Firestarter

 

Firestarter

Noel Laflin

10-07-24

This is dedicated to the memory of Fred LaVelle - and inspired by an old camp promotional photo and one-time postcard you could buy at the trading post. I only wish he was here to read this himself - as I remember him one star-filled, blazing campfire night long ago - young, like all of us once were in the previous century.
He'd probably laugh before diplomatically pointing out all spelling and punctuation errors, inconsistencies, exaggerations, etc. But then again, maybe he is here - at least in young ninja spirit and wise beyond his years, bow in left hand, right hand on heart, horn-rimmed glasses back in place, an old tattered flag draped across his shoulders, a dog-eared book of poetry in his back pocket, a pipe held firmly in place between clenched teeth - the glowing bowl facing downward, just in case it rained ...




The brilliantly lit meteor-like arrow shot out of the dark and passed over the heads of both young and old alike.

Whoosh!!!

And where the hell did that come from, one might justifiably ask?

Well, hang tight and I'll tell you.

But first, there was an audible hiss and a collective intake of breath from two hundred souls seated about the hillside, as the pointy-tipped metal fireball sped over caps, hats and bare heads indiscriminately.

And it was most fortunate indeed that no one stood at that precise moment in time.

The archer, a bold blond ninja dressed all in black and hidden behind thick thorny buckbrush at the top of the ravine, shot true - shot well - aiming carefully - and most skillfully above all those heads resting atop bodies (both young and old) seated comfortably, or not, should one's ass be resting against an unfortunately placed knotty log impalement ... but I digress
.. oh, yes, boys and men were seated upon roughly hewed logs haphazardly spaced and staked into place, terracing ever downward.

The mysterious marksman, still hidden above, a modern day William Tell (minus the apple), smiled as his intended target - a kerosene-drizzled tinderbox of logs carefully laid out in criss-cross fashion on the hard packed sandy stage below, surrounded by a circle of fire blackened stones - suddenly burst into flame.

Presto!!!

And the assembled crowd cheered most enthusiastically!

He lowered his bow, put his glasses back in place (now looking more like Clark Kent, rather than SuperNinja) and stealthfully crept back into the woods. He would need to shed the dark costume behind a stand of oaks as the one and only phone booth was in the upper parking lot and too far away to be of practical help for lightning fast wardrobe changing - and fit back into his everyday expected Scout atire before nonchalantly heading down through the still stunned crowded rows of both young and old (some in caps and hats, and some without), in order to lead a song, and later tell a story. And maybe even burn a flag by evening's end - directing four lads (I might even have been one of the lucky four) to lay an old frayed piece of faded cloth containing just forty-eight stars and thirteen faded red and white stripes in dying glowing embers - embers he'd earlier helped to create.

But until that moment, another Friday night campfire successfully roared and blazed to life!

And no one died in the process.

Super heroes, especially those with trusty bows and flaming arrows, always saw to that – and always hit their mark.

Ship Notes - Ducks

 

Ship Notes – Ducks

Noel Laflin

10-10-24

 

It's a busy morning in the buffet but I manage to snag a table in a corner that boxes me in on two sides quite comfortably, and yet still allows me a clear view of everything in front of me.

 

It's perfectly placed as two walls not only guards my back, but is frequently a front row seat to cheap entertainment.

 

Mine is a smaller table but the one a few feet away seats four.

 

It's quickly claimed by a couple of young siblings waiting for their folks, who must be foraging for food.

 

The girl sets a small multicolored rubber ducky on the table. Within a nanosecond her older brother picks it up and begins to pound the holy shit out of it. The younger sister is horrified and quickly grabs it back protectively. I bet the folks are going to hear about it when they return with vittles in hand.

 

For those unfamiliar with modern day cruising, the hiding and finding of small rubber ducks is kind of a big thing - especially for kids. Case in point: there was a youngster who gleefully filled me in on her lucky finding of ducks, as a multitude of us patiently waited for the main dining room doors to open on the first night aboard this particular ship last week. Just how many ducks had she found in her first four hours upon boarding the ship - Five, by golly!

 

She was pretty stoked. I was also impressed with her diligent sleuthing and told her so, just as the dining room doors swung open.

 

I remember the snickering behind me one afternoon a few years ago as we glided through the Inside Passage on our way to Juneau. I was reclined upon a very comfortable sofa in the observation gallery, lost in a fine book. When I decided to finally get up, I moved my arm across the top of the couch and found a bright yellow little duck that the one responsible for the snickering I'd heard just a few moments before had placed there, apparently. Now, how lucky was that! I wasn't even looking for a duck, but he found me in my near slumber!

 

A young Filipino waiter was watching, just a bit enviously, as I admired my new find, so I extended the duck in offering and he smiled in thanks as he accepted the gift.

 

"My daughter is going to love this!" he said.

