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My wife was gone for a week’s long visit to her sister’s home in Ramona. Her’s were not the only plans made for the week.

Kay and I decided to paint one of the front room walls the same color we had painted the hallway earlier in the year. It took us a total of two days to finish the work.

Mary came home but didn’t notice the newly painted wall. Instead she headed directly for bed without looking around the house.

Come the next day, she was up early, but still she had not noticed. It was nearly two in the afternoon when I decided to try to get her to “see the wall.”

First I had her go inspect the coat-rack by the front door. She looked it over and said the way I had it rearranged looked great.

With that epic failure, I directed her to the hallway entrance that leads to the back of the house. It’s there that we have her mother’s folded flag in a wooden case as she was as she was an Army nurse in World War II as well as Dad’s.

It had become dusty on the inside as the case had popped open. I used the time to clean the flag off and properly seal the case so it will not get dirty inside again.

She looked at the case and said it looked great. Once more she failed to see the freshly painted wall. 

It was more than I could stand and I blurted out, “What do you think of the wall?”

She responded, “Oh, my! It looks great!”

I’m thinking – maybe I should have used a barn-red paint instead of the “mushroom bisque,” we agreed on.

The bride and I were traveling along Interstate 80 and had jus’ dropped into the valley on the north side of the Grapevine. It was difficult to keep a single radio station tuned in for any length of time as we drove along.

But every time we did find a station it seemed the one song that was playing was Starships, “We Built This City.” Since that tune came out, I have never heard a single soul admit they like the song.

In fact, “We Built This City,” made Blender Magazine and VH1 Music Channel’s 50 Most Awesomely Bad Songs — landing at the coveted position of number one. On the upside, it was Billboard’s Hot 100 number one single  between November 16 and 23, 1985.

It doesn’t matter to me either way what others may think of the tune — because for me it carries some great memories of the bride and me, zipping up I-5, windows rolled down, singing our butts off.  Let “Marconi play the mamba…”

At the end of nearly every summer, we’d receive a box from our Aunt and Uncle filled with hand-me-down clothes. It wasn’t until high school that I came to think of this as uncool, as I didn’t want to be seen wearing used clothes.

It wasn’t that we were poor, because we were far from it. The practice came from the fact that they had been raised by parents who had lived through the Great Depression years.

Those years were followed by the World War II years, in which people were called upon to save scrap metal, rubber and papers. All this went to the war effort and defeating the Axis powers.

Now days though, most of the clothing — save for my skivvies, socks and tee-shirts — in my closet and dresser drawers is second-hand. I purchased most of it new years ago and simply refuse to get rid of it until it’s completely worn out.

I have a sweat shirt that is at least 20-years-old and though frayed around the edges a little, fits me and keeps me as warm as the day I bought it.

My bride thinks I’m being cheap . But the way I figure it — if they’re clean and hole-free they’re jus’ as good as new.

Besides have you checked the price of a new pair of name-brand jeans these days?

We were moving as quietly as possible along the outskirts of a town believed to be home to a coca-producing operation. The idea was to get in close enough to observe and then bust everyone in one surprise movement.

I was in the fifth position as our squad used a small ditch for cover during the daylight raid.

The going was slow and to add to the situation, it had rained most of the night before and the ground had turned to a mud that caked itself all over everything. Now with the sun beating down, the rain turned to humidity which left each of us feeling drained.

We had stopped in order to catch our breath, have a swallow of canteen-warm water and to reassess our position in relationship with the village. I had jus’ finished moving up and down the line checking on my Marines when I was suddenly and violently struck in the back of the head.

The force of the blow knocked me off-balance and found myself scattered, face down in the muddy goo. I immediately thought I had been sniper shot from behind as did the Marines around me.

They were hunkered down, rifles at the ready, expecting to engage the enemy. However instead of gunfire, snickering could be heard coming from the men.

While it was a struggle, I managed to roll myself over and sit up. I saw one of the Marines pointing to a pile of rocks.

At first I didn’t know what he was pointing at — then I saw the slight movement of a child — maybe seven or eight years old. In his hand he had a slingshot — what I grew up knowing as a wrist-rocket.

The little shit had smacked me in the back of my helmet from a good 100 feet away.

Back in the day my hiking gear consisted of an old canvas knapsack. It had no frame, no padding, no waist belt, and was too small to hold what you needed.

I also had a walking stick — plucked from a random tree along the way.

My sleeping bag and tent were tied to the outside. I took a light jacket, poncho,  first aid kit, extra socks,  flashlight, rope,  compass,  knife, some matches, my journal and pencils, my canteen and three or four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Out the front door of our home I’d go, walking the quarter-mile east to the old logging road and disappear into the Redwood forest. I didn’t go far — didn’t have too — and I’d have my camp all set up by late afternoon and there I’d stay for a couple of days.

I had no idea how good I had it.

It was the oddest thing – I went outside to bring in our flags and I discovered a bottle setting on our welcome mat. Looking west down our street I saw two teenaged girls walking away.

Each turned, looked my direction and continued walking along the side-walk. So I picked the bottle up, brought it in, removed the note inside it and read it:

“Dear Bottle

Alfred Adler said this, “Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not words. Trust movement.”

At first I had thought he meant only trust in action. Don’t trust in voice or words. But reading it over I convey it like, “Trust only movement. Life happens by doing, not talking. Trust movement.”

So should I give action to my thought? Yes! I must trust my moves on a good deep level. Yet talking could also be the movement. I should trust my movement.”

