While I understand the sentiment, I don’t understand the point of shutting off the lights of the Reno Arch tonight in honor of the victims of the Orlando mass shooting. And while I agree with Mayor Hillary Schieve, who states on her official FB page, “It is more important than ever that the LGBTQ community knows that they have the love and support of the Biggest Little City knows that they have the love and support of the Biggest Little City,” such activity does not throw light on the real problem.

This is but another way to “bury our heads in the sand” and ignore the truest of facts: that the U.S. has a real problem — an evil plague known as radical Islamic terrorism. We need to start calling it by its real name!

Finally, we cannot secure the safety of a small fragment of our society if we stay unwilling to protect the safety of our entire society. This is what is wrong with our nation today, we’ve been fragmented to the point that we seem not to care even one iota for our brothers and sisters with whom me may disagree.

It is time for Americans of all stripes to take back our common society, our moral virtues and our country.

Those of the LGTBQ persuasion must realize by now that it isn’t your average ‘Christian, Conservative, Caucasian’ male that’s bent on destroying their lives. Rather it is the very people who ‘claim’ they are trying to protect you from us – the Progressive.

It is the Progressive who refuses to use the words ‘Radical Islamic Terrorist,’ or even tell the truth when that truth is so plainly laid out before them. Not once have I seen a member of the Westboro Baptist Church, as reprehensible as they are, pick up a fire arm and kill or main another person.

No. It is those who do not believe in our American value of ‘live and let live.’ Rather it is those who’ve let our nation become a ‘third world,’ and those who refuse to acknowledge that a twisted form of religion known as Radical Islam, which espouses hatred and death to any and all peoples who do not follow their ‘ideal of religion,’ is a threat to you and I.

Wake up! Demand your God-given right to personal security and not simply state-sponsored security.

And any man or woman who ‘picks-up’ the mantle of ‘humanitarian’ had best care for more than one ‘type’ of human. Otherwise that so-call ‘humanitarian’ is nothing more than an ‘activist.’

It is the ‘activist,’ such as the one we have in the White House, who has created social-unrest, dividing us, pitting us one against the other. Such acts, such rhetoric, such sickening action must be called out and halted in its tracks publicly.

Now is not the time to be faint of heart! We must find ourselves willing to stand shoulder to shoulder and to push back against this egregious wrong that is destroying our nation.

Lastly, I am calling on those in the media – especially the local media, my local media – to toss out that Progressive playbook known as the Associated Press Handbook on how to ‘accurately’ write and deliver the news. Simple words, common words, truthful words are far better and less deadly than the garbage that you’re forced to spew out because there is no one researching and rewrite what comes off the Internet.

“The Fourth Estate,” as Edmund Burke labeled the press, was at one time positioned to battle federal overreach and to provide correct, prompt and beneficial information to the community it served. Search yourselves; find the strength to provide that information once again in a direct and honest way and quit wasting your time plying ‘politically correct’ language to your livelihood and our lives.

The terror attack in Orlando should be a wake up call. We must take corrective action now or face more terror like this in our future.

“No, you never get used to it,” I told a friend as I learned yet again of another friend’s passing.

Steven M. Smith (known as ‘Smith in the Morning,’) and I worked together a couple of different times during my radio broadcast career. The first came after I shortly after I moved to Reno, Nevada and landed a gig at KONE, then later doing overnights on KOZZ.

Wet-behind-the-ears, I was still trying to gain a foothold on exactly who I was on-air. Many times you’ll hear the advice, “Jus’ be yourself,” which sounds so easy, but is actually one of the hardest things to attain.

It was Steve, who during the production of an automobile commercial that I was an extra voice on, gave me the best advice an inexperienced disc jockey could get. After the umpteenth take, he stopped and ‘politely’ said, “Damn it, Tom, jus’ talk to me!”

Then he went on to explain that I was sounding more like an announcer than a guy who was simply walking onto a car lot to look at or purchase a vehicle. His instruction was so easy to follow and it helped me finally ‘find my voice’ in radio.

