My Cousin Elmo says, “I was invited to a ‘Pin the tail on the Donkey’ drink party. Made an ass of myself.”

Try as I might listen to President Biden speechify on the so-called ‘Tulsa Race Riots,’ I simply could not stomach the pandering. Of course, to use ‘riot’ is wrong because it was murder — and there is a difference.

How and why it happened, I will not go into as I cannot and will not attempt to explain or sidestep the morays of a period gone by. I will explain why this was not a “hidden” event as so many, including Biden, would like us to believe.

It was the new school year, 1974, and I was 14 years old Freshman. I had U.S. history, a subject I enjoyed but was not need to taken until I was a Junior.

In this particular class, the Roaring 20s, the Wall Street Crash, and the Great Depression were being taught. Oddly, students were getting extra credit for swallowing live goldfish, a fade from the 1920s.

Deciding I would pass, I skipped class in favor of ‘hiding in the library,’ as I called it. There, I enjoyed reading books on various subjects, including history.

It was also in the library, in 1974, at 14, that I learned of the Tulsa Race Riots. I was appalled by this, and the following day I asked why we were “swallowing fish” instead of learning about things like the wholesale murder of people.

Simply put, I was told to sit down and shut up and to quit skipping class. I failed the subject that year.

Now, why do I call the President’s remarks pandering?

Because this has never been a “hidden” incident. Not only was it reported in every major and minor newspaper across the U.S., but it was widely reported in the foreign press too.

Where it did become “hidden,” was in the classroom. Instead of teaching the stomach-churning truth, we were being fed “live fish,” until our stomachs churned.

This is a lesson in the dangers of selective history.

My Cousin Elmo says, “It would be less confusing if Joe would jus’ turn the teleprompter around and let us read it for ourselves.”

Time is perplexing to me and only good as a writing device and maintaining an interconnective schedule. Anything more and it becomes as illusive as the wind cupped in my hands.

My Cousin Elmo says, “If ‘liar, liar, pants on fire,’ really meant anything, then watching the news would be a hell of a lot more fun.”

Knee-deep in the ink
Line to think
The squiggle leads
Fulfilled needs
Count down count down
Blood red shit brown
Hands stained black
Heart meat-sack
Hup two three four
Must even score
Old man rocking chair
Life is not fair
See the Sargent
To hell get bent
Knee-deep in the ink
Memories blink

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.