little golden Bach.

Wolf House

 Wolf House

Noel Laflin

8-22-23

Fifty years ago a friend of mine sent me a letter with a leaf pressed between the pages. She said it was from Jack London State Historic Park, collected near the ruins of the Wolf House. I had never been there, but she knew my passion for Jack London and thought it would be a nice touchstone for me to have.

Wolf House was a 26-room mansion in Glen Ellen, California, built by novelist Jack London and his wife Charmian London. The house burned down a hundred and ten years ago on August 22, 1913, shortly before the Londons were planning to move in. Stone ruins of the never-occupied home still stand, and are part of Jack London State Historic Park, which has been a National Historic Landmark since 1963.

I just stumbled across a photo taken 30 years ago with part of the ruins of Wolf House behind me. It had taken me a while to finally get to where that leaf had been collected.

And somewhere around here is that old letter and touchstone, too, no doubt.

Summer Storm

Summer Storm

Noel Laflin

8-21-23

This is a shot of a Cooper's hawk taken seven years ago today. I was pretty happy as it was the first time I was able to take a photo of one. I didn't even know what kind of hawk it was, so asked a learned friend on Facebook, and he promptly gave me the right answer.

Fifty-four years ago, right about now, three of us sat in a ramshackle cabin in the woods at Camp Ahwahnee waiting out a thunderstorm. As the shutters were open to let in the cool air, we first heard a whooshing flutter, and then watched, awestruck, as a large hawk (most likely a red-tailed) landed on a pine bow a few feet away from where we sat perched upon old bunk beds. I guess he or she was also taking a break from the thunder, lightning and pouring rain.

Neither Jerry, Addison nor I said a word until it flew off a minute later, each of us caught up in the moment of being so very close to such wild beauty.

As much as I like looking back on the Cooper's hawk from a few years ago, and taking pride in capturing a first time shot, the long ago memory of a summer storm, two good friends sitting across from me in a rundown cabin in the woods, and a most unexpected guest joining us for a few moments is even better.

Ashes

 

Ashes

Noel Laflin

8-2-23

Dear Don:

There's a very large rock in our garden that Tom and I moved here 40 years ago. We had to manhandle that beast from the greenbelt while moving slowly over mounds of dirt and debris, cross the street, enter the threshold of our new condo, bump step-by-step down the stairs (Tom played out rope that was attached to the handles of the sturdy dolly as I sat on my butt easing our cargo down the stairs. Bump, bump, bump. That alone took ten minutes, but worked out just fine in the end), maneuver carefully through a tight hallway (avoiding a large one hundred gallon fish aquarium), then proceed through the bedroom, and out the sliding glass door and into the garden. We finally chose a resting spot, unlashed the bungee cords holding it in place upon the hand trolley and tilted the rock over. It took all our strength to do so as the rock was big and heavy, weighing maybe a couple hundred pounds or thereabouts.

 

Tom called it Spirit Rock, as it ‘called’ to him when we saw it one night after its excavation near what would eventually become the community pool.

 

You can see bubbly pock marks all over it as it dates back millions of years ago when the hill we rest up against was once an active volcano, and this guy, along with so many similar but much smaller rocks in our area, were once cooked deep below the Earth, spit out in a fiery blast as lava flowed, cooled and bubbled as it did so, and  then laid buried for a very long time - until a couple of boys found it, marveled over it, and moved it, with some great effort and sweat, I might add 

 

When Tom died eleven years later, I took some of his ashes and buried them deep below Spirit Rock.

 

I did the same today with your brother’s remaining ashes so that the two friends might keep one another company.

 

In the coolness of the morning, I then planted a small oak seedling up against the rock. It stands about four inches tall presently. I grew the seedling from an acorn that I collected beneath a three hundred year old California Live Oak in Irvine Park last Christmas.

 

Tom had instructed me, once he knew his time was near, to spread his ashes beneath a similar ancient oak in Ojai, which six of us did. But as there were ashes left over from that day, I brought some home, just as I did Freddy's last August and put them beneath the rock.

 

I hope you approve of my decision. I originally thought that I would travel to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and disperse the remaining ashes there. But I got to thinking, maybe I would never get there again, and then what?

 

So, as the old Spirit Rock lies just a few feet from the sago palm that once resided in a half whiskey barrel in your old home in Anaheim, I thought, this was a more prudent resting place. Your mom told me to take that sago, and who says no to Dory? That was 34 years ago, and the once small palm has grown and has been thriving ever since as it is in the ground now and well cared for. So, the proximity of palm, Tom, Freddy, and Spirit Rock made sense to me. And I can rest a little easier now as well.

 

I am guessing that both Tom and Fred rest easier nowadays too.

Bastille Day

 

Bastille Day

Noel Laflin

7-14-23

 

Tom, Jim, Marilyn and I threw a Bastille Day party 45 years ago today. I think it was to celebrate our leaving the old place and moving to better, bigger digs. Regardless, Marilyn thought we needed a theme.  As the party was falling on July 14^th, Bastille Day became the reason.

 

I remember folks storming the old apartment that night, but they came bearing copious amounts of alcohol, instead of clubs, knives and guns, so all was well in the end.

 

Marilyn, being the smart one in our household, thought everyone should sing the French National Anthem, La Marseillaise, so she wrote out the words and made copies for all to sing at the stroke of midnight.

 

Unfortunately, few in the crowd read French, let alone knew how to sing, so there was a lot of drunken humming instead. So all was well in the end there too.

 

 

 

Billy the Kid

 

Billy the Kid

Noel Laflin

7-14-23

 

Sheriff Pat Garrett shot Henry McCarty, popularly known as Billy the Kid, to death at the Maxwell Ranch in New Mexico on this day in 1881, which puts into question the story an old cousin of ours, who grew up on a ranch in rural New Mexico, used to tell us when we were young.

 

Our old cowboy cousin would regale us kids with tales of the Old West. I especially liked the time he and his mother once hid Billy the Kid in their barn as the posse was hot on his tail. They did so upon pain of death if they did not comply, or so Dick would tell us. He said he was five or six years old at the time, but remembered it like it was yesterday. The rifle pointed from the barn, directly at his head, when the posse stopped to question them as they stood upon the old house porch, was enough to make them lie and swear the outlaw had never passed their way.

 

Billy eventually saddled up his horse, tipped his hat, and thanked them both, before riding off into the sunset once the coast was clear - or so Cousin Dick concluded, then asked us kids if anyone had a smoke handy after recalling such a horrendous experience from his youth. We said no, and he replied that it was okay, before wandering off in search his tobacco pouch.

 

It wasn't until a few years ago that we uncovered the fact that our old cousin was actually born two years after the death of Billy the Kid. As Dick had died fifty years prior to this finding, it was difficult to bring this little detail to his attention.

 

Somehow, I wish we had never learned of this discrepancy as his story was a riveting one. And I, once upon a time, believed it all, hook, line and sinker, as it was told so well by a friendly former cowboy of the Old West - the land of wonderful tall tales.

 

Gifts

 Gifts

Noel Laflin

6-27-23

After a close friend of mine died two summers ago, his brother bequeathed me several of his personal belongings, including his Scout merit badge sash.

Fred had all 21 required badges for Eagle Scout, which he became in the mid 1960's, with four to spare, judging by the final count here.

Scouting is where we met back then, and where we formed the most lasting of friendships even long after our youthful years in the mountains together were but mere memories.

The sash remains a treasured gift.