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Getting ready to lay down for a nap as I have to be on-air at midnight, so I figured I’d get an early jump on this as there’s a couple of things on my mind…

Kyle received an invite from an organization called, ‘People-to-People,’ to go over to Japan for 14-days of study. I don’t know much about this group or even how much it costs to do something like this, but I’m pretty tickled for him.

We have a general information meeting to attend in September. That is when we’ll find out more info on this opportunity.

I was never offered a chance like this when I was in high school, but then I wasn’t a good student like Kyle.

The second thing on my mind has created some consternation within me. I emailed an ex-girlfriend, whom I had not seen since 1998 and then 1982 before then.

She emailed me back, and in one of the most polite drubbings I’ve ever been given, she said she didn’t want to keep in touch because her memories of me were not all that happy. I seem to recall that ten years ago she glared at me as we sat in the dance hall of the convention center where our 20-year class reunion was being held, but I didn’t put much thought to the look of dislike or hatred, but it was there and I put it in the back of my mind.

So much has happened with my life, that I am unable to remember every detail that has occurred, so I have always kept a journal. I have an entire book case and wooden box filled with journals of all sorts.

Sometimes I wrote about events in a straight, orderly fashion,  at times in the form of a poem and other times as a short story. In the case of this former girlfriend, I detailed the ups and downs of our relationship in both poetry and short stories.

My early daylight hours today were spent researching what had happened way back then and why she’s so bitter towards me. Now I wish I hadn’t opened that Pandora ‘s Box.

Back then I got blamed for smashing in her brother ‘s car window because I was seen running past the front windows of a local grocery store. The ex was at a popular restaurant/bar in Crescent City with a friend, her brother and his wife, when the car was trashed.

Oh, I was there, but I didn’t cause the damage. That’s not to say that I don’t know who did the dirty deed.

But when it happened I ran as fast as I could from the scene because I know in that I’d get blamed for it. Perhaps I should have waited for the police, then maybe the remainder of the night wouldn’t have gone as it did.

Shortly after dark, I was with my brother Adam and his friend, when they got into a fight over a car and Adam was severely slashed. It was so bad that his right kidney hung from his lower back and it became a real battle to keep him from bleeding to death before getting him to Seaside Hospital.

It took several hours and hundreds of stitches, but thankfully the doctors and nurses saved his life.

With all of that going on I had forgotten the car widow smashing and what followed in the same parking lot a couple of weeks later. My former girlfriend’s brother and wife confronted me and the three of us got into a fist fight.

According to my notes, I threw the first punch. And while I’m sorry for what happened, and if I could go back and prevent it, I would, but I can’t.

As of yet, I’ve not been asked who damaged the car and now, so many years later, I wouldn’t tell because it would jus’ open another wound for someone else, and who needs that trouble. I’m happy to take the blame if it means keeping the peace — hated or not.

I wrote this for my dad, Thomas Junior Darby (1933-1995,) shortly after returning home from having buried him. It’s based on my eulogy given at the time of his funeral. I took what I said and reworked it into a poem. Red refers to his once wavy head of red hair…

It’s for sure Ol’ Red went to God,
For a chance in heaven to promenade.
But ol’ Red found him a hitch
In his git-up and had him an itch.

Ol’ Red knew this was one chance
To meet the Devil and bet the ranch.
Saint Pete would have to wait
‘Cause Ol’ Red, he had a date.

So Ol’ Red met the Devil that day,
Gabbin’ along in his mischievous way.
And if you hear thunder a-soundin’
It’s just the Devil, he’s just a-poundin’.

It’s the Devil whose mad as Hell,
Not jus’ ’cause he’d been slickered well.
It’s from his tail he tied in a-knot,
When he found Ol’ Red could talk a-lot.

“That danged washer is broke down again,” Mom said over the phone to Dad. He was working at the Requa Air Force Station. Earlier that year he had been able to get permission from the Base Commander to use the station’s laundry facilities.

A few minutes later Dad called back. Mom lifted the receiver from its cradled and answered. “Sorry,” Dad started off, “the laundry facilities are out of order up here as well.” After a few more minutes of conversation, they hung up one from the other.

“Tommy, Adam,” Mom yelled out.

Both of the boys were in their bedroom when she called. They rushed to her immediately.