Steve, I learned while doing the overnight shift which lead into his morning drive shift, was not only a consummate professional and smart-ass, but also one the most intelligent personality-radio jocks you could ever work. He read any and all materials he could get his hands on and had the ability to memorize much of it and could recite it once needed.

Often I’d come into the computer room and see him tapping out some drumbeat on his pad, while perusing the Internet. He made it a point to know what was happening in the world and he managed morning after morning to weave that new-found knowledge into listener’s lives and to do it so successfully that it few ever realized that they weren’t really having a ‘two-way conversation.

One more thing before getting to Steve’s stats: he’d be embarrassed by this posting, as he’d think it was too much. He’s the only radio personality that I know of who did his best to stay out of the spotlight unless the job required it.

Steve passed away on June 3, 2017 at the age of 70. Born and raised in Whittier, California on August 30, 1946, he graduated from California High School in Whittier in 1964 and later attended Western State College of Law at Argosy University in Fullerton, California.

He was part of the mid 70’s ‘legendary day’s’ of KDES in Palm Springs, California and inducted into the Nevada Broadcast Hall of Fame in 1999. Steve leaves behind his kids, Matt, Kelsey and Casey.

He rolled over, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It was Greer Valles’ three-month birthday, sober for 90 days, a first for the 68-year-old man in nearly four-and-a-half decades.

Gritting, he willed his aching body from the mattress and gently placed both feet on the chilly floor. Greer smiled, knowing that his sobriety had earned him the opportunity to step outside the compound of the men’s shelter for the first time since the Veteran’s Administration had found him benefits and placed him here.

Though nervous, he could hardly wait to see what the day would bring, but first he had to get showered and dressed. He knew that both were important to his program and he rather enjoyed the discipline he’d long ago left behind.

“I need to do laundry, later,” he thought as he dug through his dirty cloths hamper for a decent shirt to wear. As he did this, he also thought about the line, ‘my cleanest dirty shirt,’ from a song made popular by Johnny Cash.

That thought crashed into the memory of how it had been popular with the guys when he was in Vietnam. He was still ‘wet-behind-the-ears’ when he landed in-country and found himself at Hue City, killing people he had no ill-will towards.

That slipped into the memory of how he came to be in the mess he had found himself in the years since the war had ended. It was a memory he knew he’d be best to avoid as it would turn him sour — and today was no a day for bad moods.

“Ninety-days,” he said aloud as he looked into the eyes of the face that stared back at him from the mirror above the sink. It had been a few years since he’d actually looked at his image in a mirror and it shocked him to find that he was now an old man, gray-haired, bearded and wrinkled.

As required, the old Grunt made his way into the main hall to attend the morning’s first scheduled AA meeting. It was there, after pouring his second cup of coffee and eating another glazed doughnut, that Greer was awarded his ‘90-day chip,’ an aluminum slug that reminded him of the Marine Corps challenge coins he used to collect.

Those, like much of his life, had been lost as he proceeded to burn himself to the ground in an ever-increasing pool of hard liquor and roll-your-own cigarettes. Though he refused to think on it, his mind did play the movie of his life, from getting married to the birth of his two daughters and how he’d had a hard time holding down a job and then the day that his wife took his two prized possessions and walk out of his life for good.

He tried to stay in touch with the girls, now adults, married and with children of their own, his grand-babies, but they refused him.  And often times, as he drank himself into a stupor, he came to the conclusion that the lost connection was because he hadn’t been a good father or husband when they were little.

Thumbing the coin in his hand, Greer walked to the front office and scratched his name across the paper on the clip board that would lead to a day of ‘Liberty.’ Joe, whose job it was to sign people in and out, politely reminded him, “Remember Mr. Valles, the door’s locked at 7 pm sharp and if you’re late you won’t be allowed in.”

“Got it,” Greer replied as he slipping outside and onto the front porch.

“I wonder if this is what a house-bound cat feels like?” he wondered, as if imagining he had secretly sneaked outside to chase a bird or climb a nearby tree.

For the last month he’d been working on making amends to some of the people he hurt. Greer decided that he should go see the woman who owned the little market on the corner.

He’d been arrested for stealing a bottle of 20/20 from her and that is how he came to be in the program and living in the half-way home. She didn’t recognize him when he strode through the door. It took him telling her what he had done for her to even begin to see the former drunk as he had been.

