We were jus’ sitting down to dinner when Adam recited a then-popular commercial tag line. Only he changed the ending to something less than proper.

“How do you spell relief,” he said, “F-A-R-T.”

Everyone but Deirdre and Marcy laughed. Marcy was too young to really understand what we were laughing about at the time.

Deirdre on the other hand, had a puzzled look on her face. She was thinking about what Adam had jus’ said.

Suddenly, she exclaimed, “Huh-uh! That’s not how you spell relief!”

“Oh, yeah,” Mom challenged her, “Then how DO you spell relief?”

Deirdre answered, “R-O-L-A-I-D-S.”

It took ten minutes for our laughter to subside.

The three of us were on our way to Tulsa to drop Tim Robbins off with his mom and step-dad. Tim is Kyle’s step-brother and had been in Reno, visiting for the summer.

We were starting to feel the need for food as we hit the city limits. And so the search began to find ourselves a restaurant, where we could go in and sit down and enjoy the air conditioning and lunch.

Then, I saw it; a Hooter’s. It was a place that I had only been to a couple of times in Reno before the establishment was run out-of-town on a rail by a bunch of well-meaning prudes.

I knew neither Kyle nor Tim had ever been to such a revealing food-monger before and since it was the three of us boys, it would be a fun time. 

The moment we stepped inside, both Tim and Kyle stopped dead in their tracks. Kyle was as red a radish, while Tim simply stood motionless, his mouth agape.

I jus’ laughed at them and followed our waitress to our table.

“Click” was the sound that the handcuff made as it dropped across Dad’s wrist.  He didn’t appear to mind as he wasn’t paying attention to me and was in the middle of a telephone conversation.

I had found the handcuffs on Dad’s nightstand.

They were in the little black pouch made of leather webbing.  To me, at three-years-old, they must have looked like a bright, shiny toy.

Having tried them on my own hands, I found they were too big.  They fell off and landed on the floor. 

So I wondered outside and onto the car port, where I made the cuffs click some more as I pushed the movable part through the locking part. I eventually locked one of the cuff’s to the frame of my tricycle. 

I rode my three-wheeler into the house and locked the remaining cuff to Dad’s wrist. 

Dad’s telephone conversation ended suddenly ended and the search was on to find the key. Eventually, the handcuffs had to be removed by another Air Policeman who came by the house.

And that after all the searching was over, the key was found in Dad’s watch pocket of the jeans he was wearing, but no one had thought to look there.

Across the street, on Azalea Drive, from the Wright’s home was a small cluster of pine trees. We kids loved to play in those trees much to the outrage of Mrs. Evelyn Wright.

She and her husband Custer, had lived across from the pines for years and she had watched them grow from saplings into tall, full branched trees. They were also the main subject for many of her paintings.

That she painted, was something none of us kids knew, or at least I didn’t know it at the time. And she worried that with us kids playing around and climb on the trees, we’d damage their natural beauty as she saw it.

What I was aware of was what I thought to be her over-protective attitude towards the trees and to this end I did my best to irritate her at least once or twice a week by climbing as high as I could into the tallest of them. Yes,  it was a rotten thing to do, but then for the most part I was a rotten kid.

Whether those trees exist now or not, I don’t know. I also don’t know whatever became of Mrs. Wright’s many paintings of them.

I’d sure like to find one.

The smell of smoke was in the air, so I stepped outside the house to have a quick look. I saw a large plume rising in the south and it appeared to be getting bigger.

I walked down the street a few steps in order to see if I could tell where it was coming from; it was the Wolcott’s home.

The moment I saw it, I raced to the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department at the end of the street, pushed the siren button, opened both station doors and wrote the fire’s location on the chalkboard. Then I raced on foot, up Azalea Drive towards the home I saw burning.

Without slowing down other than to check the door for heat, I stepped inside the smoke-filled house and called out for anyone who might be inside. At first there was no answer.

However I heard somebody coughing in the front room area. So I headed in that direction, crawling along the floor.

It was Hugh Wolcott, who had asthma and had been in attic trying to fight the fire. He was having difficulty breathing.

I helped him outside to the front lawn, where he told me his missus was still inside the house.

Back inside I went to see if I could locate Mrs. Wolcott. I called out for her, but there was no answer.

So I continued deeper into the house, towards the bed rooms. That’s where I found her.

