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It had started two weeks before when Karen had called me and said, “We need to get your truck moved before it gets towed”

I was in agreement, however life happened and his wife, Mary’s father died and the entire family had to go out of town for funeral arrangements and the funeral.

The next time I heard from Karen was the evening they returned home.

She had left a trite message starting, “If you don’t get your truck moved, it’s going be impounded and then auctioned off.”

That peeved me off right then and there. I picked up the telephone and called Karen’s house.

Her husband answered and I told him plainly, “I don’t like to be threatened like that and if you’ll give me the address where I can come get it I have arrangements to have it towed.”

Karen’s husband replied, “Well, I’ll have to ask Karen if I can give you the address because I don’t know about that.”

I cut him off, “Is there something you guys are hiding?”

“No?” he replied

“Then jus’ give me the address,” I demanded, “I don’t want my truck to disappear suddenly.”

“It won’t,” the husband respond.

“What do you mean?” I retorted. “It already has once — you moved it to a secret location without telling me without telling me and won’t tell me where it is now.”

“That’s up to Karen,” he said.

“Look I’ve been threatened with having it impounded and auctioned off and I don’t have a location where I can come get it. If those two things happen I will take action, do you understand me?” I said.

“Are you threatening me?” he asked.

I answered, “Nope, promising,” and gently hung up the telephone.

The following morning Karen called at 6:30am.

“Hey, I didn’t like you threatening my old man like that,” she complained.

“I didn’t threaten, I promised. I need an address,” I quickly cut to the point.

“I’ll call you right back,” she replied and hung up the telephone.

Finally, two hours later she called me back with an address.

“How fast can you get this thing out of here?” she wanted to know.

“I’ll have a tow truck ordered before I’m en route and I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes,” I answered.

I was feeling pretty steamed because she had made him wait for so long.

As I pulled out of the driveway I called the tow service. They said they would be there within half an hour.

I sudden felt better,  glad to be getting this done.

In less than twenty minutes he had pulled up in front of the house where he was told he could get his truck. Unfortunately while he could see his truck in the back yard he could also see the two rottweiler dogs patrolling the area just beyond the “Beware of Dog” signs.

Getting out of my truck, I walked up to the front door and rapped on it three times. There was so answer.

Again he knocked. There was still no answer.

Looking around, saw Karen’s pickup truck parked in the driveway so I knew she had to inside the house. I knocked once more.

Again getting no response, I walked back to my car and picked up my cell phone, dialing her number. She answered.

“Are you going to answer the door?” I asked.

She paused then said, “Not until the tow truck gets here.”

She then hung up.

I sat in my car and relaxed while waiting for the flat-bed tow truck to arrive. When it did, I walked up to the door and knocked again.

This time Karen answered just as she said she would.

“Can you put the dogs away?” I asked.

She smiled, “Their really sweethearts so it’s okay to go in.”

Karen closed the door.  Something about the situation did not sit well with me.

It appeared all too simple so I told to the tow truck operator, “Wait right here, I need to see how friendly these dogs really are.”

With that I slowly opened the rolling gate. I knew the answer within a heart beat as both dogs alerted and raced towards me growling and barking.

I pushed the gate closed as both dogs hit it with forceful violence.

“Sweethearts my ass,” Daniel thought, “so let’s see how well she respects outlaws.”

Retrieving my cell phone once again, I  called my brother Adam. I knew he had contacts with some outlaw motorcycle gangs.

“Hey Adam, I need some help,” I started off.

A couple minutes later I hung up and walked over to the tow truck operator, “If you can come back in about 30 minutes, this situation should have cleared itself up.“

“Yeah, I can do that,” he responded as he climbed up in his cab and drove away.

Karen shouted out the window, “See what you get for threatening me and my old man?”

I jus’ smiled at her and walked over to his car, casually leaning on it, not the least bit worried as I knew Adam would come through.

At first the sound was like that of freight train several miles away across the open plains, yet it grew louder and louder. Then the first of the bikes rolled into the narrow cul-de-sac, these were followed by even more motorcycles.

Soon the noise was deafening. The bikers, most in their gang colors, sat there revving the throttle as they waited for the return of the tow truck, I was more than amused when he saw the look on tow truck drivers face as he wheeled the flat-bed truck around the corner only to find the street and cul-de-sac choked with the loud rumble of motor bikes.