 

"Does she have a brother?" I enquired.

 

"Yes," he smiled bashfully.

 

"Well, good luck with that then," I said, finger tipped to the bill of my cap in silent salute, wandering off in search of more hidden treasures.

 

Shadows

 

Shadows

Noel Laflin

10-08-24

I come across old photos in my phone that I just never have the heart to delete. I guess we all do. Consequently, every picture has a story, otherwise, why would we hang on to them so doggedly?

Case in point with this one here:

Years after I had locked a childhood chum inside an old dilapidated little family mausoleum one afternoon (fear not, he escaped a moment later, caught me as I tried to scale the cemetery wall, and proceeded to beat some sense into me), I returned to the scene of the crime to take a picture of its interior.

The original break-in (hey, someone forgot to lock up one day - thus, not a crime for young boys wanting to explore forbidden realms), took place over sixty years ago.

The photo here was then taken thirty years later - as the boys from the previous adventure didn't own cameras back then.

And on the day I explored once again (no childhood chum in sight), I noted that the old padlock to the rusty iron grate was firmly in place, too.

Ghosts from the past must have seen me coming and saw to it that things were more securely in place, apparently, especially the lock. So, I just shot a frame from between the bars placating those pesky, protective spirits.

The old family haunt would be cleaned out (Mary kidnapped - tossed away, no doubt), the original brick interior replastered over, the exterior spiffed-upped, a broken cross atop the ancient little structure removed - oh, heck, just made to look too nice a year later, so I am happy to remember it here as it once was - beautifully creepy, even in daylight, over a century in the making.

And no beating while trying to scale a wall happened afterwards either.

Some tradeoffs in life are worthwhile, I suppose.

"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed."

Robert Louis Stevenson

Ship Notes - Deck 4

 

Sea Notes - Deck 4

Noel Laflin

10-9-24

 

Describe happiness, you ask?

Well, here's one version:

Happiness is when there's still one unstacked deck chair just calling your name, you have a good book in one hand and a fine spirit in the other, you are still reeling from a fine meal, a good show, a lucky night in the casino, and the night is warm, humid, balmy, sultry, even salty in taste, and the sea is calm - the ship's bow slicing through the waves like a warm knife through soft butter, there's a beautiful crescent quarter moon peeking through the clouds now and then, and you even have the entire night time deck all to yourself ... now, that's just one little version of happiness.

Ship Notes

 

Ship Notes

Noel Laflin

10-10-24

 

There's a little boy following his mother, who is guiding her sight impaired husband to a dining room table.

 

The boy is dressed in tan shorts, a super hero tee shirt, and purple Crocs; he skips as he follows. He looks to be maybe five or six years old.

 

Mother wears a finely flowing billowy sun dress. It's a brilliant yellow. She smiles serenely. Radiant comes to mind.

 

Father has long blond hair, his ponytail tied back in a plain leather wrap. His cane is a wooden beauty with carved roses climbing both up and down the grain. It looks to be made of highly polished cherry wood. He wears an Indiana Jones type hat. Overall, he's one cool looking cat as he confidentiality taps his staff, his wife's right hand ever so lightly clutching his left elbow, guiding him effortlessly, but most efficiently, through crowds and obstacles.

 

They reach their table, sit and begin to chat. The boy squirms out of his chair and into his father's lap. Father strokes his son's hair, leans down to deeply inhale, then gently finds the young face. Fingers map small smooth features in a familiar way - chin, lips, nose, eye lids closed in anticipation of that final touch. They both smile. Mother still looks radiant.

 

Feeling like a interloper (guilty as charged), I quickly go back to the book I'm reading, having lost where I'd left off a moment before.

 

I finally find my place. But before I do, I think first that I may never take sight for granted ever again, as the family seated at the table near the window looking out to sea - although they only seem to have eyes and inner vision for one another - is an image I never wish to forget.

Jockstraps and Skill Saws

 

Jockstraps and Skill Saws

Noel Laflin

9-30-24

 

Coach had just told us the correct way a jock strap should be worn (pouch facing front, just in case you were curious), and that when handed a towel after our communal shower, that one should NOT place it over one's genitals in order to hide one's embarrassment, but rather dry one's face first, instead, and save genital hiding and drying for last.

 

"It's only common sense boys!"

 

Coach made his point by pointing half an index finger at the first twelve-year-old-embarrassed face he saw lined up before him. It was only half a finger as coach was also the wood shop teacher and had had an unfortunate run in with a skill saw a few years earlier.

 

When dutifully instructed on other points of personal hygiene - Right Guard was mentioned, as was the importance of thoroughly drying between the toes, we were told to head in, find a locker, get changed into our band new gym clothes, and report back to the field in five minutes.

 

All was going according to plan until Frankie - small, funny, likable Frankie - put his jock strap on bassackwards, and then proceeded to put on shorts, socks, shoes and lastly, his brand new Sycamore J.H. gym shirt, before huffing it out to the field.