“I’m going to need your help with the laundry,” she said.

She picked up the telephone and called Camp Marigold to see if they could use their washing machines. Camp Marigold was just over the fence in the back yard.

It was an RV park during the summer and not much of anything else during the winter. It was long past summer and using their laundry room would prove to be no problem.

The plan was to take the laundry over and wash it. Then they would haul it back over the fence and dry it, since the dryer was still working. And after a weeks time with four children and two adults, there were fourteen piles of dirty clothes laid out in masses on the floor.

Adam looked at Tommy and said, “There goes our day.”

They both sighed because each knew the younger brother was right.

There were only two washers available in the campground’s laundry room. And each took nearly twice the time to wash as their washer did at home.

The going was slow and the coins in their pockets burned even slower yet. However they continued to climb back and forth over the fence, each with a load of laundry in tow.

They were down to their last three loads of laundry at sunset. The summertime day had grown into a winter-like evening. Finally the back porch light was turned on.

The yellow glow from the single bulb cast long shadows towards the fence. There were actually two fences. Theirs was set higher by two feet with a foot and a half gap to the lower fence built by the owner of Camp Marigold.

All that day Adam and Tommy had climbed over their fence and down to theirs and finally to the ground. Then they climbed up the camp’s fence and then higher yet over theirs then down into their backyard.

After dark there was very little lighting on the Camp’s side of the fence. And from behind the top of the higher fence to about ten feet out on the Camp’s side, there was no light at all. In fact it was absolutely dark.

Having noticed this, Tommy set about with a devious plan. He would wait for Adam to start climbing the fence and then he would scare him.

Tommy chuckled to himself, for the very thought caused an image in his brain. He saw himself reaching out into the pitch-blackness and touching his younger brother on the shoulder.

And even though he knew he would not be able to see his brothers’ face, he imagined the frightened wideness of his eyes. He imagined his inability to scream as panic choked off any sound he would have started to make. Meanwhile he could see Adam running in place from fear.

He crouched down in the darkness, between the light of the porch and the shadow of the fence. Tommy sat and waited.

Suddenly Adam appeared from the corner of the old building they sat near-by. He approached the fence. He set the basket full of wet, clean laundry on the top rail of the Camp’s fence and proceeded to climb up it.

That’s when his older brother reached out and grabbed his shoulder and in his scariest voice, half whisper and half growled, “Little boy!”

Adam’s body stiffened at the touch and unleashed at the sound of the voice.

The older brother could see nothing of the scared brother’s face or body. The darkness blanketed everything, including the lightening swift right fist Adam hurled at the sound of the voice. Adam was on target and Tommy never saw it coming. He had punched him squarely in the nose.

Tommy fell backwards as Adam clamored over the fence. The basket of wet, clean clothes toppled from the fence rail and landed in the mid-section of the wounded boy. He gasped for air and could only breathe through his mouth.

He laid there for a few second in the dew-heavy grass, beneath the apple tree, next to the old building, by the fence. Tommy awakened to the stabbing pain of a beam of light shining in his eyes. He tried to lift himself up, however he could only raise up on his elbow, his head heavy and swimming with confusion.

Dad had a flashlight. He was looking down at Tommy from a top the fence. He quickly climbed over and down to be next to the boy as he lay on the ground. Tommy leaned back, hoping that Dad would have pity on him and the sorrowful state he was in.

“Cripes! I think you broke his nose, Adam!” Dad yelled up towards the fence.

Adam’s silhouette rose up slowly from beyond the fence at that moment.

“Well, he shouldn’t have scared me like that,” he said in his defense. Then he added, “I didn’t know it was Tommy.”

Dad helped Tommy sit up and then eventually stand-up. He felt sick to his stomach and his legs were weak.

“The only reason I don’t give you a whipping’ is ‘because your brother already don it for me,” Dad said.

Tommy thought to himself, “I wish I could have taken a trip to the wood shed.”

He would have preferred that over being beaten to the ground with a single punch to the face from his kid brother.

His mother was less sympathetic. After cleaning him up, she sent him back out to finish the wash. That included re-washing the wet, clean load of laundry that had fell on top of him.

The load he managed to bleed all over.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with my doctor at the Reno VA. It was a good visit, I’m in pretty good heath so there is little to nothing for me to worry about.

