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My back is killing me again today. I’m so tired of the pain and the lack of sleep and inability to exercise, including the simple act of walking. Yet I refuse to give up!

I will fight through this.

Jimmy Dean was not only a business man, he was also a very fine country musician and at one time he even hosted a variety television program. It was a pleasure to talk with him during a radio interview I had with him while working at KHIT.

He was a great guy and made my job of talking about the current direction of country music easy. Jimmy was worried that county-western music was heading towards a pop and rock genre, leaving its traditions behind.

We had a great time talking, music history, family, a touch of politics and a life time of experiences. A few weeks after our on-air visit, Jimmy sent me a thank-you note and an autographed picture.

Thanks for music and the memory, Jimmy.

It’s hard to understand what makes some people tick, but what I do know is that if I put my faith in a person, I’m bound to be disappointed since people are fallible. This applies to friends and family.

The hardest thing is to “let go and let God…”

This is some thing I’ve known about myself for years, but have never admitted to. Even though I am in the radio broadcasting business, I don’t like the sound of my voice.

At one point in my life, I had a difficult time speaking because I studdered. And even though I had this problem, I wanted to talk on te radio.

After years in the business, my voice still doesn’t sound friendly to me. To me I sound as if I’m always struggling to keep my head slightly above water when talking.

Very strange, don’t you think?

When I got home this morning from the radio station, I went to bed feeling bummed. This came after Kyle told me he isn’t going to be back here to the house until July.

First he has summer school, which I knew about, but then he told me he has plans to help his grandparents move their entire household to Texas.  Personally, I think this admirable so I will not stop him.

He also seemed so happy about his plans, and I certainly don’t want to dampen that. But on the flip-side, his plans have left me down.

Perhaps this God’s way of telling me to expect some new doors to open

Kyle was seven or perhaps eight months old when his pediatrician, Dr. Kathleen Christopherson, noted he was iron-deficient. She prescribed a supplement that would build up this lack in his tiny body.

Unfortunately, Kyle’s mother forgot to tell me that she had taken him to see Dr. Christopherson or that Kyle had this problem. Instead I would have to find out the hard way.

A couple days after her started taking the supplement; I went over and picked her and Kyle up. I dropped her at her work, the Flamingo Hilton in downtown Reno and I took Kyle over to my apartment to watch over him till his mom was off work.

It was during his first diaper change of the day that I found myself on the edge of freaking out. Kyle’s movement was not normal looking and it scared me.

Panicked I called his mother and told her what was happening. She told me to hold tight as Kyle had jus’ been to the doctor and she wanted to call her before I took Kyle over to the doctor’s office.

A number of anxious minutes later, Kyle’s mother called back laughing. She explained Dr. Christopherson believed Kyle had been given too much iron-supplement and his little body was getting rid of the extra through his bowel.

The doctor drew this conclusion without even having to examine Kyle or his diaper. She only needed to know what color Kyle’s poo was.

There is something very wrong with turds the color of bright turquoise.

We stopped to have lunch as we made our way to South Dakota for a family reunion on the bride’s side. Being at this particular rest stop and being an amateur historian on the West, I couldn’t wait to hike up to the top of the massive rock setting in the middle of Wyoming.

As Easterner’s moved westward they often stopped at this rock, which is part of the Oregon Trail. Many would climb to the top of it so they could see what sort of land lay before them as they continued over-trail.

Once on top I found what I was looking for: the graffiti.

The oldest I found was from 1850 although there are older etchings in the stone. Pioneers scratched their names in the rocky clefts to let people know they had passed this way.

I took several photographs and also videoed the area as I continued to explore.

As I topped the rise I could see my bride frantically waving to me to hurry down. She was impatient and wanted to get back on the road.

I had obviously lost track of time.

Instead of returning the way I had come, I figured I’d take a short cut and hike down the craggy face of the rock. What I didn’t think about was the fact that I was wearing leather soled cowboy boots and my hike grew increasingly more and more slippery.

