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Night after night I look at news articles that are supposed to be written for radio-broadcasting. And night after night, I find myself editing and re-editing these stories to bring them to the point, without all the extra words.

For example, here’s a story written by the Associated Press:

       “Doctors, nurses and parents of autistic children are demanding an apology from Republican Senate candidate Sharron Angle for comments she made disparaging insurance mandates for autism treatment. The Autistic Self Advocacy Network made the request Wednesday at a Las Vegas rally that drew more than 30 health professionals and families grappling with autism.              

         Nevada Democrats have been shopping a video that shows Angle blasting insurance mandates for autism coverage and maternity leave at a 2009 tea party rally. Angle uses air quotes when she says autism in the video.              

         Angle’s campaign says she believes autistic children and adults deserve the best care, but remains critical of symptoms falsely labeled as autism.              

         Angle is challenging Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid.”

Here’s my version of the same story:

“The Autistic Self Advocacy Network is demanding an apology from Sharron Angle. The Republican candidate for U.S. senate says she believes autistic children and adults deserve the best care, but remains critical of symptoms falsely labeled as autism. Angle is challenging Senator Harry Reid this November.”

As you can see, I’m not paid by the word.

At one point I supplemented my income by writing jokes for the radio trade publication, “One-on-One” as well as Big Dog Productions, the company owned by comedian Jay Leno. I made fairly good money at this.

However it all came to screeching end one early evening when I received a call that proved I was not very good at keeping the two jobs separate. I was fired by One-on-One publisher, Jat Trachman because he believed I was plagiarizing material from the “Tonight Show.”

I quickly looked over the jokes I had written and faxed to both employers and found I had sent several of the same jokes to both places; a big no-no!

So attempting to avoid a double disaster, I called Big Dog and told my manager about my mistake. He was sympathetic with me and I felt like I was okay when I hung up the phone that evening.

However the following day, I got a call from another manager, this one for the Tonight Show. He was less sympathetic as he read me the riot act, and then fired me.

I made both organizations look like they were using stolen material.

Andy Macbeth always seemed grumpy anytime I saw him and for a couple of years I saw him a lot. Mr. Macbeth, as he was known to me, had pulled from his barn in the Klamath Glen an antique fire engine.

I believe it was a 1912 Ford.

It had been stored away for years and needed major repairs to make it road-worthy. That’s exactly what Mr. Macbeth set about to do, working on it every weekend.

For over two years he worked on the old fire truck as it sat in a display room attached to the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department, jus’ down the street from home. I used to hang around the station so I could see what he was doing.
One day I got up the guts to ask if he needed help. At first he said he didn’t, but then for some reason he changed his mind.

He was under the vehicle working on the motor and he had me sit in the front seat. He told me that when he said, “Okay,” I was to step on the clutch pedal and push the button on the dash, which was connected to the started.

I sat there on pins-and-needles, waiting for the word.

Suddenly I heard him bark. I dutifully stepped on the clutch and pushed the button. And jus’ as suddenly, I heard him shouting and yelling.

I jumped down to see what was wrong.

Mr. Macbeth came out from under the truck, covered from head to shoulder in motor oil. He yelled at me, saying he had said, “Stay,” and not “Okay.”

He had the strangest look on his face and it frightened me. So I turned and ran, crossing Redwood Drive, towards an A-frame building that was home to Bob White Realty.

I heard the wrench he threw, crash into the sidewalk’s gutter, but I never looked back.

Instead I ran as fast as I could down the gravel road to the baseball diamond, then up the hill behind the visiting team dugout and into the Walcott’s backyard. I raced across the field behind the Myers’ home and Mrs. Keating’s house, crossing Redwood Drive again and home.

I went inside and stayed inside, too afraid to come out.

One of my very best friends while growing up was Diana. She was a bit of a tomboy, more comfortable in jeans and a western shirt than on picture day when she had to wear a dress.

Diana and I used to do all sorts of stuff together, from riding horses to running through the woods. We even played “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” at one time.

Of course we were young yet and I don’t think either one of us knew what sex was all about. At least I know I had zero-idea about the so-called “birds-and-the-bees,” at the time.

It was between fourth and fifth grade, that Diana and I started to notice some “structural” differences between our bodies. In short she was growing breasts and having to wear a bra, which was something I didn’t fully understand.

It left me a bit confused and I ended up asking Mom what breasts were all about. I’m sure she explained more, but all I gathered was that they made milk and that the milk came from the nipple.

One afternoon, Diana and I were hanging out under a pine tree in the field right behind Mrs. Keating’s house when I asked if she’d show me her “boobs,” as she called them. She lifted her shirt and bra and I looked them over as if I were studying a newly discovered flower.