On the way out of the building I noticed an old man, hunched over his walker working his way up the sidewalk. I walked by him ,and. then had this feeling that I should stop and go back and find out if he needed help.

Come to find out, he really wanted a wheelchair. So I got him one and since he didn’t have anybody to help him get around I decided to stay with him through his check in and up to the point where he would meet with his doctors.

Long story short here, he didn’t have an appointment and was only coming in to see if his electric scooter was ready. As it turns out it wasn’t.

But, before he found this out, we spent time talking. I found out his name is Roy and that he’s 92-years-old.  He is as sharp as tack and has a great sense of humor about everything in life, including the five deteriorating vertebrae in his back .

His comment on this was such: “I used to be six-one and a half, but because of my vertebrae giving me fits, I’m not much taller than five feet these days.”

Roy went on to tell me that he feels his pain in his back and he feels fortunate for that. And if he weren’t “all bent over,” he ‘d be in perfect health. He also says he’s lucky because he was in the Infantry during World War II and he didn’t even receive a scratch.

After Roy found out the needed information, I rolled him out side to the bus stop to wait for the bus to come. We talked some more as we waited and as it came time for him to get on the bus, he held out his hand and thanked me and said, “I’m in the book.”

I think I’m gonna give Roy a call.

Saturday I worked from midnight until six a.m. then had to double back by 10 p.m. to work until six a.m. on Sunday. It didn’t end there. I had to return to work as scheduled on Sunday by six p.m. and work until midnight.

By this time I really needed to find the energizer bunny, but she…he …it was no place to be found.

Sunday nights I generally spend my time researching and vetting news items for the Morning Show on Monday. This entails writing, editing and finding sound bites to couple to at least six stories.

It didn’t go like that yesterday as I was lambasted by emergency alert system alarms for the first three hours of the shift. To understand how these work is a little more clinical than I could ever explain.

Simply put, the National Weather Service, State and Federal Emergency Agency or a Law Enforcement Agency sends out an emergency message to our station. These messages, as I understand it, are not broadcast to the public except through the TV ,cable and radio.

Our station is the first one to get these messages and it is our job to broadcast them. In fact, few know this, but this is the primary function any station and not the playing of music or other programs.

Last evening I was bombarded with alert messages for severe thunderstorm and flash flood warnings, so I was sweating my butt off to make sure they were getting on the air. And since I had never done one in the entire year and some months I’ve been at the station, it was trial by fire.

Oh, for certain I had practiced, but one never knows how these sorts of things will go when it’s the real deal.

It got to the point that every time I heard a piece of equipment “click” or “clunk” or “clack,” I felt a wave of near-panic wash over me as I knew I was going to have to run around like a chicken with its head cut-off.  And by the time I was off-air, I was exhausted.

And instead of going home to sleep this waking nightmare off, I still had to sit down and do my regular duties involving news stories. And I didn’t hear any complaints from the boss, so I guess everything went okay.

The funny thing is, I came home early this morning and when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed all day-long about emergency alert system activations. Needless to say, I’m exhausted from working all day too.

And the saga continues…

Late last night I decided go get myself another pair of black togs. I like them because they are comfortable to wear while standing and walking the majority of  the night at the radio station.

There were some errands I had to do for my wife today, so I took care of those, then stopped in at the station to visit with the boss, and my favorite newsman. I left the station jus ‘before noon and drove directly over to my favorite GIANT retail store, Wal-Mart to get my new shoes.

In the shoe section I found exactly what I wanted, but had to search to find the correct size. And here I was thinking I was average sized (in the shoe department that is.)

After a few minutes I found my size and tried both on. I don’t believe that trying on one shoe means the others going to fit comfortably. It doesn’t always work out.

Paid for them and got them home then started to try them on again only to notice a severe problem. Somehow I ended up with two-left shoes and they were two sizes too big.

What the…!

So I hopped in my truck and had to drive back into town  to THAT Wal-Mart to exchange them. Fortunately the lady behind the counter had a sense of humor and could laugh at the complete ‘goof’ that I am.

And I still can’t figure out how I did it.

It’s been 27-years since the U.S. Air Force fired me as an Environmental Health, Medical and Rescue Tech. The day I was discharged, I felt like my world was ending.

