Category: random

Quietly, methodically I unfriended some people on Facebook. I did this to remove those who ‘collect’ but never ‘respond’ to anything I may post.

Somehow, I managed to delete my entire friend’s list, save for family. They are listed separately.

FB says I am at fault because rather than ‘unfriending,’ I ‘deleted. Okay, I accept the blame.

Sadly, I have gone to several people’s pages to find that they do not have their ‘friend’ button activated. So, if you want to participate with me via FB, ‘refriend’ me…if not, don’t, and we’ll leave it at that, no hard feelings.

A blogging friend of mine from South Africa, Robbie Eaton Cheadle, recently posted a video of herself reading Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “The Sleeper.” It was the line…”upon the quiet mountain top, ” that triggered a memory in me.

Summer of 1990, I was a newscaster, announcer, and contract engineer for 780 AM KROW in Reno. Late one afternoon, we had to go up Peavine Mountain, north of Reno, Nev., to check on a piece of remote equipment that was not working right.

As we drove the six miles of rough road to the mountain top, I could see the crumbles of foundations and ruins of stone walls. On our way back down the same road, we stopped to investigate.

Though not macabre as an Edgar Allan story, it was an honest-to-goodness ghost town!

Records show that during the 1860s, prospectors poked around Peavine Mountain. Several mining camps were established on the mountainside.

The largest of these was Poeville. The place was named after John Poe, a cousin of Edgar Allan Poe.

Poe discovered gold and copper veins in the area in 1862, and within two years, a settlement of about 200 people had blossomed. At first, the ore was difficult to process because of a lack of water.

This changed in 1866 when a freight system began transporting the ore to Cisco, Calif., for processing. It was made even easier to get the ore to mill after the transcontinental railroad was completed.

By 1874, the community was large enough to support a post office, which operated for about four years. Poeville had a few saloons, a small hotel, livery stables, a large dry goods store, a Chinese laundry, a stamp mill, and a wagon repair shop.

When first discovered, Poe thought the site was rich with gold, but soon it became clear there was more copper than anything else. In fact, the copper was of sufficient quality that specimens were exhibited in 1864 at the Nevada State Fair, held in Carson City that year.

However, lower copper prices, coupled with more lucrative opportunities in other mining camps, caused residents to begin to drift away. Mining ceased in the late 1870s, and by 1880, only 15 residents still lived in Poeville.

Today, mostly because of wildfires, sadly, nothing remains.

Traffic had come to a halt in both directions as a small herd of mustangs crossed the roadway. Rarely are wild horses ever in a hurry to get from one side of a street to the other, and they were no exception.

Three vehicles ahead of me was a sedan, pulling a short-sided trailer and hauling a pair of Llama. One of the pair slipped its tie-down and hopped from the hauler, racing to the herd of Mustang.

Mustangs being mustangs, they wanted nothing to do with the domesticated ‘wild’un’ and quickly shooed it away and back into the road. However, the Llama was not through having some fun while exploiting its newfound freedom.

It refused to be corralled and trailered, dashing back and forth from one side of the road to the other. I watched as it crop-hopped, sunfished, and cycloned to its left.

Quietly, I got out of my truck, my lariat in hand and building a loop. I waited for the thing to begin spinning again.

As it did, I made a couple of overhead twists and dropped the rope neatly over its head and down the long neck. Unlike a real horse bent on freedom, the Llama came to a stop as I gently hand-over-handed my way to it.

In complete surrender mode, it walked passively back to the trailer and got on. While the woman, whose Llama they were, tied the animal to the railing, I took the time to hobble it by tying a piece of heavy bailing string from its on-right foreleg to the off-left hindleg.

The woman shook my hand, said thank you, while the Llama spit in my left ear.

Lost another classmate over the weekend…

Scott was born in Salinas, Calif., to Betty and Jim Bruhy on June 4, 1960. He passed away on May 23, 2021, at his home in Springfield, Ore.

Scott graduated from Del Norte High on June 9, 1978. He played basketball for both the Klamath Golden Bears and the Del Norte High Warriors, lettering all four years of high school. Scott also played Little League Baseball with the Klamath Cubs and was involved in scouting when he was a youngster.