She gave me permission to touch them and being very gentle as not to hurt Diana, I cupped each breast. She poked fun at me for being afraid of them, for which I was.

So I took the next step and squeezed her areola between my thumb and pointer finger. Try as I may, I couldn’t get milk to come out of them.

I was puzzled, because I had been milking cows for Grandma Ivy for at least three years by them.

Then it dawned on me, maybe I was going about it all wrong. My next question brought out a “that’s sick,” followed by a sharp, “No!” from Diana.

I had asked if I could suckle her, proving I didn’t have the slightest idea what Mom was talking about.

By sixth grade though, we both had a pretty good grasp on what our body parts were for in the long run and the days of “show-and-tell,” were done. Thankfully, it didn’t prevent us from jus’ being children for a while longer.

I also learned a women’s breast doesn’t work like a cow’s teat.

It was early morning, after my Senior Prom. I had driven my date, Jill Ziegler home and I decided to stop at Denny’s to have a cup of coffee.

While I was there I ran into Bill Combs. He was doing the same thing as me.

Bill, being Bill, invited me over to his mother’s home, telling me I was free to spend the night if I wanted. I was pretty tired and decided I’d much rather hang out with friends than drive home to an empty house since Mom and Dad had taken my brother and two sisters for an overnight trip to our Aunt and Uncle’s home in Fortuna.

Much too Mrs. Mary Combs embarrassment, Bill and I spent a few minutes that early morning literally howling at the moon. I mean we bayed as loud as we could into the darkness surrounding that cul-de-sac.

I think we were more than weird that morning, we were high on life.

One of the toughest ranch hands was also one of the best preachers I ever met. His name was Wilson and he could cuss, chew tobacco, spit, fight, drink whiskey and play cards with the best of them.

But come Sunday morning after breakfast and while the other hands were doing the chores that normally got pushed to the back while the handling the stock was held as more important, Wilson would “jump a stump,” and start talking about the Gospel. He’d say that we are designed to be in a relationship with our Creator and that our Creator needs us almost as much as we needed him.

I’ve come to understand that God puts us where he wants and needs us and he needed Wilson, an otherwise foul-mouthed, gambling, fist-fighting, tobacco stained, boozer on my Grandpa’s dairy farm, preaching the word of God to men cut from the same cloth.

My follow-up appointment at the VA was today. My blood-sugar level is actually well within the normal range, so it’s safe to say I don’t have diabetes.

Phew!

However there remains some concern about high blood pressure and an elevated cholesterol level. But since I have changed my diet, started walking a little more and lost 15 pounds, this may not be the problem doctors thought it might be.

What a wake-up call this has turn out to be for moi’.

Even though I had lost my license to drive a government vehicle, I was not prevented from working aboard an ambulance or taking the extra seat on a helicopter when there was a need for an extra set of medical hands. It was a bother to the Captain though, who was constantly on the lookout for a chance to ride me or Barney for one reason or other.

That’s how we ended up getting an extra detail assigned. The Captain simply volunteered them since he was in charge of their work schedules.

One of those extra details came three days before Veteran’s Day.

“How’d we get stuck with this?” I asked.

My voice registered a slight complaint as he looked over at the staff sergeant. He looked back and smiled as he hand me the flags.

They were American flags, rubber banded together and in brown paper bags. Barney and I were given the duty of placing a flag on each grave near each head stone in the old cemetery on base before Veteran’s Day.

I looked at Barney and said, “I’m sorry.”

I knew that Barney was being dragged into the extra detail because of his association with him.  Barney just shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of coffee.

The following day, Barney came into the office and said, “I want to ask your opinion on something.”

“Okay,” I responded, “shoot.”

“Remember when we did that research on the base history and we found those eight German prisoner of war headstones?” Barney asked.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Would they fall under being veteran’s on Veteran’s Day?” Barney followed up.

I leaned back in my chair and looked up towards the ceiling.

After about 30 seconds I answered, “Yes, because a Vet is a Vet on Veteran’s Day and German is an original signer of the original armistice.”

“But we can’t put American flags on a German grave,” Barney retorted, sounding almost horrified.

“No,” I answered,” but we can use West Germany’s flag.”

It took the pair nearly three hours to track down a shop in Denver that sold miniature flags from West Germany. Fortunately eight of the little flags were on hand for purchase.

Barney arranged for the shop owner to deliver the flags to the nearby Army post and to have them flown up to the Air Guard in Cheyenne.  By that late that afternoon, we had our flags.

We had already set about placing American flags next to the headstones in the long unused cemetery. And it was long after night-time had fallen before we completed our assigned task.

