Minor flooding depends on what side of the creek you’re standing.

At first I planned to create a fiction story about my experience (maybe later on I will) — but then I realized, even as hard as it is to admit to my strangeness — it might do someone, somewhere, some good in knowing…

As a child I had a bunch of little quirks that made me an oddball, that isn’t to say that I don’t still sport some quirks, but I understand them a bit more and am able to manage them better. One strange thing that I had going on as a kid was a fascination with blue glass bottles.

There was a time that medication such as Vicks VapoRub and Milk of Magnesia came in actual blue glass bottles and I’d collect them. Believe it or not, I found the blue color of the bottles, coupled with the coolness of the glass as a calming device to my otherwise overly active mania.

Even stranger is the belief I held about those glass containers. I would breathe into them after I had completely scrubbed and cleaned them, thinking that I was transferring a bit of my spirit into them, before putting the lid back on them.

Over the years I had well over 125 different bottles, from the giant Vicks containers to the even bigger M.O.M. ones. I had them all neatly lines up in both the garage and in my bedroom that I shared with Adam, until I was 16-years-old.

One sunny summer day, following a long weekend of traveling for two different track meets in Oregon, I came home to find my collection gone. Mom had grown tired of it, claiming they were a waste of time, and had Pa Sanders take them to the dump.

It took me several days, if not a couple of weeks to get over this and the unwarranted fear that I was going to die because my trapped spirit was tossed out with them. Every time I see a blue-bottle, now days, whether it be plastic or actual glass, I recall those extreme days of summer and then laugh at my silliness.

Back then no one really had an understanding of manic-depression – of which I was more manic than depressed. Had anyone realized I was in such a state, they’d probably would have lobotomized me or something.

As a side note in 2016, The National Center for Biotechnology Information published a paper on the positive effects of Blue‐blocking glasses as additive treatment for mania. Such things leave me to wonder if I was onto something back then and had no idea.

As often is the case, when towns become increasingly populated, the local cemetery is eventually relocated to make more room. One such cemetery, once found at the foot of 9th Street, in Crescent City, California, is now known as ‘Brother Jonathan Point’ and ‘Brother Jonathan Park.’

In 1949, local Kiwanis Club members took it upon themselves to clean up the old cemetery and make it a historical landmark because the victims of the Brother Jonathan sinking were laid to rest there. It would take another 10 years to complete the task.

The Del Norte County Historical Society applied for what was known then as the Brother Jonathan Cemetery to be registered as a state landmark in 1955. The Rotary Club then “reconstructed” the site using 28 original headstones circling a flagpole on raised ground.

The only headstones belonging to Brother Jonathan victims are those of Polina and Daniel Rowell. The remaining 26 are those of various local residents.

Originally, purchased by the Masons in 1854, their records show that it had separate sections for Native Americans, the Masons, Catholics and the Chinese. One of the problems with early records involve the Chinese population.

As per their custom, they would bury their dead in the cemetery, only to dig them up to have their remains shipped home to China for burial with their ancestors. However, no one bothered to record these interments or their removal and the only proof that a body had been laid to rest, then removed, were the divots left behind following a removal.

Masonic records also show that it’s west boundary went to the end of ninth Street, the southern boundary to six street, the eastern boundary as far as A Street, which now encompasses Taylor and Wendell Streets. While building homes, in later years, contractor’s unearthed several caskets, leading to the speculation that some homes came to be built over undiscovered burials.

The wreck of the ‘Brother Jonathan’ on July 30, 1865, brought some of the 224 drowning victims to the cemetery. As many as 90 bodies washed ashore in the Crescent City area, with 66 people being buried in a mass grave, marked only by a row of pine trees.

As time went on, the cemetery fell into disrepair later described as a ‘jungle littered with stones broken by vandals.’ Finally, after a storm in the 1929, that brought caskets to the surface, the city requested that anyone with family buried there, re-inter them at the Crescent City Cemetery on Cooper street.

While relatives of the Brother Jonathan disaster collected some of their loved ones, it’s believed that some remains are still in the area, whereabouts unknown. The same can be said about local residents, as it’s thought that all the headstones were officially relocated, but not all the bodies.

There are no complete records on how many people came to be buried at the cemetery. In fact, there are no known official records before 1905, but after 64 years of use, it’s estimated that some 1,500 bodies were at one time or another, interred in the patch of land.

Reminder to self: never make snow-angels in a dog park.

Recently, a friend of mine lost his job at a small town newspaper after 28-and-a-half years of working for this organization. His ‘firing’ is a symptomatic of an even greater problem as technology, used simply for monetary gain, begins to replace human-skill in the newsroom.

Many of the US’s ‘leading’ newsrooms are now using artificial intelligence to ‘produce’ data-heavy stories. The Associated Press, which is often used as a resource by smaller organizations to develop their own news articles, began using ‘language generation’ software to produce both sports and earning reports in 2014.

