Category: random

Leslie ‘Les’ Miller was born on September 3, 1962, in Crescent City, California. Raised in Crescent City all of his life, Les also passed away in Crescent City on April 9, 2019, at the age of 56.

I’m still reeling from the shock.

While I didn’t know Les very well back in the day, I do remember him as ‘that kid with the goofy smile, who is always cracking jokes,’ when we were in high school. He graduated from Del Norte High in 1980, a couple of years after me.

Later, he worked at Glenn’s Bakery as a baker and short-order cook. I also learned that Les had a hand in building several structures over the years including Pelican Bay State Prison.

But what Les was best known for were his magnificent wood cravings. To be clear, these weren’t ordinary carvings using chisels and such – no, Les used a chainsaw – from start to finish and he became pretty well-known across the U.S. for his craftsmanship.

We reconnected a few years ago through Facebook, sharing many of the same political views and recollections of Del Norte County as it was when were both kids. Les’ passing has left a hole in the hearts of many people, including mine.

My wife asked, “Why are you whispering?”
“The federal government might be listening,” I answered.
She laughed, I laughed, Alexa laughed.

As we starve for wisdom, we drown in information.

Born October 7, 1930, Dolores Dunn passed away on March 30, 2019 at the age of 88. At the time, she was living in Kapolei, Oahu, Hawai’i, having moved back to the islands permanently after living in Reno, Nevada for several years.

We came to know each other through our mutual friend, Kay Casti. Shortly after my wife and I separated, I was in desperate straits — needing food, plates, pans and bedding for my empty apartment.

Not only did she find a way to fill my refrigerator, she gave me a wonderful blanket that I call my ‘life-saver,’ as it brought me plenty of comfort as I lay on the floor weeping myself to sleep most nights. Nearly twenty-years later, I still have that blanket, refusing to part ways with it.

As for food, Dolores loved to bake and she cooked like she was feeding an entire army and it was all delicious. Lots of Mango breads, Chablis cake, curry hamburger and fried rice.

Over the past couple of years, I’d lost contact with her and figured that she had finally moved back to Hawai’i, which was always home, to stay. She’ll be missed by me and all of her ohana.

And speaking of family (which ‘ohana’ means in her native language,) I had no idea how large Dolores’ family had grown over the years. She’s survived by her son, two daughters, a brother, her three sisters; 17 grandchildren; 27 great-grandchildren; and one great great-grandchild.

Aloha, Dolores. Thank you for being my friend and God bless you!

Jus’ looked in the mirror. Now I understand why it is so hard being me.

A fifth friend has passed away this April month. As I try to wrap my head around the  loss I feel, I penned this to express my sorrow. It’s the best I can do at the moment…

Did he rest too long?
If so, death took him
By surprise, entering
As he closed his eyes.
Even the gate guard
Must find his sleep.
But this is an excuse.
Punishment is pain
Of the broken heart.
Now open, the abyss
Is all that he now sees.
The void deep, dark.
Soon he will topple in.
God, help me as I fall.

I had no idea why my doctor would prescribe LSD to cure my constipation until I saw that dragon and shit myself.

Don’t be upset if I can remember your dog’s name but can’t recall yours.

Forty-eight hours into a 21-hour bus trip; blinding snow and treacherous roadways. The bus rolls to a stop in front of a hole-in-the-wall diner, someplace unknown to the young man.

It continues to snow as passengers pile-off and inside. He sat at the counter, slightly apart from the others, as he wants to listen, participate secretly.

He orders and the food comes. It is good, especially the coffee, especially the coffee.

Clatter and chatter. The plates and cups and forks, knives and spoon are busily making themselves useful. The passengers maintain the background noise, talking quietly among themselves with the occasional request for the waitresses presence.

The waitress is pleasant, roundish, jovial, a quick-witted one with a warm smile and open laugh. The short-order cook is too busy to make much small talk as he sings out, ‘Order up!’

The dishwasher hums an ancient church tune from someplace deep inside a back room and even deeper from his soul. Unseen, perhaps he has found bliss in the mindlessness of scrubbing pans.

The young man thinks he could stay here, grow old here, die here, has found magic here. But the driver is calling for passengers to return to the bus and without a second thought, the young man gathers himself, gulps down the last of his coffee, follows.

The young man takes his seat from before and looks out the window into the cafe, thinking how simple life can be. He closes his eyes, listening to the low whispers of those he also considers self-made prisoners like him and pretends to sleep.

Beyond the hum of voices, speaking of themselves, the latest news, grandkids and better weather at the end of the road, he can hear the crunching of the tires through the frozen drifts of snow and the droning engine as it battles to keep moving forward. He sighs — neither a sad sigh nor a happy one — as reality sets in: forty-nine hours into a 21-hour bus trip and there is little else to do.

Experts say it could take 100-years before Notre Dame Cathedral is full restored. The only person alive today that’ll be around to see it finished will be Keith Richards.