He offered her his apology and a twenty-dollar bill to make up for his theft. Smiling and happy to see the change in the older man, she told him, “No, you keep the money or put it in the offering box the next time you pass a church.”

He agreed, shaking her hand and leaving. For the first time in ages the weight of guilt, or was it shame, melted from his body and even though she hadn’t actually said she forgave him, he realized that saying sorry wasn’t as painful as he had supposed it to be.

As he continued down the sidewalk, the light-bulb came on in his head, “Church!”

He hadn’t been to church since he was first married.

Raised Catholic, Greer had been an alter-boy from shortly after his first communion through his senior year of high school. He was known as a good boy back then and was even looked up to by some the younger kids.

But that was before he enlisted in the Marines. What he had thought was something that would merely place his life on hold for a while, instead changed what life came afterwards.

He didn’t know the name of the church when he opened the door and slipped inside. Out of habit he dipped his finger-tips in the fount of Holy Water and crossed himself as if he’d never strayed from the faith.

Taking a seat in a back pew, Greer Valles listened and recognized what had once been a large part of his boyhood and he relaxed. It felt so comforting that he drifted into a half-sleep, head bobbing backwards and forwards, allowing himself to remember lengthy liturgies of his childhood.

As he dozed, he became aware of something trying to climb into his lap. Half asleep, he first though it might be a cat, but when he opened his eyes and looked down, it was a little boy, perhaps three-years old.

He looked around and saw a woman look at him. Her eyes were wide with fright from the idea of a stranger picking her son up and placing him in his lap.

She got up and crossed the aisle, “I’m so sorry, Mister,” she apologized, lipping the words.

“No problem,” Greer replied in the same form, adding “He’s fine.”

She moved in front of the old man, sitting down beside him. The three sat quietly, the little boy snuggling in Greer Valles lap.

Eventually, he felt the boy’s breathing become rhythmic and he knew the child had gone to sleep, which in turn caused the already drowsy Greer to doze off again. Before he knew it the mother was gently tapping him on the shoulder and taking the still asleep boy from his arms.

“He’s usually afraid of strangers,” she stated

“Well, I’m glad he warmed up to this stranger,” Greer smiled.

“Maybe you remind him of his grandpa,” the woman commented, “though he’s never met either one of them.”

The words stabbed Greer in the heart and to hide the pain he quipped, “Or maybe Santa Claus.”

The mother laughed as she stood and edged past Greer. She turned, looked down, smiling, “Thank you for your kindness and for giving me a break. He’s usually such a wiggle-worm and into everything.”

“Happy to help,” Greer responded as cheerfully as his breaking heart could muster.

He sat there for the next couple of minutes, feeling the sadness spread throughout his entire body. Finally, with a heaving sigh he stood up and walked out the still-open double doorway of church and as Greer Valles stood on the sidewalk that Sunday morning, he knew he wouldn’t make it back in time for curfew.

There, across the street, a bar.

After-school football went along swell, like every practice Jimmy was out giving his best. After two-hours of blocking, tackling and running plays, he was looking forward to a shower, getting dressed and the long bus ride home, where he could either sleep or finish what homework he’d been assigned.

Jimmy cut up with his teammates as he slipped his feet into his worn out boots and headed for the exit. As he did so, he pulled on a vest, something he was known for around the high school – a signature of sorts for the Sophomore athlete and student.

As he stood by the row of buses, waiting to get on board, he saw an uniformed officer walking up the sidewalk towards him. He was accompanied by a man in a three-piece suit and they looked very serious.

Before either reached Jimmy, they stopped and the man in the suit pointed in Jimmy’s direction. For his part Jimmy looked to his right thinking that the man was pointing out something beyond him.

Since he was the only person in the direction pointed, he realized the pair was looking at him. He waited as they quickly strode up to him.

“Yup,” the suited man said, “that’s my vest!”

“Turn around, son,” the officer commanded, “You’re under arrest for theft.”

Before he knew it he was in handcuffs and being escorted passed all of his friends to an awaiting cruiser. Less than ten-minutes later he was in a holding cell by himself and wondering what he’d really done.