It’s a very cryptic message and I felt obliged to research its possible hidden meaning. I decided to start with Alfred Adler – whose name was familiar – but for unknown reasons at the time.

Adler was a member of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society and a colleague of Sigmund Freud. His most famous concept is the inferiority complex or the problem of self-esteem and its negative effects on human health which sometimes produces a paradoxical superiority striving.

I knew I knew his name for some reason — then — paranoia struck… 

Holy crap! Was this message meant for me?

No. I realized this note was actually meant for someone else and the two girls had left it on the wrong doorstep.

Looking at it from a merely illogical point of view – which the majority of teens have – I realize it’s one of the two girls way of telling a boy she likes, he’d better act soon or risk losing out. Then again, it could be a really good prank on their part.

Jus’ in case — I’m working on a reply.

Having worked the early shift at the Reno Hilton, I was looking forward to having the next day off. I planned to go to the local drive-in theater at El Rancho and 9th to see a movie, with the hope of forgetting about some of my problems for a while.

Before hand, I stopped at the store and bought a 24-can case of beer so I could have a couple as I watched the flick, “Signs,” starring Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix. Unfortunately, I had a lot more than jus’ a couple.

In fact, I don’t remember anything about the movie. What I do recall is suddenly waking up and realizing it was daylight.

To make matters worse, I was still parked in the same spot I had been the evening before, but now rather than vehicles parked on either side of me, I was parked in the middle of a Mexican flea-market. I was further distressed to learn I had a couple of Latino dudes haggling with one another over who was going to buy my truck.

I gave them the remainder of my beer and drove away quickly.

Grandpa Bill had a small blacksmith shop attached to the side of his home. I would often spend the day with him as he fashioned horseshoes, fixed hinges and othe items for neighbors.

When he wasn’t pounding on his anvils — he had several different sizes — he was using them for entertainment purposes. He called it, “Blowing up Anvils,” and it involved not only the two blocks of metal , but a fair amount of black powder and a fuse.

He would haul the larger anvil out into the pasture behind the house, place the black powder on top of it, place the fuse in contact with the black powder, stack a second anvil on top of that, lite the fuse and run. After get some distance from the set up, the whole thing would explode with a loud clap and the anvil atop the stack would fly up to a hundred feet or more into the air.

Then he’d start the entire process over — adding slightly more and more black powder to the situation in order to see how high he could get the anvil to fly into the sky. By the time he ran out of black powder, our ears were ringing and we were in danger of becoming deaf — yet we always came away grinning like idiots.

I have since figured out that grandpa’s like grandson’s can act like kids at times.

There is nothing better than a practical joke that leaves everyone belly laughing.  Sometimes, though a gag can get away from those perpetrating it.

Our house mate, Kay was busy pulling a few weeds in the front yard one early afternoon, when I saw an opportunity to pull a “fast one” on her. I casually involved her in a conversation as she worked away.

As we spoke, I removed a large plastic, green figure of a Preying Mantis from my pocket and hung it from the back of her blouse. Next I went over and sat on the bench and watched her as she continued to yank the unwanted weeds from our flower bed.

Satisfied she had done enough, she started inside the house. Jus’ as she stepped up onto the porch, she felt a strange sensation on her back, saying, “It feels like something’s pulling on the back of my top.”

Kay reached over her shoulder with her right hand and gently tugged at the blouse. She inadvertently felt the something pulling at her top with her hand and felt it brush against her back.

She panicked – screamed and took off running wildly through the house, crying, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

Her sudden rampage and shouting through the house sent all four dogs into a frenzy and left me confused about what I should do next. Instead of helping my friend, my scrambled mind sent me in the direction of chasing the animal’s outside.

Meanwhile Kay continued to plead, “Get it off me!”

Finally, I grabbed the damned toy and slung it out the still open front-door, pretending it was a real insect. Then, for my own safety, I decided to wait a few minutes for her to calm down before admitting what I had done.

Soon I copped to my actions. Surprisingly, though she started laughing, saying, “I must have looked funny.”

Then she had me go outside and retrieve the toy bug. To make up for what I had done, I took her to the local ice cream parlor for a cup of soft-serve.  

One morning though, I know I’ll wake up with a big black rubber spider in bed with me.

Kitty Harriman passed away on June 28, 2011. She was the oldest of nine children and lived most of her life in Del Norte County, where she and her husband Dale raised their children, and later their grandchildren.

In her younger years, Kitty was a waitress, then a welder during World War II. Later she was employed as a bank teller, working at the Crescent City branch of Bank of America.

When Kitty and Dale married, she was able to stay at home as a homemaker. As the children got older, she became very involved in scouting with her son and daughter.

She started out as a den mother for Boy Scouts and a Brownie troop leader for the Girl Scouts. Her volunteer and service work with scouting ended up becoming a major part of her life, and she also ended up becoming an Explorer Post leader.

Kitty also held the position of Assistant District Commissioner for the Del Norte District Scouting Area Council for over 35 years. Her effort, dedication, and commitment to the area’s youth can still be seen in our community today and will always be felt by those lives that she touched.

She was preceded in death by her husband Dale, her brother Frank Gochanour, and sisters Faith Lear and Iris Garvett. She is survived by her sisters, Annice Nelson, and Anna Campbell, as well as her brothers Leon Gochanour, Claude Wyland, and Clarence Wyland. She is also survived by her son and daughter, Donald Charles Maynard II, Jacqueline Roberta Maynard.