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Long before personal computers, the Internet and blogging, I used to write little one page thoughts about that which interested me. In the mid-90s, I collected up as many of these little vignettes as possible with the hope of publishing them one day in booklet form, entitling it: “Lost Coast of Del Norte.” Instead, what follows is that series.

It was third grade when I learned about not only our Pacific coastline, but about some of the people who lived in Del Norte County and the Klamath area long before me or any Anglo-Saxon. It was strange to be eight-years-old and suddenly mystified by inhabitants that no longer existed in their once natural form.

As a class we were taken by school bus to sites like the Yurok sweathouse that is perched above the Klamath River. The river, Yurok elders told us used to have so many fish in it that a person could walk across the water without getting wet.

We also visited the Tree of Mystery to see the largest privately collected Indian museum in California. It would always amaze me  that I grew up to hold the position of cataloging the entire collection as a summertime job.

Thus my interest in local history grew.

While the bride was away for a family reunion in San Diego, I decided to take matters into my hands and paint the living room — or at least one wall of it. This has been something I’ve been trying to get her on board with for nearly two years.

The color I selected is known as Arizona Sand. It is a bright yellow-orange color meant to lighten and warm the room up and make it feel larger.

Unfortunately, when the bride returned home, she was less than thrilled with the new color. In fact she dislikes it so much, she went to Home Depot and picked out new color to cover the wall.

Here’s the funny thing — it’s a burgundy, a color very close to the brick-red I had wanted to paint the wall in the first place. However the brick-red was poo-poo’d by the bride as being too dark.

Furthermore, I wrote a column recently about painting another wall of our living room a light brown, which went pretty much unnoticed by the bride, until I pointed it out. In that article I bemoaned I should have used red paint instead.

File this under: Me and my big mouth.

After bragging about how old my stuffed toy dog was, I eventually brought it to work to show it off.  One of the people who I showed it to was my friend, Kay, who jus’ happened to stop by the station.

She managed to talk me into letting her take it home to show to her roommate Lori. I had a bad feeling about letting the toy out of my sight, even if it was for a night.

In that time frame though, the worst thing possible that could have happened to it — did happen. Lori’s dogs got a hold of the stuffed animal, tearing it to pieces and eating some of the cotton batting that made up the toy’s innards.

Needless to say I was very upset at the situation, after all I had the stuff toy dog since I was a toddler. As for Kay, she was in tears over the destruction of the dog.

Jump forward three years: I was cleaning out my closet, which included a wooden chest. I opened the chest and right there on top I found my prized stuffed toy dog.

I was overjoyed.

Then that joy turned to puzzlement as I tried to figure out how it ended up in that box after I had seen what the dogs had done to it. Kay swears up and down she had nothing to do with his reappearance.

I think toys not only have a secret life of their own — but the older ones are wicked masters at pulling pranks —  or time-travellers.

En route home from work, I turned from Glendale onto Rock near Baldini’s, when I saw a small rabbit dragging itself across the roadway and into the gutter. I knew at that moment I had to stop and do something.

Grabbing a pair of work gloves from the cab of my truck, I quickly but gently picked the injured Cottontail up and placed it in the bed. I could tell it had been hit by some a$$-hat in an automobile, who left the animal to suffer with a broken back.

Taking it home, I placed the tiny body in a cardboard box, lined with a couple of towels, hoping to keep it as comfortable as possible through the morning hours. After a few hours of sleep, I got up and took the rabbit to the Baring Animal Hospital.

There the receptionist took the box and bunny from me, offered me chocolate chip cookies and cup of coffee, as she disappeared into the back of the building. She returned my towels and thanked me for, “being a good human.”

Ironic isn’t it — I took a maimed animal to a veterinarian clinic to be euthanized — and that makes me a good human. Somehow — though I know my actions are right — I still can find it in me to feel all that good.

I’d feel better if I could confront the person who left the rabbit to suffer like they did — then I’d accept the whole “good human” bit.

Jim McQuillen, Sr., known by most as “Mac,” passed away March 11, 2011. He was born Jan. 19, 1936, in Brooklyn, New York.

Prior to going into law enforcement, a career that span nearly 26 years, Mac served four years in the United States Air Force, being stationed at Requa 777th Radar Station in Klamath, with my father. He also served on the New York Police Department as a patrol officer before returning to Klamath.

He started with the Del Norte County Sherriff’s Office in 1966, retiring after more than 20 years of service. During that time Mac was a sergeant and a range master and fire arms instructor for the Sheriff’s Office.

Mac was 75 years old.

Another Del Norte High School classmate has passed away. He was in the class of 1980.

I remember him as a smart-a$$ed kid always ready with a sarcastic remark — which I like about him.

Born and raised in Crescent City, Bobby Allen passed away February 18, 2011. He spent most of his adult life working in the timber industry — driving truck for the family business, Gus Allen Trucking.

According to the obituary published in the Triplicate: “In his free time Bobby enjoyed golfing and hunting trips with his son James and close friends Jim and Kyle Loftin. He loved rooting for his favorite football team, the Minnesota Vikings, and spending Sundays with his mother Jeanne watching NASCAR.”

He was preceded in death by his father Gus and stepmother Joanie Gardenhire and is survived by his mother Jeanne Allen, his wife Debbie and their children. Bobby was jus’ 49 years old.

What started as a search for Grandpa Tom’s military records has led me in a direction I never saw coming. For the last couple of years I’ve been inquiring about the possibility of recovering Grandpa’s “Bluejackets’ Manual.”

The BJM as it is known amongst those in the Navy is the bible when it comes to the daily life of a sailor (and at times a Marine.) In this case I got my hands on a 1943 Bluejackets’ Manual, which is the year I had been told Grandpa went to war.