A detective came up to the bars and asked, “So Jimmy, where did you get that vest?”

“I found it,” he answered.

“Where?” the man queried.

“It was draped over a bush outside the front doors of the school,” the teen responded.

“You didn’t pick it up in the locker room last week?” came another question.

“No, sir,” Jimmy replied.

“Did you think to turn it in?” the detective wanted to know.

Jimmy looked down and his feet and ashamedly answered, “No.”

The detective then walked away, leaving the young man alone to think about the conversation. He had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wanted to throw up.

An hour later, he was on his way to the juvenile detention center on the outskirts of town. It was there that he learned that he’d be spending the weekend and would see the county judge on Monday morning.

“But the football game, tomorrow…” he pleaded.

“Yeah, what of it?” the guard shot back.

“I’m supposed to play!” Jimmy returned.

“You ain’t going anywhere,” the man stated.

The weekend was a long drawn out affair. Jimmy was held in a room that had only a mattress and a blanket.

He had long given up his street clothing for a white jump suit that was two-sizes too big for his frame. And he had no privacy as he was checked on every 15 to 20 minutes or so, even when he tried to sleep.

Come Monday, he was he was awakened earlier than the rest of the boys being held at the center, he was fed and allowed to quickly shower. Then he was handed some clean clothing, his own clothing, meaning his parents had been to the facility and he never knew it.

The thought left him sad and he cried as he dressed himself for court.

Within the hour he found himself seated outside the court room in a plain room waiting for his case to be called. The wait left his gut churning as his nerves built up in him.

Finally, it was his turn and he was escorted into court. It was the first time he had seen his parents; the old man looked angry and his mama, grief-stricken.

It was almost more than he could take as he stood before the Judge. His mind raced with ways to explain to his dad about how this had happened, and the mistake he’d made by not turning the stupid vest in the first place and how he had learned a lesson from everything that had gone on since Friday.

Jimmy was so busy thinking that he didn’t hear what the District Attorney had said. The next think he recalled was the bang of the Judges gavel on the podium.

“What’s happening?” he whispered to the Public Defender.

“You’re free to go,” she answered, “The DA doesn’t have enough to hold you on the charges.”

That Tuesday, Jimmy learned that because he had been arrested and accused of theft, he was no longer on the football team. It was at that moment that he also realized that from then on, no matter whether he did it or not, he would be questioned or simply blamed for anything that turned up missing.

“And all because I didn’t turn that damned vest into ‘lost and found,’ when I took it off that bush,” he could often be heard muttering to himself, every time he found himself under suspicion.

The last couple of months, all I seem to be doing is crying. Since March a number of things have happened in my life that have unsettled me.

My youngest sister’s died, knocking my legs from under me, my son suddenly and without much notice, moved clear across the country to New York state, an event that was tantamount to a gut-punch,

Then, amid several hiring refusals following lengthy job interviews, my third grade teacher’s death happened. And then learning of the passing of one of my high school teachers has rocked my foundation — and I found myself crumbling.

Without thought, I wrote about this to my friend’s on Facebook, “I’m ready for a break,” jus’ before that,  “Since I can’t sleep, I was trying to figure out what to do; read, write or stay in bed. I think I’ll cry myself to sleep.”

So I had unwittingly prophesied twice into my life…

Once I figured this out, I couldn’t help but think of the woman the prophet Elisha told that she would have a child. When that child was about 12, he died.

But instead of mourning his death, she rode to ask Elisha to come pray over the boy and resurrect him. However as she galloped across the desert, she was stopped by the Prophet’s assistant who asked her three times if everything was alright.

Each time she answered, “All is well,” instead of saying her son was dead.

She refused to speak something negative, knowing that her words carried life and death in them. Instead, she spoke positively, “All is well,” and through her faith, all was well as her son was raised up from the dead.

Then last night, I cracked (a break) and I literally cried myself to sleep. This is what I call a teachable moment because the time is now, amid our sadness, including mine, to be wise and carefully judge our words, because they, like hers, carry with them the power of life and death.