Happily, I was wrong.

While my experiences that led up to my dismissal were horrible and emotionally damaging, I survived it…and moved on from it. Recently, I heard a song by Brad Paisley, where his older, wiser self writes a letter to his younger and more foolish 17-year-old self, warning himself not to do various things.

It’s an interesting concept, but I’ve decided I wouldn’t want to write such a letter.

As much as I wished at times that I could go back and correct those event or somehow prove that I was unfairly treated as a younger man, I’ve grown to understand that those events, unpleasant as they were, are a part of what makes me –well, me. And I kind of like me in spite of my tendency to act and react in a stupid way.

And before you start to worry about my having called myself “stupid,” let me give you my quick and dirty definition of the word as it relates to other words we tend to use in its place…

Dumb: When a person is unable to keep the information given to them.   

Ignorant: Never having been given the information in the first place.

Stupid: Having the information but choosing to ignore it and continue anyway.

Somehow, I always mange to find myself in that last category and I can relate it all to the day I was kicked out of the Air Force. The signs were all there and I decided to ignore them and continue on my course of action.

While there were a number of things that led up to my discharge, the biggest was turning my entire department into the Inspector General of the Air Force. Our department was sending myself and another Airman out to missile silos to dump chlorine bleach into the pools of water at the base of these missiles to kill off algae.

The correct thing our department should have done was to remove the missiles, one-by-one, from service and have the engineers fix the cement lining of these water pools called ‘sumps,’ so that the algae wouldn’t grow in them. A cracked lining could lead to a burn-off of all the water, creating a situation where the silo could experience a burn-down.

A burn-down is where the facility gets so hot it cooks the missile rendering it useless and worse cooks the two-man crew locked into the control center. And there is no way they can escape.

To me, it appeared critical that the job be done right. Too bad my commanding office and NCOs ‘ (non-commissioned offers) didn’t see it the way I did. So I took the matter to a higher authority.

What happened next calls for some speculation on my part, but I think somebody in  my chain-of-command got a heads-up from the IG, giving my name to them or perhaps they jus’ figured out it was me.

Yeah, it was unfair as my name was to remain confidential but that didn’t happen.

Next thing I know, I’m asked to house sit for a Staff Sergeant and his wife few days before. I was to go on leave. The plan then was to surrender the house key to a Senior Airman and he ‘d take care of the house.

While at home, visiting my family, I called my friend and work-buddy and he says I better get back, because I’m being accused of theft. I jumped the next military flight I could find back to base and found out he was dead on the money.

It would take the administration at the base 27 days to process me out of active duty. And I never did get the court-martial I requested. Instead the charges were reduced to “misappropriation of personal items,” though I never saw all the things I had reportedly taken.

In the end, I wouldn’t trade the sickly feeling I felt throughout the process or the complete and utter sense of hopelessness I felt each night at lights-out. My grandpa had a saying that I recall to this day,  “I’d rather be wronged for doing right, than wrong for not doing right.”

Instead, I’d throw that warning letter away without a second thought as I’ve learned that ‘stupid,’ ain’t always a bad thing.

So much for simplicity and organization after a visit from that famous lawyer, Mr. Murphy.

I woke up this morning to find my black lab and pit bull playing tug-of-war with one of my black slip-on shoes.

And jus ‘behind them were the remains of one of my tennis shoes. I was certain it was too late to save it, as it’s tongue was hanging limply from it, yet I felt hope for my black togs.

Out the backdoor I flew, yelling and screaming like a crazy man. Both dogs mistook my flailing as some sort of play and came bounding over to me to join in.

Boy, were they surprised! I snatched both of them up by their collars and dragged them to the kennel, where I locked them away.

Locking them up wasn’t so much a punishment as it was a way of saving their young, tender lives. It was also starting to occur to them that they might be in trouble.

After retrieving all four shoes from the back yard and carefully lining them up in front of the kennel, I went back inside and fetched a rolled up newspaper. Both dogs knew then, they were screwed as the beatings commenced.

Okay, so I didn’t beat them — but man, I wanted too.

Instead I rubbed their noses in the shoes and popped them on their little doggie-heads several times all the while repeating, “No! No! No!” The sound of the newspapers, ‘thwack’ between their ears is loud and scary, but it doesn’t hurt them.

