Fall is upon us,
Leaves scattered on ground.
The rake remains lonely.

Life is a circle and it isn’t all that hard to understand. But jus’ in case, let me break it down for you.

The cockroach is afraid of the mouse. The mouse fears the cat.

The cat’s scared of the dog. The dog’s frightened of the man.

The man dreads the woman. And the woman — well, she’s petrified of the cockroach.

See?  There’s nothing confusing about it at all, especially once you know your place in the scheme of things.

At times I get angry,
Forgetting myself, others.

Hurting people’s feelings,
Including family, friends,
Don’t take it personal.

At times I get angry,
Forgetting myself, others.

I am jus’ venting hard,
At the darkness beyond the light,
From our campfire’s circle.

Fighting off the wolf,
Fend off coyote,
Predators wild,
High range varmints.

But as we kill them,
A bigger threat
Works into us.
Suit, tie, promises.

One kills wildlife,
The other slaughters
Liberty, life, us.
Domination!

Of nature’s wolf,
Maybe crafty coyote,
Will be survivors —
We return to dust.

Listen: wolf howls,
And coyote sings,
Perhaps they know,
Man’s final fate.

This is a letter I wrote today to Presodent Donald Trump about how the Bundy trial is being conducted by Judge Gloria Navarro in Las Vegas, Nevada…

President Donald J. Trump
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington D.C. 20500

August 15, 2017

Dear Mr. President:

Federal Judge Gloria Navarro, a Harry Reid nominee and a Barack Obama appointee, is overseeing the proceedings of the United States v. Bundy, et. al, trial in Las Vegas, and is acting with disregard for the U.S. Constitution.

During this trial, she denied defendant Todd Engle the right to represent himself, making this ruling after he called on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) agent-in-charge Dan Love to answer questions regarding Love being under investigation for misconduct. Judge Navarro also denied the defense the right to cross-examine FBI agent Adam Nixon about a warrant he obtained to search FBI-informant Greg Burleson’s Facebook page, or would she allow testimony about how the BLM shot and killed several cows belonging to the Bundy family or how Dave Bundy was arrested for documenting agents during the stand-off at Bunkerville.

The defense lost its right to object because Judge Navarro considers it a disruption. Because of this and other actions, she created an unfair advantage for the prosecution, including a self-incrimination situation for defendant Eric Parker after ruling that none of his witnesses could testify on his behalf. Then, when Parker took the stand in his own defense, Judge Navarro removed and banned from giving further testimony, leaving Parker no voice in our federal judicial system.

Judge Navarro allowed every prosecution witnesses (all federal agents) to remain in her courtroom, while denying defense witnesses the same benefit. Prosecution witnesses also had the right to testify about the personal fear they felt and to become emotional, including crying on the stand, while she threatened defense witnesses with contempt should they express themselves in the same manner. Finally, she denied the defense the right to present any evidence produced by the defense’s investigators before April 12, 2014, while allowing the prosecution the right to present evidence, both before and after that date.

Judge Gloria Navarro should be removed from office following Article III, Section 3 of the U.S. Constitution, which reads in part, “[T]he Judges, both supreme and inferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good behaviour…”

Should Judge Navarro be retained, then I respectfully ask that you grant full pardons to each defendant involved in this case. Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter. God bless you and God bless America.

Sincerely,
Tom Darby

As laid in bed last night, I asked God to send me a story as I was out of words. I had forgotten about that little self-serving prayer as I sat on my front porch and enjoyed an early morning cup of coffee.

From somewhere up the street came a girl and her younger brother. From the way they acted and talked to each other it wasn’t hard to see that they were related.

“You’re gonna get in trouble,” the girl of about 12, replied. “Mom said not to play with your cleats.”

The brother, possibly three-years younger, was tossing them into the air, end-over-end and letting them hit the asphalt, where he picked them up and did it all again. As he did so he mocked his sister, repeating her words in a funny voice.

No sooner had he done so, the cleats got caught about 15-feet above him, the shoe-string firmly wrapping itself around the protruding branch of a tree. He stood there looking up at them, mouth agape.

“Oh…you’re dead now,” the sister claimed. “Mom’s gonna tan your hide.”

I nearly laughed aloud at the phrasing – ‘tan your hide,’ which seemed so last century for a girl born in the new millennium.

The boy on the other hand, demanded, “Help me get’em down!”

“They’re too high, we’ll never reach’em in time for school,” she responded.

