A couple of days after Dad died my step-mom, sister and I went to Foster and Peterings Funeral Home in Muskogee for visitation. For some reason I went into the chapel, first to see him laid out in the casket and suit we’d selected the day before.

It felt strange and I knew what to expect. However, still unable to fully grasp Dad was gone, I stood there looking, waiting to see some sort of sign of life.

Nothing.

Then as ashamed as I am to admit it, I reached over and gently rapped three times on his forehead. I recognized the hollow sound of a non-functioning brain and felt the chill of his icy skin.

He was dead and I had to accept it.

Then I noticed something that I had seen often as a child; the hair. It was a single, short strand that protruded from the bulb of the old man’s snout.

The funeral home technician’s had left it there, though they has applied a touch too much pink wax to his lips. I bent down and looked closer at the hair, contemplating whether to pull it or not.

That’s when I recalled a long ago memory of the day I first saw it plucked. Deirdre, who was about four-years-old, was sitting on his lap as he read the evening paper.

“Do you know,” she began, “you have a hair sticking out of the top of your nose?”

It was quite lengthy at the time, having not been trimmed in some time. Dad crossed his eyes to look at her finger as she flicked it back and forth.

“Yes I do,” he answered, “but leave it…”

Too late, Deirdre pinched it between her thumb and forefinger and yanked. Dad hollered in pain as he quickly put her off his lap.

He got up rubbing his nose and disappeared down the hallway. The closing of the bathroom door and sound of the lock clicking into place, soon followed.

There was an odd silence for a few second, followed by the laughter of myself and Mom, and Deirdre’s question, “What?”

It was at that moment, with this memory fresh in my mind, I decided not to pull the hair from the top of his nose.

At one point I used to write what I’ve always called ‘Maverick Poetry.” I learned later it is better known as ‘free-verse.’ However ‘maverick’ sound so much more manly.

This afternoon, I awoke with a Kerouac quote swimming between my ears. Within ten-minutes I had ‘Rug,’ penciled out.

“If you own a rug,” Jack Kerouac wrote, “You own too much.”
Not a Kerouac fan? Me either.
But I am partial to hardwood floors.
No — I like Chuck. Charles Bukowski.
Institutionally educated, self taught, self-destroying.
Rough around the edges, raw where I ain’t.
Growing up – it was dinner at the table –  television dessert:
Hee-Haw, Disney, Roller Derby Queens.
Cartoons were for Saturday’s only.
Three channels and a midnight sign-offs.
Losing my innocence along the way
A criminal, without criminal intent. Childhood rebellion.
Whippings with a self-found switch, if not — the razor-strop.
Rotory phones and party lines, when operators really did exist.
There were school times and bed times. Don’t dare miss either.
One began with a pledge, the other ended on a prayer.
A Child of God, riding in pickup beds, playing in dirt, and pump action BB guns,
Riding bicycles without helmets, playing baseball the same way too.
Childhood treasures of a simple life. Long days in the sun and “Don’t forget your hat!”
Recording the Top-40 radio station. Cassettes filled with my favorite tunes.
And playing in the creek, skinny-dipping when I thought: “No one’s looking.”
Jus’ think – How many no one’s there are in the world?
Yes, a Child of God, if only a misguided child.
Now, hot coffee on cold winter morns,
Ripe tomatoes, fresh from the Summer’s garden.
So forget what others might tell you,
Keep walking, take your fill, jus’ leave the rest.
Remember a knapsack will crush, if it’s too heavy.
The older stuff last longer – at least in memory.
Suddenly though, I’m aware – I’m ‘older stuff.’
Remember to write it all down.
Forget about the rug.

“Fuck, God!” I heard myself angrily shout, “Did you have to kick me in the nuts like this?”

It had been a stressful work week. Tired from working the overnight shift, I went to the radio station, bitching about all the shit I had to get done and complaining about how I wasn’t sure if I could carry out what the boss wanted.

Then I heard a schoolmate had committed suicide, and I realized quickly what I was going through was nothing. Things were not that bad after all.

I sat in my truck for at least 15 minutes after getting home, crying for my friend’s death. Then I went inside and cried some more, ashamed that I am so self-centered when there are others needing help so badly.

“I didn’t kick you in the nuts,” the Lord responded somewhere deep in my conscience, “I simply used a horrible situation that I had no control over, to get your attention.”

No Band-Aid can ever mend a broken heart or heal a wounded soul.

At first I thought it was some sort of spoof, but I decided to give it a try and it really was the correct phone number.  I dialed the ObamaCare’s national hotline at 1-800-318-2596 and it was answered by a polite sounding recording telling me I had the right number.

Now, for the ironic thing about all this types out : 1-800-3(F) 8(U) 2(C) 5(K) 9(Y) 6(O). So jus’ remember, it’s 1-800-FUCK YO to reach the next available health-care provider.

“The man with the donkey and his daughter Bertha are my family. This is my great-great Grandfather Henry Blake from Reqoi (Requa) in Klamath California,” writes Richard England, Sr., “This picture was taken at Turup, (Tarup Creek, Klamath Glen) California at their ranch and dairy across from Blake’s landing shortly before he was murdered on the way to Crescent City to sell milk and butter.”

“This is one of Henry’s 13 children. He had a wife named Sophie Blake; she was a kind and beautiful women who was loved by all. Their daughter Lillian Blake Puzz, a full-blooded Yurok Indian, was my great-grandmother.

She too was a beautiful lady who lived to be around 95 years old,” England adds.  “She was born in late 1888 and passed in 1983.”