As he stopped his tow truck, so did at the motorcycles’. They turned off their engines in unison.

I remained leaning against my car as the shortest member of the bike gang’s got off of his cycle and walked up the pathway to the front door of the house. He knocked lightly on the door and Karen slowly opened it.

“Ma’am,” he said, “We’ve come to retrieve our brother’s truck.”

I couldn’t hear what Karen said, I could only see her lips move slightly.

She disappeared behind the closed door. A minute later both dogs were called from the back yard and two of the motorcyclists went in and pushed my truck out into the street.

The tow truck operator hurriedly moved into position to load the truck. Once it was on the flat-bed, the motorcycle gang fired up their bikes and like metallic thunder, roared out of the cal-de-sac and down the street.

Each one gave a salute to me as they rode passed.

The sun beat down hot on Tommy as he stood there in the lonely post of right field. Beads of sweat dribbled from him. They dropped to the earth in large fat beads.

The heat and the boredom were getting to Tommy’s brain. Nothing ever happened in right field. The other team always hit to the center fielder or to the left fielder. Right field was the lowest a player could go. Tommy was there because he wasn’t a very good ball player.

His entertainment had become attempting to hit an ant hole with his rivulets of perspiration as it broke from his forehead, gathered speed between his eyebrows and screamed off the end of his nose.

“Plop,” the sweat would say as it struck the ground.

The ants would scurry to the left or to the right of it.

“Pilot to bombardier…” Tommy heard in his head. “Another pass, we have then on the run,” he added.

Plop, plop, plop.

Crack!

Tommy heard it as the batter connected with the stitched up piece of rawhide.

“Where is it?” Tommy questioned to himself.

The bombing mission would have to wait. There was an enemy bandit closing in quick somewhere near twelve o’clock high. Tommy’s every muscle had to be fixed on it. He had trained for the kill.

Suddenly he saw it. The ball was high overhead and sailing towards him. At first Tommy just stood there, motionless. He was trying to figure out where the ball was going.

“Back pedal, back pedal!” his mind raced as his feet began to move.

Tommy’s eyes were fixed upon that sphere as it flew directly overhead. Tommy kept backpedaling. He had one hand up, reaching for the ball. The other hand was outstretched behind him, searching for the fence that he knew must be close by. The ball was just out of reach as he leaped into the air to meet it.

Thud!

Tommy heard himself hit the fence more than he felt it. His body seemed to propel itself higher and higher. Then he realized he was half way over the fence.

Slap! Tommy’s mind reeled in the amazement at both the sound and the feeling in his glove. The ball had landed squarely in his mitt. His glove had never felt so bulky or so heavy before. But he had just made a spectacular catch.

“Tommy? Tommy?” a soft voice came to him.

It had a familiar ring to it. He knew that voice well.

“Tommy?” It was Mom calling him.

A muffled click and a bright light overhead pierced the darkness as Mom called out to him again.

Tommy opened his eyes and looked around. Mom was bending over him. He was wrapped in a tangle of blankets and bed sheet.

“Get up, Tommy,” Mom said, “you fell out of bed.”

Tommy blinked a couple of times and obeyed Mom, as any nine year old would do. He climbed back up into the top bunk of the beds and Mom pulled the covers up around him. Then Tommy drifted off into sleep again.

Mom turned off the light and looked back at Tommy. He was smiling because he knew he had made the catch.

As a rule, I am the sort of fellow that allows people to have their opinions. Of course I will let them know that I disagree with their opinion when I do and that is that.

They are also free to disagree with mine. This doesn’t mean that we can’t still be friends.

Case in point came last night when a friend of mine asked my son what he thought he’d like to do when he got out of high school. At one time Kyle had said a policeman and another time, a fireman; both very noble professions.

However he surprised me when he said ‘a Marine.’

It was hard to sit silently and allow those two to continue their conversation but this is how it played out. My friend responded, “Why? So they can brain-wash you?”

Kyle answered, “They brain-wash people?” He looked over at me.

My eyes were fixed on the television waiting for my friend to answer him. I wanted to know what my friend had to say. I didn’t want to interfere.