“Well, call the fire department to get them down!” he looked at her. “They get cats outta trees, don’t they.”

“Good idea,” she answered, as she pulled her cellphone from her back pocket. Seconds later I heard her say, “Mom?”

Upon hearing that, the boy lost it, “You called mom?!”

A few minutes later a truck came moving down the street. Behind the wheel was a woman, who when she got out of the truck she’d parked beneath the tree, was dress in a pair of old sweat pants and a dressy silky blouse.

She growled at the kids, “Get…in…the…truck,” as she climbed in the bed of the F-150 and then onto the roof, yanking the cleats from the tree branch. Within half-a-minute, the drivers’ side door slammed and she headed down the street to drop the children at school.

And that’s where I thought this story was to end – wrong.

This afternoon the same two siblings were walking up the street, going home from school. Close behind was a mutt of a dog, who kept racing up at a fast trot and nosing into the little boy.

Without warning, the kid got mad and tossed something at the retreating dog. As fast as it hit the roadway, the dog had it in his mouth and was dashing away in the opposite direction.

It was the same pair of cleats from this morning. The last I saw of the pair they were chasing after the dog, with the girls exclaiming, “You’re really dead now. Mom’s gonna tan your hide for sure this time.”

It jus’ goes to show you that if you give a person a colorful shirt and a fancy lanyard with a special ID, you have the makings of a fascist. In years past, because I don’t generally attend Hot August Nights (HAN) events, I don’t get to witness the behavior of the organization’s volunteers.

A few years back I had to go 12 blocks out of my way to get around a ‘road block’ being enforced by one of these volunteers. He stopped me from entering traffic on Victorian Avenue in Sparks because I was not in a ‘classic vehicle.’ No, I was working, delivering pizza to make ends meet while in between jobs.

No one cared when I complained then and I doubt anyone with care now, after the treatment I received from two HAN volunteers in downtown Reno. Twice, they threatened to have the police arrest me because I was in the middle of South Virginia Street with other photographers, taking pictures of the cars and trucks as they passed in review.

The first incident came when one photographer, in a green shirt and wearing a lanyard with some sort of ID on it, told me – not asked – told me to get out of the street. I told him I didn’t have to get out of the street because it is public property. He walked away, threatening to call the cops.

At that point he did everything in his power to block my shot of any vehicle. I eventually fell-back half a block to continue taking pictures unencumbered.

A few minutes later a woman approaches me and demands I get out of the street for safety reasons. I told her no, too.

“I don’t want you to get run over,” she claimed.

“By who?” I asked, adding, “You mean the cars that are passing one either side of us and not touching the passing lane that separates the travel lanes?”

“Yes!” she yelled at me.

“So – what are you and all these other people covered in some sort of pixy dust that makes you immune to being run over?” I asked in true smart-ass form.

“I’m calling the cops,” she declared.

“Good! Go ahead. The number’s 9-1-1,” I shot back, adding, “I have as much right to the street as you or anyone else at this event.”

She walked away and the police never arrived. I continued to take pictures as I had been, though I missed several great looking car and trucks due to her interference.

Now, this is where it gets interesting (at least for me) as the man who first told me to get out of the street came up to me from my right side and screamed at me to get out of the street. He drew right up into my face as if he were trying to scare me or caused me to feel intimidated.

It didn’t succeed as I drew even closer to him, nearly touching his nose with mine and said, quietly, “Please get out of my face, sir, and you’d best make the decision to do so quickly.”

“Or what?” he stated childishly.

“I’ll be forced to beat you to death with your fancy camera in front of all these witnesses,” I answered in a voice he could only hear.

He blinked and swallowed hard. I maintained my composure and an unblinking stare as he backed away and stated he too was calling the law.

For a third time, they didn’t arrive.

He spent the next few minutes harassing me by stepping in front of me as I tried to take pictures. He failed again and again and finally gave up.

But his counterpart was more hard-headed and continued to try injecting herself in front of my camera. Finally, “I shouted, “Hey, Blondie, get your fat-ass out-of-the-way!” much to the delight of the spectators lining the sidewalk, who clapped and cheered.

She walked back to where she had come from and soon disappeared from sight. Figuring I had pushed the envelope far enough for the day, I started back north along South Virginia, continuing to snap shots of vehicles while heading for my truck.

