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“Fuck, God!” I heard myself angrily shout, “Did you have to kick me in the nuts like this?”

It had been a stressful work week. Tired from working the overnight shift, I went to the radio station, bitching about all the shit I had to get done and complaining about how I wasn’t sure if I could carry out what the boss wanted.

Then I heard a schoolmate had committed suicide, and I realized quickly what I was going through was nothing. Things were not that bad after all.

I sat in my truck for at least 15 minutes after getting home, crying for my friend’s death. Then I went inside and cried some more, ashamed that I am so self-centered when there are others needing help so badly.

“I didn’t kick you in the nuts,” the Lord responded somewhere deep in my conscience, “I simply used a horrible situation that I had no control over, to get your attention.”

No Band-Aid can ever mend a broken heart or heal a wounded soul.

At first I thought it was some sort of spoof, but I decided to give it a try and it really was the correct phone number.  I dialed the ObamaCare’s national hotline at 1-800-318-2596 and it was answered by a polite sounding recording telling me I had the right number.

Now, for the ironic thing about all this types out : 1-800-3(F) 8(U) 2(C) 5(K) 9(Y) 6(O). So jus’ remember, it’s 1-800-FUCK YO to reach the next available health-care provider.

“The man with the donkey and his daughter Bertha are my family. This is my great-great Grandfather Henry Blake from Reqoi (Requa) in Klamath California,” writes Richard England, Sr., “This picture was taken at Turup, (Tarup Creek, Klamath Glen) California at their ranch and dairy across from Blake’s landing shortly before he was murdered on the way to Crescent City to sell milk and butter.”

“This is one of Henry’s 13 children. He had a wife named Sophie Blake; she was a kind and beautiful women who was loved by all. Their daughter Lillian Blake Puzz, a full-blooded Yurok Indian, was my great-grandmother.

She too was a beautiful lady who lived to be around 95 years old,” England adds.  “She was born in late 1888 and passed in 1983.”

She told her grandchildren and great-grandchildren stories about Oma- ahh, the Indian devil and how if you miss behaved or snuck away to the river to play by ourselves he would come get us.  Her son, who could not swim, drowned in the river and this is how she protected us from the same fate.”

It is in response to a photograph I posted on another website. It was the first time I had heard of Berth and her father, Henry Blake, or of his murder and I wanted to know more.

A quick Internet search revealed this piece written by Kim Mamaradlo, called “Honoring Our Ancestors,” from the May 2011 issue of ‘Yurok Indian Housing Authority.’

“Henry Blake was born between 1869-1870 in Crescent City to Mary and Skow. Sophie was born between 1868 and 1870 in Moreck to Sallie Long.

Charlie & Sallie Long sold Sophie in marriage to Herger of Requa. Sophie was very young and Herger was much older and she didn’t care for him.

Sophie had a child with Herger but both he and the child were killed by soldiers. It is believed that Henry Blake was related to Herger and as an eligible bachelor, took the widow Sophie as his bride, as was Indian custom.

Henry and Sophie Blake had thirteen children: Ora (1889/1890-1912), Lilly (1890/1892-1983), Henry (1893-1910), May (1895-1927), Warren (1897-1980), Charlie (1900-1909), Alfred (1902-1913), Lena (1904-1967), Mary (1906-1996), Maggie (1908-1986), Ashford (1910-1911), Bertha (1912-1951) and Jessie (1914- 2005).

In an eight year period between 1908 and 1915, there were nine deaths in their immediate family: five of their children; Sophie’s father and brother, Henry and his mother.

Sophie’s grief was great and she would go to the river by herself to mourn. Sophie was a kind and gentle soul towards her family… no reprimands from her… just acceptance and love.

But she could be tough.

While Sophie was living in her house on the Blake allotment, the game warden drove through the Blake property down to the landing and confiscated Sophie’s fishing net, which had been set in the Blake hole. When Sophie saw the game warden go through, she went down and locked the gate across the road. She refused to unlock the gate to let him out until he returned the net to her.

Sophie is buried in the Blake Family Cemetery.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything more about Henry Blake’s murder, but the search continues.