This is where my adventure as book-monger takes that unexpected twist. I selected this particular book to buy because it was procured by a man who had purchased an entire lot of books in Muskogee, Oklahoma around August 1980 – a month after Grandpa Tom passed away.

With my fingers crossed – but not with breath held – I waited for the BJM to make its way from Denmark, where the man was living. When it did arrive I was disappointed to see the name, “Johnston, R.J.,” stenciled on the inside cover.

I thought, “Oh, well,” and put it on my bookshelf, thinking I might get some use out of it one day.

For some reason, I decided to pick it up, dust it off and leaf through the 68-year-old manual. Why I had not seen it before, I don’t know, but on the inside page there was a list of duty stations for “Johnston, R.J.”

Reading through them I realized this sailor was stationed with another sailor I was well acquainted with – my father-in-law. Don Conklin, my bride’s father, like “Johnston R.J.” had served during World War II at both Navy 128 and Navy 10 in San Francisco and each listed Fleet Post Office as their address.

Unfortunately, Don passed away in 2006, so I cannot ask him if he knew “Johnston, R.J.” or not. But there is a chance, the original owner of this BJM could still be alive as he wrote his home address and full-name, Ray Junior Johnston, in the book too.

I have a place in which to start my search.

The last couple of days, I have been dealing with a slight case of writer’s block — and while trying to “not think” of something to write I remembered this article I originally published in the now defunct weblog, “InfoCow.”  I’m not sure but I think I wrote it as my bipolar disorder was operating on the manic-side. 

This is an idea for a book full of bad ideas. The bad ideas might include putting poetry on cereal boxes, hitchhiking through Iran with a Salmon Rushdie t-shirt on, and a new super-hero doll called “Super Bin Laden.”

There are moving sidewalks in airports, so why not ones that crosses a city? Slower “feeder” sidewalks could lead up to and away from the high-speed main line that takes you at six-miles-per-hour through the city. It might even become a tourist attraction.

If prisoners agreed to it, would there be any problem piping constant subliminal messages into their cells? They could be continually fed good thoughts, ideas, and life-changing affirmations.

Do your feet get too hot? Have you ever put your shoes in the freezer for an hour before putting them on? Someone should invent a pair of shoes that would keep one’s feet cool — they could be called snowshoes.

Have a door on the wall that doesn’t actually go anywhere. Instead, when it is opened, it reveals a painting and plays soft music.

Breed dogs and cats for a short life, preferably less than two years. “Genetically guaranteed short life pets,”  are for those who don’t want a long-term commitment.

How about this — a horrible foods cookbook: Want a serving of tuna fish ice cream? How about chicken pudding or anchovy soda?

Any takers?  Thought not.

Before U.S. astronauts could collect a single moon rock — there was the desert sands of Spanish Springs — where many of the rockets used by America’s space program were tested. Those tests happened at a facility operated by Rocketdyne at the Sky Ranch Airport, between Spanish Springs Road and Calle de la Plata.

My Uncle Orval Harrison retired from Rockwell/Rocketdyne in early 1970, after spending more than 30-years working on projects for NASA.  Now I’m living in Spanish Springs where Uncle Orval, unknown to me at the time I moved to Nevada, worked.

He was married to Dad’s blood relative, Aunt Frances, an Arne by birth. I believe she passed away in Salem, Oregon, February 19, 1976 at the age of 73.

Anyway, Sky Ranch Airport was a 1940s auxiliary field and the site of the first Reno Air Races, in 1964 and 1965. From 1962 to 1970, once known as Rockwell International, Rocketdyne operated a facility known as the Nevada Field Laboratory.

The main NFL operational support facility was located near the corner of Whiskey Springs and Ironwood Roads, north of Winnemucca Ranch Road.  Between 1974 and the early 90s a privately owned company operated a machine shop and warehouse on the land.

Engines for the Gemini, the Saturn, the Lunar Module, Apollo and the Space Shuttle Program were tested at this area and included three sites. Because of this some parts of the former test area are listed as Superfund environmental clean-up sites.

Of the 126,000 acres, only 1,600 acres were used for testing, the remainder was home to administrative and support facilities. Debris, underground tanks and contaminated soil have since been removed by Rocketdyne, which put in numerous monitoring wells throughout the area.

One of these monitoring wells is located at the end of Axe Handle Canyon Road. Another along Right Hand Canyon Road and the first half of Paiute Circle, with a third at the eastern end of Whiskey Springs Road.

It’s sad to think the next American to head into space may be aboard a craft powered by a Russian-designed rocket — and that Uncle Orval’s hard work is lost to history.

I found this little piece of humor in one of my news files at the radio station. I thought it fairly funny and worth sharing.

The local sheriff was looking for a deputy, so Gomer, who was not exactly the sharpest nail in the bucket, went in to try out for the job.

“Okay,” the sheriff drawled, “Gomer, what is 1 and 1?”

“Eleven,” he replied.

The sheriff thought to himself, “That’s not what I meant, but you’re right. What two days of the week start with the letter ‘T’?”

“Today and tomorrow,” Gomer answered.

The sheriff was again surprised the man supplied a correct answer that he had never thought of himself.

“Now Gomer, listen carefully: Who killed Abraham Lincoln?” the sheriff asked.

Gomer looked a little surprised himself, then thought really hard for a minute and finally admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Well, why don’t you go home and work on that one for a while,” the sheriff instructed.

So, Gomer wandered over to the barbershop where his pals were waiting to hear the results of the interview. Gomer was exultant.

“It went great!” he told them, “First day on the job and I’m already working on a murder case!”