She told her grandchildren and great-grandchildren stories about Oma- ahh, the Indian devil and how if you miss behaved or snuck away to the river to play by ourselves he would come get us.  Her son, who could not swim, drowned in the river and this is how she protected us from the same fate.”

It is in response to a photograph I posted on another website. It was the first time I had heard of Berth and her father, Henry Blake, or of his murder and I wanted to know more.

A quick Internet search revealed this piece written by Kim Mamaradlo, called “Honoring Our Ancestors,” from the May 2011 issue of ‘Yurok Indian Housing Authority.’

“Henry Blake was born between 1869-1870 in Crescent City to Mary and Skow. Sophie was born between 1868 and 1870 in Moreck to Sallie Long.

Charlie & Sallie Long sold Sophie in marriage to Herger of Requa. Sophie was very young and Herger was much older and she didn’t care for him.

Sophie had a child with Herger but both he and the child were killed by soldiers. It is believed that Henry Blake was related to Herger and as an eligible bachelor, took the widow Sophie as his bride, as was Indian custom.

Henry and Sophie Blake had thirteen children: Ora (1889/1890-1912), Lilly (1890/1892-1983), Henry (1893-1910), May (1895-1927), Warren (1897-1980), Charlie (1900-1909), Alfred (1902-1913), Lena (1904-1967), Mary (1906-1996), Maggie (1908-1986), Ashford (1910-1911), Bertha (1912-1951) and Jessie (1914- 2005).

In an eight year period between 1908 and 1915, there were nine deaths in their immediate family: five of their children; Sophie’s father and brother, Henry and his mother.

Sophie’s grief was great and she would go to the river by herself to mourn. Sophie was a kind and gentle soul towards her family… no reprimands from her… just acceptance and love.

But she could be tough.

While Sophie was living in her house on the Blake allotment, the game warden drove through the Blake property down to the landing and confiscated Sophie’s fishing net, which had been set in the Blake hole. When Sophie saw the game warden go through, she went down and locked the gate across the road. She refused to unlock the gate to let him out until he returned the net to her.

Sophie is buried in the Blake Family Cemetery.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything more about Henry Blake’s murder, but the search continues.

When I saw this — I thought blood was going to squirt from my eyeballs! It is proof of what I’ve said for a long time: both the Democrats and the Republicans in Washington D.C. are part of the ‘progressive movement.’

Now, I have something else to say: neither Democratic Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, nor is the Republican Speaker of the House, John Boehner is to be trusted with the people’s business.  The ‘proof’ are emails sent between the two’s offices; one seeking a backdoor deal and the other willing to arrange it.

Both will stab the American people in the back without hesitation. Neither man deserves the respect of any voter that placed them in office.

The man who makes a secret deal to get something others are actually entitled too, and is being withheld, is a dishonest man. And a man who will broker a secret deal, then expose the deed, is jus’ as dishonest.

Finally, it’s time to defund both the GOP and Democratic parties, and start giving cash directly to your candidate of choice. Eff the parties, like they’re effing us!

It might seem strange to honor an Indian chief who not only didn’t particularly like the white man and who had claimed the Paiute’s ancestral lands but also was known to attack them on occasion. However, Frank Baud, considered one of the city’s founders, had a fondness for the old chief and wanted to honor him.

Chief Winnemucca, who became a leader of the Northern Paiute, was actually a Shoshone. Known as Poito, or Bad Face, by custom and tradition he became a Paiute when he married the daughter of the old Paiute chief that some historians also call Winnemucca.

To honor him, as the story goes, the old chief named him Winnemucca the Younger, which translates as the “giver of spiritual gifts.”

How the chief got the westernized name also is a mystery. The chief was a young man in the late 1840s when white men first spotted him.

He was wearing only one moccasin at the time. Immediately, they dubbed him “One Moccasin.”

The Paiute word about items worn on the feet is mau-cau. Since he was shod on only one foot, he was known as One-a-mau-cau or Winnemucca.

Tradition says, wearing only one moccasin was a sign he was in love, but the more probable story is he lost the moccasin while running from the soldiers across the Forty Mile Desert.

As I rolled over — waking from a short nap — I heard these words rolling around in my noggin, like a bad dream. They’re from ‘Queen’ and their song, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch, scaramouch – will you do the fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me
Gallileo, gallileo, gallileo, gallileo,
Gallileo figaro magnifico

But I’m just a poor boy and nobody loves me
(He’s just a poor boy from a poor family)
(Spare him his life from this monstrosity)
Easy come easy go will you let me go
(Bismillah no we will not let you go) let him go
(Bismillah, we will not let you go) let him go
(Bismillah, we will not let you go) let me go
(Will not let you go) let me go (never)
(Never let you go) let me go, never let me go ooo
No, no, no, no, no, no, no
Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me – for me – for me

No, I haven’t seen the flick, “Wayne’s World,” in ages. And come to think of it — I haven’t heard the song in a while either.

All I can say is — what the hell?

It was 57 years ago, September 24th, that my parents, Margery Ann Olivera and Thomas Junior Darby married one another in a civil ceremony in Reno, Nevada. The newlyweds spend a honeymoon night at the Mapes Hotel, dining and dancing, before he had to report back for duty at Requa Air Force Station, Klamath, California.

The picture shows what the town looked like that year. The Mapes was imploded in 2000 and a small park now fills the vacant lot.

My parents marriage imploded in 1980, resulting in divorce in 1982. Luckily, they remained married long enough for my sisters Marcy and Deirdre and our brother Adam to come into this world.

Both Mom and Dad are gone now, and I miss them terribly some days.