When I saw this — I thought blood was going to squirt from my eyeballs! It is proof of what I’ve said for a long time: both the Democrats and the Republicans in Washington D.C. are part of the ‘progressive movement.’

Now, I have something else to say: neither Democratic Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, nor is the Republican Speaker of the House, John Boehner is to be trusted with the people’s business.  The ‘proof’ are emails sent between the two’s offices; one seeking a backdoor deal and the other willing to arrange it.

Both will stab the American people in the back without hesitation. Neither man deserves the respect of any voter that placed them in office.

The man who makes a secret deal to get something others are actually entitled too, and is being withheld, is a dishonest man. And a man who will broker a secret deal, then expose the deed, is jus’ as dishonest.

Finally, it’s time to defund both the GOP and Democratic parties, and start giving cash directly to your candidate of choice. Eff the parties, like they’re effing us!

It might seem strange to honor an Indian chief who not only didn’t particularly like the white man and who had claimed the Paiute’s ancestral lands but also was known to attack them on occasion. However, Frank Baud, considered one of the city’s founders, had a fondness for the old chief and wanted to honor him.

Chief Winnemucca, who became a leader of the Northern Paiute, was actually a Shoshone. Known as Poito, or Bad Face, by custom and tradition he became a Paiute when he married the daughter of the old Paiute chief that some historians also call Winnemucca.

To honor him, as the story goes, the old chief named him Winnemucca the Younger, which translates as the “giver of spiritual gifts.”

How the chief got the westernized name also is a mystery. The chief was a young man in the late 1840s when white men first spotted him.

He was wearing only one moccasin at the time. Immediately, they dubbed him “One Moccasin.”

The Paiute word about items worn on the feet is mau-cau. Since he was shod on only one foot, he was known as One-a-mau-cau or Winnemucca.

Tradition says, wearing only one moccasin was a sign he was in love, but the more probable story is he lost the moccasin while running from the soldiers across the Forty Mile Desert.

As I rolled over — waking from a short nap — I heard these words rolling around in my noggin, like a bad dream. They’re from ‘Queen’ and their song, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch, scaramouch – will you do the fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me
Gallileo, gallileo, gallileo, gallileo,
Gallileo figaro magnifico

But I’m just a poor boy and nobody loves me
(He’s just a poor boy from a poor family)
(Spare him his life from this monstrosity)
Easy come easy go will you let me go
(Bismillah no we will not let you go) let him go
(Bismillah, we will not let you go) let him go
(Bismillah, we will not let you go) let me go
(Will not let you go) let me go (never)
(Never let you go) let me go, never let me go ooo
No, no, no, no, no, no, no
Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me – for me – for me

No, I haven’t seen the flick, “Wayne’s World,” in ages. And come to think of it — I haven’t heard the song in a while either.

All I can say is — what the hell?

It was 57 years ago, September 24th, that my parents, Margery Ann Olivera and Thomas Junior Darby married one another in a civil ceremony in Reno, Nevada. The newlyweds spend a honeymoon night at the Mapes Hotel, dining and dancing, before he had to report back for duty at Requa Air Force Station, Klamath, California.

The picture shows what the town looked like that year. The Mapes was imploded in 2000 and a small park now fills the vacant lot.

My parents marriage imploded in 1980, resulting in divorce in 1982. Luckily, they remained married long enough for my sisters Marcy and Deirdre and our brother Adam to come into this world.

Both Mom and Dad are gone now, and I miss them terribly some days.

The selection of grand marshal is typically an honor bestowed on community members who have participated in good deeds in Del Norte County. The grand marshal usually has a list of accomplishments and associations.

One such grand marshal was Sam Lopez, a member of the How-on-quet Tribe of Smith River. He celebrated his 86th birthday in 1972, the same year of his service to Crescent City.

Barbara Mann, a nurse at Seaside Hospital, was the grand marshal for the 1981 Fourth of July parade. She was a counselor for Future Nurses Association at Del Norte High School and a member of the Emergency Department Nurses Association.

