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.

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.