My friend’s response was as I figured.

My friend stated, “I’ve had two friends who were brain-washed and they got all messed up while in the Marines.”

One got into drugs and the other one, well…he refused to ask for any kind of help. One could say he felt he was too ‘tough’ to need assistance from anyone.

Kyle responded with, “Oh.”

I continued to look away even though I wanted to defend the Corp with my last breath. That’s where the conversation ended.

Then, this morning I received a telephone call from this same friend telling me that they had just heard that President Bush had nominated U. S. Marine Corp. Lt. General Peter Pace to become the first Marine officer to serve as chairman of the U. S. military’s Joint Chiefs of Staff.

My friend was laughing at statements made from the night before because here was this news story about a God-fearing Marine. I took the opportunity to point out that my friends two buddies had forgotten one key element in Marine Corp training, which is that they do not have to rely on themselves to pull through tough times, whether personal or professional.

Marines are taught that they can always rely on each other.

They can rely on the Corp including the Corp’s rules, regulations and discipline. They can rely on family; their own or a buddy’s. And they can rely on God. And these things that they rely on don’t necessarily fall in this order each and every time.

And when a Marine says, “Semper Fi” that man or woman is saying more than just, “Always Faithful.” They are not speaking only of a way of life; they are talking about a way of living.

Enough said.

It was the first time that Doc was allowed to go out with the two squads as they set up an ambush sight. He had been refused twice before because he had lacked experience and the CO wanted to be certain he could handle the strain of being in the field.

The group of 24 men walked for nearly five-hour to get to the place that they had been assigned. Doc was glad to have the rest, but first he had to check up on the men to make certain they had been drinking enough and that their blisters were treated properly.

This took up another hour and was made even harder by the fact that both squads had spread out in an inverted “V” shape along either side of the designated trail. This was the standard tactical set-up for an ambush and it allowed for a wide coverage of the slim winding path without the possibility of cross-fire.

It was both humid and hot under the jungle canopy and Doc was happy to be able to set up a squatter’s shelter using his poncho, and laying down of a couple of hours. It would be a lengthy wait as it was not even noon time and most ambushes didn’t happen until well into the early morning hours before sunrise.

Intel had passed along information that a large enemy troop movement would be using the trail as a passage from their base camp of operations in Nicaragua to attack local villages along the border of Honduras. The two squads were given the task of ambushing the enemy, thus giving the Honduran Army enough time to warn villagers of the danger.

As the afternoon wore on, Doc moved from position to position checking on the health of each Marine. It was just after three in the afternoon when he finally got a chance to lay down and catch some shut-eye.

He smoothed out his poncho once again and removed his steel helmet. Doc propped it under his head and soon found himself sound asleep.

At some point, Doc felt a small tickle on his face. He reached up and brushed at it, hoping to make it go away.

Again he brushed his face with his hand. Still the tickle remained.

Finally after three attempts he opened his eyes.

He was met by a shape that struck terror into his heart. He felt, more than heard himself scream as he sprang to his feet in a panic.

It was large green and brown spider resting over his face. And it fell from his face, coming to rest on the Hospital Corpsman’s poncho.
As he continued to panic, Doc reached down a yanked his pistol from its holster and he fired point blank at the large insect. He popped off two or three rounds before a Marine came rushing over and hit him in the head with his rifle butt.

Doc woke up a few minutes later with a headache and a huge bump that left the right side of his head swollen. He felt dizzy as he started to sit up and could tell there was a group of men standing around him.

“What the hell were you doing?” asked the harsh voice of the Master Gunny. He was on both knees next to Doc.

Doc blinked a couple of times and toppled over on his left side from dizziness. The strike to the head had knocked him completely off balance.

“So what the hell were you thinking?” the Master Gunny growled.

Doc answered, “Big fucking spider, face, scared of spiders.”

“Asshole, you could of got us all killed,” the voice grumbled. Then he added, “Now we got to get out of here.”

Much of the walk back to the base camp for Doc was lost in a haze of pain, lack of balance and fatigue. The two squads were still out in the jungle, only now they were short two men and a Corpsman.

Along the way, Doc told the two Marines escorting him back to base what had happened. One laughed and said, “You’re a brave one, Doc Spider.”