Having cracked in the middle of the night reminded me of this…

Early, near the turn of the century, I first read the story of ‘The Cracked Pot,’ and how because of its imperfection the water-bearer never returned home with a full allotment of water for the household. And instead of fixing the crack in the pot, the water bearer left it and used it daily to water the side of the trail in which he had planted flowers.

On the other end of the pole the water bearer used to carry water from the well to the house was a perfect pot. It had no flaws in it, thus providing as much water for the house as it was designed.

The moral of the story is that the water bearer (a representation of God) used both the cracked pot and the perfect pot for what they were designed to hold water. However, because God knew the one pot was flawed He used that flaw to build beauty into the world, while the perfect pot did everything it was supposed to do, and nothing more.

This morning, I am still cracked, but I am not broken and the tears I shed last night are God’s to use in His garden and I pray He’s watering you, His flower, today.

During the first of three-weeks of what was lightly termed an ‘Indoctrination Course,’ by the Marine Corps, I learned to react immediately when a Drill Instructor directed me to do something. In reality the old saw, “When I tell you to jump, the only question I wanna hear is ‘How high?’ really doesn’t apply.

Why I was being yelled at has become lost to me over time, however I do recall shouting back, “Aye! Aye! Staff Sergeant!” as I took off at a full run across the Grinder, a large unfriendly and unpopular patch of cement used for everything from marching, drills, physical training to discipline.

Before I got very far the Staff Sergeant shouted my name (something you don’t ever want any DI to know) and I stopped on a dime, coming to attention. And as quickly, he was all over me, wanting to know ‘what the hell was wrong with me.’ The only thing I could think to answer was, “I’m not a Marine, Staff Sergeant!”

He paused for a few seconds to look me in the eye. I figured he was about to lower the boom on me as he responded, “That’s the smartest-dumb thing I’ve ever heard! You get any brighter you might as well go ahead and join the Air Force!”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” I yelled back.

From behind me I heard a voice say, “Sarge, he’s already done that…”

The Staff Sergeant looked beyond me, towards the voice and growled, “Corporal, if I want any shit outta you I’ll squeeze your effing head!”

That caused the other nine ‘recruits’ in the course to bust out in laughter. I suddenly found myself standing alone on the Grinder, watching my mates dash across the open surface, and listening to the poor Corporal get dressed down, being reminded that he was “there to assist, not correct the senior NCO when he screws up.”

Here’s the bubble the national media lives in: New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Dallas-Fort Worth. When you see political opinion polls, know that these top five markets are from where those numbers come from and with the first four being populated with Progressives, those figures are necessarily skewed to the far-left of center.

And the IS has it: Unfortunately, with a dishonest national media and unconstitutional justice system, all one needs to be IS a suspect to be considered guilty. Finally, someone needs to remind the media that during a press conference, ‘no,’ IS an entire answer.

Two friends had been out a little later than they should have. They came home to their wives late and then met the next day.

One man said to the other, “Was your wife angry because we were out so late last night?”

The other man said, “Nah, she came to me on her hands and her knees.”

“No kidding? How did it happen?” the first man asked.

The second man looked kind of sheepish and said, “She crawled across the bedroom floor, looked under the bed and demanded, “Come out from under there you coward, and fight like a man!”

“Third time’s a charm, my…” Zenda let the thought fade as she pulled the door open to the local unemployment office.

In fact, it was her fourth venture to the office as she battled the bureaucracy to get an unemployment check. Zenda, a former Sergeant of the Marines, had recently left the Corps after eight-years and had hopes of using the money to pay for some long overdue downtime.

A few minutes later, Zenda stood in front of the man behind the counter, arguing the state’s policy on the receipt of unemployment and the man was having none of what the Black woman was saying. As Zenda became more frustrated, the louder her voice grew and soon everyone was looking in the direction where the argument was taking place.

Suddenly, she felt a hand grab her right above her right elbow. She look in that direction and found herself face to face with a short, balding man wearing a security officers uniform.

Fighting off the temptation to used the Hollywood cliché of ‘remove it or lose it,’ Zenda smiled and politely asked, “Will you please let go of my arm?”

“You need to leave,” the man responded, “now.”