Now I have to go buy another pair of black slip-on’s and another pair of tennis  shoes.  So much for saving money!

Can dogs get athlete’s foot of the mouth?

It’s a little late to call it spring cleaning, but it feels good none the less. I’ve gone through my drawers and my closet, getting rid of the things I don’t wear or can’t fit.

I’ve always been a pretty simple in my way of dress. Blue jeans and a white button down or pocket tee-shirt. I used to wear boots all the time and tennis shoes when I felt like it.

Since re-injuring my back, boots cause me tremendous pain and I’m unable to properly regulate my body ‘s temperature, so wearing long-sleeved shirts isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be. But I kept them all the same.

What I did toss into the give-away box are jeans and colored tee-shirts that I certainly cannot fit into. I was up to 223 pounds after nearly five years of semi­retirement, yet I’ve lost 22-pounds jus’ by managing my food intake. Still I can’t fit into the size 34 and 36 britches I’ve harbored, in my drawers all this time, so they got to go.

It’s also an idea of simplicity. I hate having to try to figure out what it is I want to wear everyday. With white tee-shirts, I can even put on a  pair of my Hawaiian-styled swim trunks or one of my many kilts or jeans and I’m ready to go.  And we all know, white button-down shirts work with everything in a man’s closet.

So my entire inventory of clothing is six white tee’s, six white button-downs, two pair of blue jeans, two pair of BDUs, 11 kilts, five pair of swim trunks, six vests, a pair of black slip on shoes, a pair of brown slip on shoes, my dress cowboy boots, my work cowboy boots, a pair of swim togs .and a pair of summer slippers and a pair for winter, plus two night shirts.  I still have to go through my coats and jackets, as I have a crap-load of them.

Yes, men do think about their attire — but in a different way.

My wife has gobs of’ clothing that she wears only a couple of times. It goes to the dry cleaners and then away for a couple of years, then trotted out to either fit or return to the closet when it doesn’t.

It’s the same for her shoes. She has at least 20 pair. Now I know that this isn’t as many as some women I’ve heard of’, but she keeps going out and buying new pairs so that the bottom of her closet-side is a mass of various shoes, from tennis to low heel pumps to flats and sandals.

But it’s what makes her happy, so I won’t interfere with her shopping.  I ain’t that stupid .

The thing that kills me is that in her closet are the boxes and boxes of records she has stored up from her business. I keep telling her that’s why we have a shed. But she doesn’t want to put them out there because it gets dusty and dirty.

Well, okay…

But my side of the closet is clean again and I can actually get all of MY clothes into my two drawers, so I’m happy. Now I need to tackle my office space, where I’m certain I can find at least two garbage bins full of stuff to toss out.

I’ll leave that for tomorrow…or maybe next week…or maybe next spring.

 

Sometimes good jus’ happens and sometimes good costs a little-bit. In this case it cost me only 20-bucks.

Up the street from our house is a 13-year-old boy. He lives with his Grandmother since his Grandpa died on April 1 and it’s been hard on the young man.

He doesn’t know who his real dad is and his mother traded a life with him for drugs.

This last week he’s been coming over and sitting on the front porch bench, more and more jus’ to chat. He likes to play football, ride his bike and skate board.

My wife says he’s starved for the attention of a grown man in his life. Perhaps· this is something only a woman could ‘see.’

Hearing all of this has been tough to take, making my childhood look like a fairy tale.

Anyhow, he found out his uncle is going to take. him and his cousins to Hawaii next week. He came over excited.

That’s when it came out — he wanted to do some odd jobs around the house to earn money for this trip. And get this, he wants to help his uncle pay for the trip.

So, I put him to work in the back yard. He cut down all the extra growth from our Aspen trees.

This isn’t an easy task as they have a habit of growing up out of the ground several feet from the original tree. And they are hard to kill.

He worked at this for about an hour and after finishing, we sat in the back yard and talked a few minutes. I could tell he was nervous about asking for pay.

Finally, I asked him what he thought the job was worth, he replied “Maybe five-bucks.”

With such honesty and good intention from a teenager, I couldn’t help but be impressed, so I handed him a 20-dollar bill. To see his eyes bug out like they did was well worth the price.

Sometimes I like the way good jus’ works out.