Doc felt a slight sickness swell in is stomach as he realized that this would soon be the nickname he’d be stuck with from then on. He decided that he’d deal with it later as he just wanted to make it to sick-bay before nighttime fell.

Thank goodness for Hydrocodone tablets. I took one about an hour ago so that I could get past the pain in my left chest and so that I might fall asleep.

The pain is gone but I am unable to sleep and I feel as if I am floating in a bag full of popcorn. The reason I am taking this medication is the fact that I broke my ribs on my left side.

I did it while taking pictures at a beach in Northern California. I looked up as I took a step and discovered that the place where I was supposed to be stepping was more slanted than I thought.

It is really a case about the Law of Gravity when I think about it. I lost my footing on my left side which is my weak side anyway due to my broken back.

When Gravity took control I tried my best to wrestle control back from the Law by it was of no use. Before I knew it I was tumbling off the 5 or 6 foot rock onto whatever lay below.

That is one of the many thoughts that flash-raced through my head as I toppled over the edge of this rock. I wondered what in the world was I going to fall on.

My imagination ran away with me as I pictured sharp, jagged rocks or sticks waiting to impale me. While this thought shot itself through my brain, I struggled to save myself.

Instinct and years of survival training told me to toss myself on my right side and spread out to create some sort of friction. Now my brain didn’t say ‘friction’ or anything remotely intelligent as that.

No, I heard that inner-voice say something closer to, “Oh, Sh…”

To be honest, I am not sure whether I finished the thought or not, because it was within a couple of seconds that I realized that trying to keep from falling was not working and I was falling and then I was hitting the ground, hard, on my left side. The ground as it turned out was more or less rocks of various shapes and sizes.

Three of these rocks I recall very well, only after catching my wind and my son Kyle gingerly sitting me up to see if I really was alive. The first two were side-by-side and are the ones I stuffed my left foot between as I struck the ground.

They kept me from being able to gain my balance and remain on my feet. I also got myself some real good ‘raspberries’ on my ankle from these two rocks.

This third rock was the one that smashed up my ribs. I knew I was going to fall over completely so I did my best to protect my head and as much of my rib cage as possible.

Unfortunately, I found the one rock that was shaped like a rounded off cone and it slipped just passed my elbow. Had it been sharp and pointed, my nightmare thoughts of impalement would have come true!

Thankfully Kyle was there and able to do some first aid magic. If it is possible I would like to nominate him to receive his first aid merit badge since he’s with the Boy Scouts.

It took me a while to gather myself and to realize I was going to have to climb up a couple of huge rocks to get out of the situation I was in. Believe me, with my back, I am in no shape to climb up anything these days.

Yet my son gently encouraged me, knowing we had to get back to the pick-up truck. Where we were on vacation there is no Veteran’s Hospital, so I had to drive home about 400-miles to seek medical aid.

That’s how I got these great pills. I just can’t believe that I have managed to break my back and now my rib and all after retiring.

It doesn’t make sense.

Once I was able to see my doctor, her first words after viewing my x-rays were, “Mr. Darby, you have broken ribs.” I would have laughed but it hurt too much at the time.

I knew they were broken.

Actually, I was hoping they were just bruised but when we started up from an elevation near zero feet and reached about 2-thousand feet above sea level I knew I was a hurting unit. My doctor made me take the pressure wrapping off my chest saying, “We no longer do that because we don’t want to take the chance that the ribs might puncture your lung.”

I had always heard it was put on there to prevent just that and to help stabilize the chest wall. She also instructed me to cough a couple times an hour, hard to help prevent pneumonia.

I didn’t argue, I just wanted some drugs and to go home so I could go to bed.

That is another amazing thing I have discovered about broken ribs. I cannot sleep on my left or right side as I am either in a tremendous amount of pain or I can’t catch my breath.

And worse yet, I am a belly sleeper, and I am stuck sleeping on my back the entire night. And I dread the idea of having to get up to go pee once I’m tucked in.

Follow this up with the fact that my body had decided to hiccup, sneeze, cough, belch or fart for no other reason than to send me into dizzying pain; a pain that has dropped me to my knees on a number of occasions. Plus, my ribs are attached to my anus.