She was standing in front of her dresser, putting on a blouse. She saw me standing in her doorway through the reflection of her mirror.

“You’re house is on fire,” I said, adding “I got Mr. Wolcott out and he’s waiting for you in the front yard.”

She turned and growled, “I know it’s on fire! Now get out of my house!”

By this time fire trucks were pulling up in front of the home, so without arguing, I went back out the front door. I decided to leave it to someone else to get her out of the house.

Fortunately, Debbie wasn’t home at the time and the house sustained more damage from the smoke than the flames. But it didn’t stop her from thanking me with a kiss on the cheek for having done what was needed.

As for Hugh Wolcott, he died in December of 1982

There some mysteries that seem to simply linger; one of those for me is the strange disappearance of Star Polumbo. I was on the air at KOZZ when she was reported missing.

Star grew up in the Tucson, Arizona area. She had a job and was living with her grandmother here, when she simply vanished.

Star had called her mother, Gail Polumbo, April 25, 2000 saying she was being followed and that her phone was being tapped. She also talked about moving back to Arizona in order to start over.

Jus’ after midnight on April 26, Star was discovered wondering a restricted area of the Reno-Tahoe International Airport. She claimed that she was looking for her sister, who had run out on the airport’s tarmac.

The officer who picked her up told investigators he believed she was hallucinating at the time. I guess with nothing to hold her on, the decision was made to drop her at the Reno Hilton.

She was seen in and around the front entrance at valet parking. But she never checked in to the hotel.

Her disappearance was the topic of conversation a couple times around the break room at the Reno Hilton. I was working there as a security officer at the time.

During one of these conversations, it was mentioned she had been a clerk at the Palace Jewelry and Loan, a local pawn shop, something I’ve been unable to verify. The Palace also happens to be the pawn shop once owned by convicted murderer, Darren Mack.

Meanwhile on April 27, her car was discovered illegally parked at the airport. The car held many of her personal items including her purse and cell phone.

Reno Police Detective Dave Jenkins said also found in her car were three emails, all addressed to the White House. In them, she claimed the federal government was trying to kill her.

Investigators also found the drawing of a woman, bound and gagged. She also had two books on how to change one’s identity.

Eight-months later, in December, Linda Fields, owner of the Silver Dollar Casino in Elko reported Star had been in her casino. Fields says Star became nervous after seeing a man looking through a window of the business.

Fields says Star left her casino with another woman. However the woman’s identity has never been confirmed by investigators.

Star vanished from that point onward. And I’m sure her family would like to know what happened to her.

Beyond being a missing person’s case and the possibility Star met with foul play is the ugly discovery that Star had fallen into prostitution and using methamphetamine. While at the casino she told Fields she was running from her pimp and it’s now suspected her possible hallucination and paranoia were brought on by her alleged drug abuse.

Like I said some mysteries simply linger.

It was my last night on the air at KEKA as I was being transferred back to Reno. It had been difficult and somewhat sad two-weeks of goodbyes from staff and new friends until that time.

One staff member in particular was the hardest person to say goodbye to: Elizabeth Erdman. She was fresh out of high school and was also preparing to head east for Purdue College in a few weeks. 

She had never worked in radio before, and she was simply given a couple of instructions on what button to push here and there and left to her own devices.  It certainly wasn’t fair and she was talking about quitting even before she really got started.

I immediately saw her potential and decided that if she wanted my help, I’d offer it.

She accepted my guidance and though she never got over the butterflies in the stomach feeling, Elizabeth became a good announcer. I was proud of her and the progress she had made in the couple of months we worked together. 

That final night, she came to the station jus’ to hang out with me as I finished my final shift. It was very kind of her. 

Across the hallway, in our AM-studio was a guy by the name of Frank. He had a dry sense of humor most of the time but this night he was off the wall. 

Who started it, I’m not certain – but before I knew it, Elizabeth, Frank and I were engaged in massive rubber band fight. We ran up and down the short hallway and small foyer that lead to the business offices, zinging each other with one rubber band after another. 

We laughed and carried on as we shot at each other, ducking, dodging, missing and hitting throughout the evening hours. We finally had to stop as we had used up every rubber band in the building.

At midnight, I signed-off for the last time. And as I did, it occurred to me I had jus’ had the most fun I had ever had at the station in all the months I had been there.

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.