Scott is preceded in death by his parents Betty and Jim, a daughter, his stepmother Colleen Bruhy, and is survived by his wife Kim, two daughters, and siblings Dean and Kathy.

My Cousin Elmo says, “She might think my tractor’s sexy, but my dog thinks I’m perfect.”

For my wife and me, it started with a light rapping at our front door. It was Chase and Landon, both seven.

One child is small for his age, while the other is rather large for his. They wanted to ask my wife if they each could have one of her painted garden rocks.

“Of course,” Mary said.

They each selected one and quickly raced from our porch.

It was less than half an hour later when we heard two blood-curdling screams, “Wwwaaaaaahhhhh!”

Then we saw Landon, head all the way back, mouth open, screaming in terror and crying as he sprinted across our porch. A couple of seconds later, Chase followed.

“What in the hell was that all about?” I asked.

“I hope they didn’t hit each other with those rocks,” Mary said.

The boys disappeared inside their home next door before I could find out. A while later, my wife saw them standing on the sidewalk.

She asked what had happened. They explained, leaving out one small detail.

“Are you going back over there?” Mary asked.

“Yeah,” Chase laughed.

“Are you kidding,” Landon said, “No way!”

She came in laughing and explained the situation to me. I laughed as well.

Still laughing, I went next door to the neighbor on the other side of our home and asked what happened. Instead of telling me, Mike showed me.

He donned a rubber ‘hobo’ mask. I laughed even harder.

Then he explained that the two boys had been ‘doorbell ditching,’ their home for the past few days.

“I saw them coming around the corner and sneaking up the walkway,” Mike said. “And I decided to scare them.”

Boy, did he. And I’m still chuckling.

My Cousin Elmo says, “With the wind constantly blowing, Nevada will soon be the new Wyoming.”

At five, I was frightened of the school bus. I don’t know why.

My mother even watched me duck down behind a large log in the field we kids would cross, hiding from the yellow thing. Yes, I got a butt-whipping for that, but it didn’t stop me from being afraid or hiding again.

This time, Pa Sanders was working in his field and saw what I’d done. He was digging up the earth for planting.

He dropped the tines or perhaps the discs from the tractor and drove straight for me. I thought I had another licking coming, but instead, he had me get on the green and yellow John Deere and drove me to school.

On the way, he talked about how he never rode a school and how he and his sister walked to school. The two following days, he escorted me to the bus stop and saw that I got on.

The third day, he met me in the field near the log that I had hidden behind and told me that he’d watch me get on the bus. I did.

The following day, I got on the bus without any problem and never hid, needed escorting, or watched again. This doesn’t mean my anxiety about riding the school bus went away.

It means I was taught how to deal with it.

Last Friday, I saw a man with three children on his red Kabota, turning first into the middle school where two of the children got off, and then he crossed the roadway to the high school, where the last child got down. The sight left me beaming with a smile from ear to ear.

A friend recently held an Internet session where she sang an old ballad by Jimmie Rodgers in which he wrote about his losing battle with Tuberculosis. I altered the lyrics to fit today’s ‘ongoing plague.’ Many apologies to Mr. Rodgers…

Ol’ Doc Fauci’s trying
To make a fool out of me
Lord, that doc’s trying
To make a fool out of me

Trying to make me believe
I ain’t got that old COVID.
I’ve got the COVID blues

When it coughed down sorrow
It coughed all over me
When it coughed down sorrow
It coughed all over me

‘Cause my body rattles
Like a train on the V and T
I’ve got the COVID blues

I’ve got that old COVID
I can’t wear a mask
Got that old COVID
I can’t wear a mask

Got me worried so that
I can’t even sleep at night
I’ve got the COVID blues

I’ve been fightin’ like a small dog
Looks like I’m going to lose
I’m fightin’ like an old dog
Looks like I’m going to lose

‘Cause there ain’t no winnin’
Ever with the COVID blues
I’ve got the COVID blues

Gee but the graveyard
Is a lonesome place
Lord that graveyard
Is a lonesome place

Keep me masked when they
Throw that mud down in my face
I’ve got the COVID blues

My Cousin Elmo says, “If you think we got it bad, know that Kim Jong-Un has banned skinny jeans and mullets in North Korea and now they’ll never know the glories of the 90s.”