I have no earthly idea how this could be, but as I sit on the Master Throne to pooh-pooh, my ribs pop and grind as if they are the ones constipated from the medication I have been taking.

When I look back on the whole incident, I feel rather fortunate though. It could have been much worse than it was. I remember that I didn’t lose consciousness because as I gasped for air I did thanking God for not letting me die.

I also recall the sound of my digital camera bouncing off the rocks. I also laid there for a lengthy time wanting to make sure I hadn’t paralyzed myself somehow. Guess that’s how the Law of Gravity works.

Next time —  jus’ write me a ticket.

The old washing machine was off-loaded at the dump today. While sitting in my truck, in a long line waiting my turn to pay the man and enter the building to drop it off, it occurred to me, “We American’s are weird because we are so willing to wait in line to pay to go to a dump. Secretly I think we’re all a bunch of Rednecks.”

Also while sitting in that same line I was transported back in time. It was to a place where my brother and I would drive our Dad crazy as we would head to the Klamath dump.

We would sing over and over, “To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump…”

It was sung to the tune of the William Tell Overture better known as “The Lone Ranger’s Theme.”

Grandpa looked very dapper in his newly steamed and cleaned Stetson cowboy hat. He was standing before his dresser mirror, adjusting his brand new red bow-tie. He was getting ready to go to his first meeting as a new member of the ‘32nd and Denison Cattle and Land Club.’

His grandson Tommy could see that he was pretty excited, “I think you look sharp, Grandpa.” The old man smiled back at the 13-year old boy in his mirror.

Tommy thought back to how this entire evening had come about, realizing it had been a two month process. It had started when Grandpa said, “I’d sure like to be a member of that new club one day.”

“What new club?” Tommy asked as they rumbled down the main street towards Route 64.

He pointed towards a plain looking two-story building. “That club,” he said as they rolled by. Tommy turned in the truck seat and studied the structure. He couldn’t see anything special about the place and he turned back to his Grandpa and made a wry face at the old man.

“I don’t get it,” Tommy replied.

“It’s called the ‘32nd and Denison Cattle and Land Club,’ he said to the young boy sitting next to him, “and I wanna be a member of it.” He paused then added, “But I don’t wanna ask them myself.”

That gave Tommy an idea. He decided he would do his best to get someone from that Club to ask his Grandpa to be a member.

It was the following day that Tommy went down to the hardware store and then to the feed lot out back where most of the retired ranchers and farmers sat, playing checkers. He loitered about, watching the games and listening to the old men as they talked and accused one another of moving when it wasn’t their turn.

Soon one of them asked him if he was interested in taking him on. Tommy jumped at the chance. That day he played about ten games and lost everyone, but because he was a good sport, he was invited back.

For the next month and a half Tommy returned to the feed lot and played game after game of checkers. Often he would return home, finish his chores, and have supper and then head for bed, mentally exhausted. He was getting better at checkers, winning more than half the time and even dreaming about playing the game in his sleep.

Then the day came that the subject of the Club came up. Tommy listened for an opportunity to say something about his Grandpa. He started by asking innocently, “What’s the Club all about?”

After the explanation, Tommy asked another question, “How can my Grandpa become a member?”

“Well son,” one of the older gentlemen started, “You let me handle that.”

Tommy responded, “Yes, sir.”

That night Tommy could hardly sleep. He was so excited by the prospect of his Grandpa getting an invitation to become a member of the 32nd and Denison Cattle and Land Club.

The following morning, shortly after chores and while they were eating breakfast, Grandpa’s telephone rang. He picked it up just after the third ring. “Speaking,” he said. There was pause. “This Friday night at 8 o’clock, okie-dokey.” He hung up the phone and came back to the breakfast table. He was smiling.

After a few more bites of eggs and bacon, he finally spoke, “That was the President of the 32nd and Denison Cattle and Land Club.” The retired rancher smiled widely then added, “And he has invited me to join their Club.”

Tommy wanted to whoop for happiness because he knew that that what his Grandpa really wanted. He tried hard not to hurry through his breakfast as he sat there. He still had to wash up the dishes before heading to the feed lot.

The next ten days were more relaxing for Tommy, knowing that he had succeeded in getting the invite for his Grandpa. His skill at checkers was improving as he was starting to win nearly seven out of ten games he played. Plus he enjoyed listening to the old men and all the stories of the ‘good old days.’

