Category: random

Another beloved person from my childhood is gone home to be with Jesus: Earl Morgan passed away April 16, 2019, in Crescent City, California at the age of 88. He was born June 11, 1930, in Sylva, North Carolina.

After serving in the U.S. Army, Earl went to work for the U.S. Postal Service and was Klamath’s postmaster during the 1964 Tsunami as well as the Christmas flood later that year. One of my favorite pictures of Earl is one where he’s handing Margaret Keating her mail following the tsunami at the temporary office he established at Camp Marigold.

He married his wife Alice on July 1, 1948, moving to Klamath in 1952 and then Crescent City in 2014. He was an active member of the First Baptist Church of Crescent City, volunteering and ministering at the Crescent City Nursing and Rehab Center.

Earl is survived by son, Jefferson, and wife, Sharae, and preceded in death by his wife, Alice in 2017.

https://soundcloud.com/tom-darby-79984072/redbreastedrobin

November and the 60 head of beeves were the last to be moved from the far pasture to one closer to the ranch house. It was a short jerk, less than ten miles across the valley, but Mom Nature sure wasn’t going to make it an easy haul.

The five of us had just turned the herd onto the trail when a cold wind began to blowing into our faces. With it soon came the rain, which turned sleet and was followed by a stinging snow.

Soon each man-jack crowding the herd homeward was chilled to the bone; fingers, noses and ears aching along with the watery sting of eyes that could find no relief. Before long even the cattle felt the effects as they tailed up, turning their backsides to the elements and lowering their heads.

The drive’s jefe, a stoic rancher named Carl, watched as we struggled against the weather and the nature of the beasts as they bunched together. Three times we attempted to break them up and get them to turn back onto the trail.

Each attempt was met with failure. Finally Carl directed Tiny to head the lead cow and ‘if need be, drag her onto the trail and head for home.’

Without a word, I helped cut the leader out of the herd as Tiny loosened the loop of his rope and dropped it over her head with precision. Twice he worked her up the trail and away from the herd, with the hope that they’d follow, which is their nature.

That to was met with failure. Carl could see we were soaked to the skin, half-frozen and acting defeated as the beeves continued to tail-up against the winter-blow.

Since it was a small herd, we were all fairly well within ear-shot, when out of the blue we heard Carl’s booming voice:

“Red-Breasted Robin,
Sitting on a pole,
Wiggle-waggle went his tail
And PFFFT went his hole.”

With no smile, simply his standard stone-faced self, he sat there looking at the situation. We looked at one another in surprise and possibly a little terror, before one of us began to laugh.

It didn’t take long for the laughter to infect us all, including Carl, whom none of us had ever seen laugh before. That minute of laughter was all that we needed as we returned to work, breaking our stalemate with the herd and driving them out on the trail once again.

Within a few minutes, which normally happens with Nevada weather, the squall broke and beams of sunlight filled the valley as we push on through to the ranch house and that nearby pasture.

If I had a dollar for every woman who found me unattractive — they eventually would.

It is the eve of the day in which I have nothing written and ready for posting to my blog. For the past week I’ve been dealing with a case of writer’s block.

Generally, writer’s block doesn’t stick around this long – maybe two or three days at worst – then the flood gate opens and I’ll have five to 10 pieces written, edited and ready for publication. Not this time though – and this is the second time it has happened in the last two-months.

Naturally, I analyzed what could be causing this and I came up with a rather disturbing conclusion: my blockage is due to a deep-seated fear that I will run out of material to write about. I could have knocked myself over with a feather, turned writing quill.

For years, I’ve claimed that my ability to write – whether you think it’s good, bad or indifferent – has been on loan from God. This means the skill is not actually mine and subject to recall at the time of my death or even prior should He so chose.

But I’m not talking about the skill of word smithing – I’m speaking of material. That’s always been left up to me to decide on – again – good, bad or indifferently.

So here I am – stuck – like my truck in a dune of loose, fine sand and all I have are my hands to dig at the tire with. If it doesn’t become unstuck soon there are only two choices – wait for another passerby or walk back the way I came to the main road and get help.

Both are fine options. After all, I view them through my personality of being both stubborn and being a man of action.

At the moment, I’m digging like hell, hoping, when it’s actually time to hoof it.

I’m old enough to recall when the television was considered furniture.

My rules for the road are simple: If you’re driving faster than me, you’re a maniac; slower than me; you’re an idiot.

On many an evening, before bedtime, I will scratch my wife’s back until she hands me the Lavender Oil to rub out the itchy dryness she endures daily.

“It also helps me sleep,” she explains.

Knowing I have difficulty falling and staying asleep, she has recommended several times that I should try it. I finally did.

After rubbing it into my shoulders and down both arms, I washed my hands and turned in for the night. As I lay in bed, I felt my left arm and thought, “Kinda feels smooth.”

Minutes later I found myself slipping off into la-la land. Then my left eye began to itch and I quickly rubbed it with my right hand.

Within minutes, I realized my mistake as my eye began to sting. Soon it was burning and I had to get a wet, cold wash clothe to place over it.

There seemed to be no relief at first as I sat on the side of my bed nursing a now swollen eye and cussing at myself for my stupidity. It took a couple of hours before I began to feel any relief.

Then my right eye itched…

Federal authorities say you’re not allowed to use marijuana if you’re using a laxative. You must either shit or get off the pot.

The door was open to the old church, turned community theater as I stepped inside. According to his cardboard sign, on stage was an unshaven man in ragged clothes, presenting a three-part act.

Finishing Act I, he bowed, stepped behind the curtain and re-entered the stage from the other side. He finished the second act with a song-and-dance routine.

As the third act began, a two deputies entered the theater, heading towards the stage to arrest the thespian. I protested, “Please, let him finish!”

They were accommodating, allowing him to complete the last act from his jail cell —  across mine.

Confidence is silent while insecurity is loud.