At five-ten, she stood a good four inches taller than him, so Zenda looked him up and down, then tried to pull her arm from the man’s grip. Still he held her tight above the elbow.

Without warning, Zenda flung her arm back ward, then a quickly jerked it forward, swinging it in a wide arc that broke the security office’s handhold. As she tore herself free, she saw him grasp the butt of his 9mm with his right-hand  and begin to draw it from its holster.

In one swift move, she grabbed the man’s hand as the pistol cleared leather and swept both of his legs out from under him. As his legs rose to the level of the counter top, she twisted the firearm from his hand, and he dropped with a heavy thud to the poorly carpeted floor.

Immediately, she popped the clip from the pistol, flicked the eight bullets from it and tossed the now empty magazine behind herself, then cranked the slider back causing the single copper-colored bullet to eject from the weapon. Then showing a certain deftness, she caught the bullet as it jumped from the gun.

Not missing a beat, she yanked on the receiver, pulling it from the frame of the Beretta. Zenda casually tossed it in front of where she was standing, then dropped the rest of the gun on the floor, kicking it off to the side.

“The next time you touch me or threaten me with a firearm, you better come with back up,” she instructed the man as he continued to lay on the floor.

Then with the remaining bullet, holding it between her thumb and middle-finger, Zenda snapped the unfired projectile at the man much like a soda bottle cap or a penny, where it bounced painfully off of his forehead. Finally, with her head held high and back straight, she walked out of the office.

Within an hour, Zenda was in jail, charged with assaulting the security officer, disturbing the peace, and unable to post bail. Her unemployment check arrived the following day.

Sadly, another touch of my childhood has slipped into Heaven — and it’s so bitter-sweet, leaving traces of tears on my cheeks.

Valeria Van Zanten passed away on May 4, 2017 in Crescent City, California, at the age of 103. She was born August 19, 1913, also in Crescent City.

Born to Swiss immigrants, Alice and Victor Del Ponte, who homestead 200 acres near Klamath, California, she attended the one-room Terwah School in Terwer Valley and graduated from Del Norte High School in Crescent City.  In 1930, by the age of 16, Valeria was attending Humboldt State University, where she and a friend lived off-campus in an Arcata apartment with a monthly rent of about $17.

“It was Depression time, and we didn’t have very much money,” Valeria told the Humboldt Magazine in 2012. “I was very lucky to be able to go to school. I recall attending HSU or a little over $25 per month.”

As my third-grade teacher, she used to tell about how she wasn’t allowed to go on biology field trips because she was girl. Mrs. Damm, as we knew her then, explained that she was left behind and made to practice her taxidermy skills.

Later, I learned the ‘field trip incidents’ are what drove her wish to read “The Little House on the Prairie,’ by Laura Ingalls-Wilder. To her, she once explained to me, Laura was ahead of her time and she could see herself in the little girl’s character.

And while I can only guess, I’m sure that the many field trips we took while in her third grade class were a result of having been denied going on field trips as a university student. I know many of my childhood friends will never forget hiking down to the old sweat lodge along the Klamath or the rock-hopping amid the tidal pools along the coastline of Crescent City.

Valeria graduated with her Bachelor of Arts degree in 1934, and within two years was teaching at Klamath Union School in Klamath. She was initially forced to resign her teaching post when she married, but after insisting that the ‘rule’ were not equally enforced, she won her job back.

I met Mrs. Damm in late summer 1965, shortly after the building of Margaret Keating School which replaced the old Klamath Union, after two catastrophic floods along the Klamath River destroyed it the year before.

Employed by Del Norte County School District for over 30 years, upon her retirement in 1973, Valeria took up traveling, visiting  places like Europe, Israel, Syria and Peru.

“All of my life, I was fascinated by Machu Picchu,” Valeria explained in the same 2012 interview. “To think that from [a] little farm and little school that I would one day stand at its base was just incredible to me.”

Not only was Valeria one of my grade school teachers, she was also my sister Deirdre’s God-mother. She was a member of St. Joseph’s Parish in Crescent City and past president of the Alter Society of St. Robert and Ann Catholic Church in Klamath, where we attended mass.