“Well, I’m off Tommy, you need anything call your Aunt Bev,” Grandpa said as he stepped out the door. A minute later the old Dodge pick-up could be heard starting up and the tires crunching on the gravel as he pulled out of the driveway.

Tommy reached under the couch and found the boot horn and slipped off his cowboy boots. He wondered out into the kitchen in his stocking feet to raid the refrigerator of a piece of fried chicken and a soda pop. He turned on the radio and leaned against the counter.

He finished the drum stick and tossed it in the garbage can and then sat down at the table. An old Bob Wills song was playing and Tommy was trying hard to remember the name of the tune. He sipped at the soda bottle as a set of headlights flashed through the nearly dark living room. It was the sound of Grandpa’s truck.

Tommy looked over at the clock, “He’s only been gone 15-minutes,” he said to himself. He got up and started towards the front door.

Grandpa stepped through the doorway and closed the door with a solid thump behind him. It was obvious to Tommy that he was angry about something. The first thought the young boy had was, “Did he find out?”

“That dirty rotten old son of a…” his Grandpa started, but did not finish. He stood there, fingering the edge of his hat. Then he sat down on the edge of the couch and finished, “They said I could be a member but they don’t allow ties in their Club.”

Tommy could see his Grandpa was getting frustrated again. The old man paused and when he got a hold of his temper said, “But before I could get it off, that old fart Pickens cut it off.”

That’s when Tommy realized that the ends of Grandpa’s tie were missing just below the knot. The youngster walked back into the kitchen and fetched a beer from the fridge and gave it to his Grandpa. “Thanks,” he said, then he added, “I don’t want to be a member of their Club anyway.”

Tommy had to turn his back to his Grandpa so the old man couldn’t see the hurt as it washed over his face. Then his Grandpa said, “Anytime you want to play checker, I’m pretty fair myself.”

He turned and looked at his Grandpa. There was twinkle in the old mans eye that told Tommy that he had known all along what his Grandson was up too and that he appreciated it.

My wife is sleeping soundly and I can’t. My back is in rotten pain from a brake I received years ago either in the service or doing something stupid like cowboying when I should have been pushing a pencil instead.

Now I have this aggravating cough that racks me with pain from everywhere. I had it for ten days now.

My ribs hurt, my head hurts and my back aches with spasms every time I cut loose. And I told myself I wasn’t gonna complain. I can’t seem to help myself though.

I was going to work on a short story I started last night, but my mind isn’t in the right place.

Instead I have decided to create an ‘open’ blog, if you will, so I can just share some of twisted views of this world we live in. I almost always start from viewing myself first.

Worse yet I had an 0830 hours appointment at the Reno VAMC. They only want to draw blood but it usually leads to the same thing with my doctor; an argument.

She seems fixated on the idea of running a mini-cam up my colon when I really need my back worked on. That would be the problem with socialized medicine.

Doctors and other various medical pros all have to fill a certain protocol as recommended by some other authority, say the AMA. And while the patient gets serviced, the person gets ignored.

It’s not their fault because they’re doing the best they can. It’s the system. The best example is this cough I have had for ten days.

I went to the VAMC and they sent me home with cough syrup.

It calmed the cough somewhat but did nothing for the infection. I asked, “Why no antibiotics?”

The nurse replied, “We have to wait 10 to 14 days in case your cold clears itself up on its own.”

She left me to suffered with a cough and broken back together ever since. Makes me wish I was a drinker so I could deaden the ache. But having been a P-medic at one time I learned that self-medicating isn’t the answer. It only adds to the injury further down the line.

Well, my honey just came out see if I am okay. She works so hard and seems to always be so tired.

It is so sweet of her to be concerned. If she can stand my hacking, I think I’ll go lay down next to her for a while.

Hmm, hacking logs instead of sawing them.

With the weather turning nice in the Truckee Meadows I am more inclined to wear a kilt out and about these days. I have sticking to a specific tartan because I am more American than anything else, which does tend to screw up the argument for wearing a kilt in the first place.

The last 3-weeks I have gone to church on Wednesday nights while girded in my kilt. I wanted to find out if it really does matter to folks what one wears to church or not.