Of course, what those HAN volunteers did to me is nothing compared to what the City of Reno did to local business before the start of the weeks-plus long event. The A&W at Kietzke and Plumb Lane, which has been a mainstay for HAN attendees, was force to close it’s door at 11 pm, though the restaurant had remained open past 11 pm during the event in past years.

Why?  Well, the city suddenly claimed a so-called land-use zoning for the area only allows businesses to be open from six am to 11 pm.

They did however offer A&W a Special-Use Permit allowing them to stay open beyond their government-imposed curfew.  Nice of them to offer something that comes with a six-week completion time period and a business-killing fee of $2,500.

When it comes to a sense of humor, my son didn’t fall very far from the tree as his father. The only real difference is that while I’m more ‘off the cuff,’ Kyle is more ‘thoughtful,’ in his approach.

As Kyle was growing up, we’d go to the San Diego, California area to visit his step-mom’s family. While there we’d also do many of the touristy things like Disneyland, the San Diego Zoo and Sea World.

Admittedly, Sea World was our least favorite. In fact Kyle told us that he wouldn’t be upset in the least if we never went back – saying he’d rather go to Space Mountain or do the Matterhorn.

Then a couple of years later, as we were getting ready to head south for a week, Kyle came to me and asked, “Hey Dad, can we go to Sea World while we’re down there?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “But I thought you didn’t like Sea World though?”

“That was then,” he replied. “I’ve changed my mind and now I wanna see people’s reaction.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Reaction?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you,” he returned, “I plan to take a fishing pole and walk around with it.”

No, this isn’t going to be a tale about an amphibious croaker, this is about a piece of brass with a number of very sharp two-penny nail (2d) sized pins standing upright on a pedestal. Mom owned a number of these and when not in use, she kept them under the kitchen sink.

One afternoon, shortly after getting my hair buzzed off (which happen nearly every school year after class pictures and again at the beginning of summer,) I was suffering from ‘itchy head syndrome’ and was in need of something to seriously scratch my head with. Using a hairbrush wasn’t getting the job done, so I figured one of Mom’s metal frogs would do the trick.

For a good many minutes, I moved the frog, with it’s sharp nails over my scalp and soon the itchiness disappeared and I felt much better. So I put the frog away and went outside to play.

It wasn’t too long after that one of the neighbor kids stopped me to ask what was wrong with my head. After I said nothing was wrong, she then asked why I was bleeding all over myself.

Reaching up and touching the side of my head, I raced home in a panic after seeing blood on my finger tips. Evidently, the frog was sharper than I though and I had scratch marks coursing although what stubble remained on my noggin.

Mom helped me get cleaned up and she even put hydrogen peroxide on my self-inflicted cuts and scrapes. By the next morning, my scabbed-over scalp looked as if I had tangled with a wildcat and lost.

The second I stepped on the school bus, the teasing commenced. Later in the the day Mr. Escola, my fifth grade teacher, asked me in private what had happened and I started to explain what I’d done.

As I told him, he tried not too, but he chuckled slightly. Hearing this, I began to cry and in embarrassment I hid in the restroom when recesses came around.

Near the middle of the following week, I had grown accustom to the teasing, the snickers and names like, “Scratch,” “Road map” and “Scabbs.” This created a complacency that left me absent-mindedly picking at my wounds.

Following lunch, Mr. Escola usually read to us and we quietly sat and listened as he did. That’s when I started playing with a rather long scab that had dried from one side of my head to the other.

Without thinking, I gently tugged on it until I peeled the entire thing in one piece off my scalp. It was probably a good four-to-five inch piece and I couldn’t help but marvel at it as I rolled it around between my fingers.

Then for some inexplicable reason I put one end of the scab between my teeth to see what it felt like. That’s when I came out of my revery and realized Lorri Stobert was staring at me in disbelief.

Without warning, she rolled her eyes in the back of her head and began to quiver and squeal. It took her a moment to be able to explain to Mr. Escola and the rest of the class what she had jus’ witnessed.

Mr. Escola then sent me to the principal’s office for disrupting class.

Yesterday, I got to talking with my neighbor who is into working out.  She likes to run and lift weights on alternating days.

The conversation got around to me asking, “So, how do you know when you’ve pushed yourself too far?”

“Well, there are three things I consider warning signs,” she answered. “A pain that shouldn’t be there, labored breathing and light-headedness.”

“That’s good to know,” I returned.

After she left, I was sitting on my front porch watching the world pass by when it occurred to me, “Her warning signs describe me right after I put my tennis shoes on.”