Grand marshal and businessman Andrew Tomasini was grand marshal in 1985. A transplanted Italian, he arrived in California on March 15, 1911. His Fort Dick Tavern business was opened in 1930.

At that time, Prohibition was law and the establishment was an ice cream and sandwich shop. In 1933 he obtained his liquor license, which became the oldest held in the county.

The main feature of Crescent City’s Fourth of July festivities usually showcases Class B explosives. Class B is one level below dynamite.

Round explosives are called shells and have no military function. The multi-colored display may take 24 minutes to use $3,000 worth of ammo.

A pyrotechnics license is required to perform the duty. Pyrotechnics also found in local stores and firework stands have entertained residents for years.

Modern laws prevent the use of fireworks – such as Blackcats, Roman Candles, and Bottle Rockets – used in the earlier decades of the 1900s. Fireworks used in the neighbor’s yard now may include Giant Silver Screamers, Devil’s Delights and Peacock Fountains.

The parade of floats in the downtown area was another staple of festivities. In 1961, a small rodeo was held at the Del Norte Roping Arena on Northcrest Drive.

Holiday concessions operated on the beach at the end of H street. Food items normally included Chinese potstickers, Italian sausage sandwiches, clam chowder, shrimp, doughboys, tostadas, corn on the cob and Pronto Pups.

Dessert treats traditionally included cotton candy, blueberry and whipped cream covered Mooncraters, snowcones and ice cream bars. As celebrations grew through the years, the event began to draw people from outside of Del Norte County.

There really is nothing like a good old-fashioned Independence Day celebration — like a Crescent City Fourth-of-July.

It was half-past midnight September 18th, 1891 when a group of 75 hooded and well armed men dropped Luis Ortiz to his death from Reno’s Virginia Street Bridge. By all accounts, he went to his Maker without a whimper.

Before his death, Ortiz was run out-of-town. He was also not welcomed in parts of north-eastern California as well as Nevada’ Humboldt County.

Ortiz, by all accounts had a nasty drinking problem, becoming belligerent and mean when drunk. The evening before, he had returned to Reno, only to start drinking at the Grand Central Hotel.

When the establishment closed for the night he, bartender Tom McCormack and bar patron Tom Welch stepped out side. Ortiz decided that would be a good time to fire his pistol in the air.

In drawing his six-shooter, Ortiz accidentally shot Welch in the butt, knocking him down. McCormack grabbed the gun as Ortiz squeezed the trigger, again.

The bullet missed McCormack, creating powder burns in his top coat. However his struck Washoe County Sheriff Deputy and Reno Night Watchman Richard Nash above his groin.

Nash was still able to arrest Ortiz, who was escorted to the county lock-up.  As for Nash, he was taken home, where it was expected he would die from his wound.

It didn’t take long for Ortiz to sober up. He reportedly told Undersheriff Bill Caughlin that he didn’t recall anything from the night before – let alone the shooting of a deputy.

As Ortiz slept off his drunk, a group of men, calling themselves the ‘601,’ gathered for an informal meeting in a nearby lumber yard to decided what was to be done with Ortiz. It was quickly agreed upon that they would hang him.

Within minutes the ban of vigilantes swarmed and over powered Caughlin, dragging Ortiz away to meet his fate. It would take two tries before Ortiz finally found his feet off the ground.

The first attempt ended when the rope broke. But not to be undone in their deed, someone found a thicker rope.

Before his first experience at the end of a noose, Ortiz was asked if he had any last requests. The doomed man asked for a drink of water and priest.

Neither was available. Yet someone did offer him a flask of whiskey, which he quickly gulped down.

A minute or so later, Ortiz found himself choking to death, dangling over the Truckee River, from the steel girder of the bridge that crossed the expanse of water. His body was left there until he was removed to Sander’s Undertaking Parlor.

Nash would recover from his wounds, going on to being elected in 1902 as Justice of the Peace. He served in that capacity until his death, December 15^th, 1905.

A convening Grand Jury refused to indict anyone for the lynching. As for Ortiz, he was buried without ceremony, the thick rope still tight around his stretched-out neck.