It does —  because as I have realized Canadians get more fellowship than I do, based on the fact that most people who do not know me, think I’m from north of the border. Fortunately, I don’t go to church jus’ for fellowship but for the teaching.

Besides, it take courage to be different and I want to be courageous since I’m already different. Finally, I have compile a short list of facts about the kilt:

• The kilt may have originated in France…damned those Frogs!
• The Scottish kilt never looked anything like the one in ‘Braveheart’.
• The Irish didn’t start wearing kilts until around the mid-eighteenth century.
• It doesn’t matter what one wears or doesn’t wear under the kilt.
• Family tartans came about because of the Anglican Church.
• At one point the wearing of the kilt was outlawed in the United Kingdom.

And I know what to say when some guy shouts, “Nice skirt!”

I jus’ smile and holler back, “Thanks,” then curtsy.

The wheels of justice are slow turning and often grind a person to pieces anymore. That of course is my cynical opinion of our legal system.

And today I had the opportunity to watch it in action, not as a spectator or defendant but as the guy asked to stand up and speak for a man who had no representation. It began for my friend John back on January 28th, when he went to a Raley’s Super Store.

He purchased a 270-dollar money order and several items and walked outside. During the time spent shopping he admittedly picked up a fifteen dollar package of razor blades and put them in a pocket, having no other way of holding them.

After making his purchases he walked outside and then realized he had failed to pay for the blades. He turned around and started back into the store and was promptly met by a plain-clothed security officer.

This officer took him by the wrist and escorted John into the backroom of the store, effectively isolating him from everyone. John was accused of stealing the blades and even though he told the officer he was coming back into the store to pay for them, it didn’t matter.

This security officer told John that he was going to call the Reno Police and have him arrested. But then he offered John a piece of paper that said he would let John walk out of the store a ‘free man’ if he promised to appear in court.

A scared and intimidated John, fearing being arrested and sent to jail signed the paper and was escorted from the store. He was also told he could not return to that store for one-year.

When John went to get a public defender the Municipal Court in Reno denied him one. They determined on April 8th that because he is ‘non-indigent’ and if convicted of the crime, the standard sentence carries no jail time.

This really says that a person has to be completely unemployed and living in the street in order to get a public defender. A very worried John called on Wednesday of last week and asked if I would go to court with him just to support him.

I told him I would and then he started explaining what had happened. I felt something was not right and I offered to have a go at speaking to the city attorney or the judge, which ever I could.

John jumped at the idea. And that is exactly what happened this morning.

The Reno City attorney called John into her office because he didn’t have an attorney of record. She quickly explained that John was being charged with Petty Larceny and what was going to happen and then asked if there were any questions.

She looked at John, who looked at me and I opened my mouth at that point. It was amazing to hear myself speak calmly and rationally to this extremely professional woman.

I explained that since there were no video cameras showing John taking the razors and only the testimony of the single witness, whom I described as an over-zealous security guard, we could go to court and show how this wouldn’t stand the test. She wanted to know how anyone could prove such a thing.

I told her that John had been bullied into signing a piece of paper that he didn’t want to sign. He was not arrested or read his Miranda rights.

I pointed out to her that I could easily take her into a room and intimidate her into signing a piece of paper if I wanted too. She agreed.

After weighing everything she offered John a simple case of ‘disturbing the peace’ for ‘excessive noise.’ The city attorney dismissed the witness and John and I waited for our turn to go into the courtroom.

John answered, “No contest,” when the Judge asked for his plea. He received a 240-dollar fine which was paid straight away and now John doesn’t have to carry the stigma of ‘petty thief’ with him anymore. Ultimately, that is all I wished for my friend John.

I know his character and he isn’t a thief. I was concerned that nobody was willing to step up and look out for his rights.

I am still concerned that somehow the City of Reno has turned over it’s authority to cite shoplifters to the security officers at stores. This is inviting abuse of the accused shoplifter.

What was funny was when the Judge asked, “Counsel, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”

I told him I wasn’t an attorney but rather an itinerant Preacher, he said, “Why thank you sir, your presents is duly noted. Please have a seat.”

He had this strange smile on his face, half amused and have puzzled. That was my Perry Mason moment.