After stopping for a few seconds to see what the better route was to continue downward, I felt my footing give way. I was suddenly sliding down the rocky surface.

It didn’t take long for my boots to catch a rough edge in the otherwise smooth surface. The force of the sudden stop pitched me forward, and I continued downward. Only now I was rolling head over heal.

My body spilled out onto a grassy area jus’ a few feet short of the walking path the surrounds the rock. I laid there for a couple minutes to see if I had any broken bones.

There was nothing wrong with me physically. All the damage was emotional, in the form of a severe bruising to my pride.

Today started out great, but I let my attitude steal away my joy. Jus’ great!

Had to go pick up some product for my wife’s sandwich shops and that’s where things took a turn downward. I pulled into will call parking, went inside to complete my paperwork and when I came out I watched another person back her vehicle up to the loading dock.

As she got out of her car I asked her to move so I could pick up my stuff, but she told me she was there first. I let her know that I was actually there first as I had completed my paperwork before she even backed in.

She had a shirt on that proclaimed where she worked. Ironically, it was the same franchise as my wife’s business, but not her exact store. I told her I was also there for the same sandwich company.

Her response: Big deal!

So I asked her for her store number. She told me to eff-off, got back in her vehicle and she moved it to will-call parking.

I backed in, loaded up and drove to my wife’s first store.

As I pulled in I saw a large pick-up truck parked on the side door landing, under the awning. It was literally blocking one of our two public entrances to the business.

My thinking: Follow the rules. I decided to say something to my wife about it.

She told me it belongs to one of her good customers and that I should meet him. I told her that perhaps another day, when I’m less pissed off about where he parked, since it isn’t a parking spot and is bad for business.

My wife is mad at me now.

When I worked as Road Supervisor for ATC/CitiLift there was a guy, named Kirk Wingo, who set my nerves on edge. He tried to act as if he were a “smooth operator,” but I could tell he was slightly off the mark when it came to being honest.

While I didn’t hire him, I did have to interview him twice for three different incidents involving the safety of passengers. He eventually was fired after failing to secure a wheelchair passenger properly in his vehicle.

He disappeared and I never heard another thing about Kirk until he was arrested for murdering a young Reno woman. Brandi Gallego was mother of two, a daughter and sister, who he strangled to death and left in a family van in a parking lot.

Kirk told the Gallego family that Brandi’s death was an accident involving rough sex. He eventually pled guilty to her murder and is now spending the remainder of his life in prison.

It’s enough to keep the nerves on edge.

Over the years I felt it necessary to come to the defense of Pat Patapoff’s memory. To be upfront, Pat and I didn’t always get along as we constantly had some sort of personality conflict going on between us.

It was during omy 20th class reunion celebrating graduation from high school in 1978, that I found out Pat was dead. The stories of how he died were at least ten-years old and varied widely.

So I pieced the different accounts together and have drew my own conclusion. Simply put, Pat pulled his children from their burning home in Klamath. After he pulled the children to safety, he returned to retrieve his guns, where he eventually died.

It wasn’t until recently that I found the courage to ask Pat’s daughter Krystel, what actually happened.

Krystel writes, “From what I remember, we had some friends over and I was sitting in the living room watching Pee Wee Herman. My sister and her friend were in the bedroom we shared, playing.  My friend went into the room and came back out, and within minutes my back started feeling hot. So I went in the other room and there was fire.

I told Dad and he grabbed all us kids and took us to the top of the road and told us to stay there.

Looking back, I told him I didn’t want him to go back in, but he did. He picked up the garden hose, but it had no water.  I saw him through the window, swirling around engulfed in flames, holding the guns he had went back in the house to get. They found him in the house, on the bed, holding the guns.”

For years I have refused to let anyone drag Pat’s name through the mud because he tried to retrieve the guns.  He saved four children, including both of his daughters.

This makes him special in my eyes; a true hero.  Nothing else can or should be said about a person whose last real act in life was brave, regardless of any perceived character flaws.

Krystel’s dad is a hero.  We should all be so lucky to have such a person in our lives.