 

I remember the way he kept trying to rearrange things as he ran laps or frowned a bit painfully when it came to jumping jacks.

 

No one bothered to tell him why.

 

Welcome to junior high, I thought.

 

I suppose there were other helpful things learned in other classes that first day of school in 1965, but they have been lost to memory - as lost as any recall as to what my locker combination might have been back then. But I have never forgotten the importance of deodorant, or thoroughly drying between the toes, or where to first place a towel when exiting the shower.

 

However, I haven't been confounded, let alone confused as to the proper placement of a jock strap – pouch forward, as the ghost of a coach would remind me – or the memory of a boy who didn’t listen.

 

But then again I haven't owned one in decades, so give it time.

 

Oh, and on a purely unrelated matter, I have a strange aversion to skill saws, too.

 

Not sure why.

Late Night Visitors

 

Late Night Visitors

Noel Laflin

9-21-24

 

Why a young man with a baby raccoon perched upon his shoulder stood on the platform outside my cabin late one night some fifty-some years ago still makes little sense. But there they waited, a shy boy with a bulky duffle bag in hand, an overstuffed pack on his back, and a curious young raccoon – who now peered at me with very bright eyes (the raccoon, that is) before leaping from its perch (both gracefully and stealthily, I might add), and made herself at home on my cot against the wall.

 

"And you would be?" I prompted the boy ... It was a little past one in the morning by my reckoning, confirmed by a quick glance at my watch.

 

"Andy," he said, a mop of blond hair partially obscuring his face. "And that's Amy," he added, pointing to the raccoon now sound asleep on my bed.

 

And thus, formal introductions had been made as he also said he knew my name already.

 

"Mr. Bergner told me to bunk here as I am going to work at the Nature Center. Late hire, or so I was told.  Just got word today, told to pack my stuff. Mr. Bergner drove down the hill to give me a right back up tonight. I suppose I am kind of a surprise, huh, boss? Anyway, he said you'd most likely still be up, as you are kind of a night owl, always reading - his words. But, hey, I like books, - nature books mostly - and owls, too, by the way. They're really smart!"

 

"And do you have an owl in your pack as well?" I teased, setting down my book next to the sleeping raccoon.

 

"Ah, no, 'cause Mr. Bergner and I (he keeps telling me to just call him Smokey – I don’t know why – he doesn’t really look like a bear) already dropped her off at the nature center. She's in a cage, so she'll be fine till morning. Her wing is still a little busted up since I found her last month. I think a hawk tried to do her in – a territory dispute, no doubt. But it's coming along - the healing I mean.  Her name is Helga, you know, like the witch. I think you'll like her. She'll really love you if you bring her a mouse ..."

 

The boy stopped rambling for a moment, caught his breath and continued, "Some people think I talk too much. Sorry."

 

I just nodded, suddenly understanding Gene’s decision to hire this kid. I still don’t know how he heard about him, but Andy seemed to be some sort of animal whisperer. I guess word traveled. Anyway, we could use just such a lad, hoping he was good with catching squatting rattle snakes, too.  I always hated that task. I bet Andy would just charm them into crawling into a snake bag.

 

I beckoned him in, gesturing to the second bunk with the lumpy, most likely mouse-filled mattress.

 

"Mice live in all the old mattresses in camp," I told him. It feels like a mini mouse Indy 500 team racing below us most nights. It shouldn't be a problem feeding Helga," I told him.

 

"Cool!" he said, carefully studying the multi stained mattress, anxiously looking for movement within. I figured he probably had a mouse cage hidden in the duffle bag, too.

 

"Did you bring a bed for Amy?" I asked, as he pulled out a faded old sleeping bag and rolled it out.

 

"Nah, she sleeps with me. It's not really a problem, except she snores sometimes. But it's a cute little snore though, so I don't think it will keep you up."

 

"I thought raccoons were nocturnal."

 

"Well, yeah, they should be. But Amy keeps to people hours for now. Maybe it's because she's young still. She thinks I'm her mama, I guess, since I was the one to find her and feed her. Her own mother was hit by a car back home. She was an orphan. I should have named her Oliver or Dodger, but couldn't as she's a girl ..."

 

Amy suddenly woke up at the sound of her name, watching Andy lay out his bed and left mine to join him. She peeled back the sleeping bag's upper half and crawled in. I don’t think she minded the mice below. Maybe they were sleeping as well.  I don’t know.

 

"See?" Andy said. 

 

"I do, I replied, waiting to turn off the light once Andy undressed, threw on a pair of flannel Curious George pajamas, and crawled beneath the covers. He hugged Amy to his chest and said good night.

 

"And thanks for taking us in," he mumbled, before small raccoon snores drifted across the cabin, soon putting us both to sleep.