The Wall Street Journal uses AI technology to help identify ‘fake news’ stories. Many of these same stories are also written by that same AI technology which eventually flags these ‘fake news’ articles, canceling each other out.

Finally, in 2016, the Washington Post used a ‘robot reporter’ to cover not only the Rio Olympics, but also the US presidential campaign. And that’s the danger – one mistake not caught before filing and every news agency using that source becomes questionable.

On June 22, 2017, the Los Angeles Times, reported hat a 6.8 magnitude earthquake had hit the Pacific Ocean about ten miles from Santa Barbara. The computer found the data, dating back to 1925, and ran with it as if it had happened that day.

No wonder, the media suffers from serious trust-issues and again, they’ve done it to themselves with their so-called saving money measures.

As I sit and type this, I do so while in pain. It began Friday even after going to bed; first a stabbing pain that came and went in a flash, followed by the need to sit on the toilet a couple of hours later.

But since the pain had vanished, I thought nothing more about it. In fact, I did something I very rarely do – I went to the movies and ate nearly two large tubs of popcorn.

That’s where this really begins, because I also ate two small beef tacos for an early dinner and then a good-sized bowl of rice after getting home and before bed. About two in the morning I grew hot and sweaty, but also felt chilly.

Since I often have night-terrors that include night-sweats, I didn’t think much of it. That all changed when it came time to get up, and the left side of my lower abdomen had me doubled over in agony.

Though I hurt, I forced myself to take a shower and get dressed. However in less than an hour I was back, laying on the bed, chilled and sweating.

But being the ‘macho man’ I’d like to think I am, I didn’t stay down for very long. In fact, I deliberately returned to my daily routine, having a second cup of coffee and a couple of pieces of bacon for breakfast.

The pain didn’t go away and I was thinking that perhaps I needed to go to the VA hospital for a quick exam, but them I passed gas and felt tremendous relief. The pain subsided for 10 or 15 minutes and I knew in an instant what was wrong – I have a case of diverticulitis.

Simply put, diverticulitis is an inflammation (or in severe cases an infection) of small pouches called diverticula that develop along the walls of the intestines. The formation of the pouches themselves is a relatively benign condition known as diverticulitis.

Symptoms include abdominal pain, fever, nausea, and a change in bowel habits. I hit all the high points, save for nausea — thankfully.

One of the things that can trigger an onset of diverticulitis is popcorn – and as stated before – I ate two large tubs while a the movies. But I may have already been in the throes of the disorder the night before and the popcorn jus’ made it worse.

Anyway, changes are coming – more fruits, veggies, salads and the like; less red meat and grains. And finally, longer walks — perhaps more hiking, too.

At present, I am on a clear liquid diet, mostly warmed water, to help flush my system. I still haven’t had a really colon-clearing bowel movement (I’ll spare you the details when it happens,) and standing up is still a painful (though less than it has been) activity.

One final thing – in my experience – only the passing of a kidney stone is worse than this when it comes to pain. In fact, I deliberately stopped drinking whole milk afterwards.

And now — time to return to my ever-humble commode.

Well worth the watch!

As I sat staring at my computer vacant screen, I caught a slight movement in the corner of my left eye. Looking over I saw my Action Figure G.I. Joe climbing up the side of the book-case towards my desk.

A few seconds later, he made the perilless leap from the case towards my desk. Unfortunately. he landed on a loose stack of papers and tumbled hard to the carpeted floor.

He must’ve knocked the wind out of himself as he laid motionless for about ten seconds. Finally, and as I was getting ready to check on him, he sat up.

“Fuck you, you asshole!” he snarled at me as got to his feet.

“What the hell did I do?” I barked back.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing – and that’s the problem, butt-face!”

“Hey, shithead, the last time I tried to help you, you got all pissy with me.”

“Well — that was then.”

“So, you want help now?”

“Yeah”

“Yeah, what?”

“Whadd’ya mean ‘Yeah, what?’”

“You want help – so how do you ask for it.”

“Please,” Joe lilts as if the very word is killing him, “help me up on to your god-damn desk.”

Gently, I reached down, grasped him around the hips and lifted him to the desk. Once, I was certain he’d found his footing, I let go, where he simply stood there as if lost.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked.

“Shit! I can’t fucking remember why the hell I came in here,” he answered, hands on his hips, “Can you please let me down?”

Again, as gently as possible, I grasped him around his mid-section and lowered him to the floor. I could hear him muttering to himself as he walked down the hallway.

I returned to staring at my computer, the cursor still violently flashing at the top of the page, and thought, “Awkward…”

People who confuse ‘burro’ with ‘burrow’ don’t know their ass from a hole-in-the-ground.

True friends are the one’s who’ll laugh during your eulogy because they know how the story really happened.