All that remained to put in place were the eight flags next to the German POW’s who had died while in the custody of the U.S. Army during World War II. Each stone had a name, a rank and each had been members of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force.

Quietly me and Barney placed the West German flags in the ground next to the headstones. Then they left for the night.

Come the following morning, the Captain was pounding wildly on my barracks door demanding that I open it up. I did as the officer asked.

The Captain was standing in the hallway with Barney just behind him. He had all eight West German flags in his hand and his face was extremely red.

He screamed, “You were given a simple job and you screw it up like this?!”

The Captain waved the miniature flags in my face.

“”Obviously, you don’t know your history very well,” I responded.

“Don’t you give me that crap, mister,” the officer yelled, adding  “Veteran’s day is for Americans, not Nazi fliers!”

“No!” I shouted back, “Veteran’s day is where American’s honor those veteran’s who have sacrified everything for their country, first started as Armistice Day, November eleventh at the eleventh hour to end hostilities of World War I!”

The Captain looked dumbstruck for a moment. He opened his mouth and started to say something then closed his mouth.

I took advantage of the situation and calmly said, “So I recommend you get your ass back down there and return those flags to those veteran’s headstones.”

I paused to take a breath and added, “Removing a flag from a vet’s grave is very dishonorable, Captain.”

Not wanting to be out argued, the officer responded, “How dare you put West German flags in an American cemetery!”

Barney surprised him by saying, “Those eight pilots are resting outside the cemetery walls, sir.”

I held out my hand and said, “If you don’t have the balls to return those flags, we will.”

The Captain looked down at the flags then at my hand and turned away. Instead he gave the flags to Barney and stomped away.

As soon as we were dressed, we headed for the cemetery. We walked around the outside to the back of the cemetery where the German pilots were resting and replanted the West German flags and left, feeling we had done the right thing.

The day following Veteran’s Day, we were directed to report to the Hospital Commander’s office. The Captain met us in the hallway.

He muttered, “You’re both screwed,” as Barney held the door open so all three of us could enter the admin office leading to the commander’s office.

Once inside the Commander’s office, we were met by another officer, who worked for the Office of Special Investigation. It was the Air Forces version of the Navy’s Investigative Service’s or the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.

Both Barney and I were suddenly struck the gravity of the situation.

The Investigator asked, “Did you guys put West German flags inside the base cemetery?”

“No, sir,” we both answered.

“Where, then, did you place them?” the Investigator asked.

“We put them on the German graves outside the cemetery walls,” was our response.

The Captain interrupted, “Liars!”

The Investigative officer turned and looked at the officer, calmly asking, “Do you have proof of this?”

“I certainly do,” the Captain answered.

As he answered he pulled a packet of photographs from inside his uniform jacket and handed them to the Investigator. The officer quickly thumbed through them.

Then he turned to the hospital commander and asked, “With your permission. can these two be dismissed?

He was talking about Barney and me.

Then he added, “However, I’d like to sit and have a chat with the Captain.”

The Commander nodded his head and both Barney and I disappeared as quickly as we could. However Barney couldn’t help but point out the irony in the fact that it was about a minute after eleven in the morning.

In 2005, Mary, Kyle and I took a short weekend vacation to northern California. Down the road by about an hour from where we were staying is the original site of the first Russian settlement in California, known as Fort Ross.

The fort, though reconstructed, is strong reminder about how tough explorers, fur traders, soldiers and the like must have been in those days. It includes a cemetery as well as a small church with very plain — yet somehow — artistically designed wooden steeples.

Those church steeples are a fascinating piece of architecture buried inside a well-documented history.

Every time Mom and Dad turned around, Adam and I were in trouble. We were either pick a fight with one another, our sisters or some kid in the neighborhood.

So when most kids were allowed to look after themselves, we were under the care of a babysitter. It was embarrassing and we were teased by neighborhood kids, but it was our own faults.

Usually, our parents would call Sue Skaggs, who live across the highway from us to come look after us. She was a strong-handed woman, who didn’t let us get away with crap.

She was also a chain smoker, whose cigarette smoke-filled the house every time she sat us. Dad was trying to quit smoking at the time, so my folks decided to find someone else to watch us troublemakers for the summer.

They hired an Air Force brat, a girl a few years older than me. Her name was Nadine Redd.

At first Adam and I were apprehensive about Nadine. We had no idea what sort of sitter she’d be.

As it turned out, she was one of the best. Her rule was that as long as we didn’t break anything in the house or cause one another to bleed severely, she was cool with our behavior.

Too bad her father was transferred the following year.