One of my very best friends while growing up was Diana. She was a bit of a tomboy, more comfortable in jeans and a western shirt than on picture day when she had to wear a dress.

Diana and I used to do all sorts of stuff together, from riding horses to running through the woods. We even played “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” at one time.

Of course we were young yet and I don’t think either one of us knew what sex was all about. At least I know I had zero-idea about the so-called “birds-and-the-bees,” at the time.

It was between fourth and fifth grade, that Diana and I started to notice some “structural” differences between our bodies. In short she was growing breasts and having to wear a bra, which was something I didn’t fully understand.

It left me a bit confused and I ended up asking Mom what breasts were all about. I’m sure she explained more, but all I gathered was that they made milk and that the milk came from the nipple.

One afternoon, Diana and I were hanging out under a pine tree in the field right behind Mrs. Keating’s house when I asked if she’d show me her “boobs,” as she called them. She lifted her shirt and bra and I looked them over as if I were studying a newly discovered flower.

She gave me permission to touch them and being very gentle as not to hurt Diana, I cupped each breast. She poked fun at me for being afraid of them, for which I was.

So I took the next step and squeezed her areola between my thumb and pointer finger. Try as I may, I couldn’t get milk to come out of them.

I was puzzled, because I had been milking cows for Grandma Ivy for at least three years by them.

Then it dawned on me, maybe I was going about it all wrong. My next question brought out a “that’s sick,” followed by a sharp, “No!” from Diana.

I had asked if I could suckle her, proving I didn’t have the slightest idea what Mom was talking about.

By sixth grade though, we both had a pretty good grasp on what our body parts were for in the long run and the days of “show-and-tell,” were done. Thankfully, it didn’t prevent us from jus’ being children for a while longer.

I also learned a women’s breast doesn’t work like a cow’s teat.

It was early morning, after my Senior Prom. I had driven my date, Jill Ziegler home and I decided to stop at Denny’s to have a cup of coffee.

While I was there I ran into Bill Combs. He was doing the same thing as me.

Bill, being Bill, invited me over to his mother’s home, telling me I was free to spend the night if I wanted. I was pretty tired and decided I’d much rather hang out with friends than drive home to an empty house since Mom and Dad had taken my brother and two sisters for an overnight trip to our Aunt and Uncle’s home in Fortuna.

Much too Mrs. Mary Combs embarrassment, Bill and I spent a few minutes that early morning literally howling at the moon. I mean we bayed as loud as we could into the darkness surrounding that cul-de-sac.

I think we were more than weird that morning, we were high on life.

One of the toughest ranch hands was also one of the best preachers I ever met. His name was Wilson and he could cuss, chew tobacco, spit, fight, drink whiskey and play cards with the best of them.

But come Sunday morning after breakfast and while the other hands were doing the chores that normally got pushed to the back while the handling the stock was held as more important, Wilson would “jump a stump,” and start talking about the Gospel. He’d say that we are designed to be in a relationship with our Creator and that our Creator needs us almost as much as we needed him.

I’ve come to understand that God puts us where he wants and needs us and he needed Wilson, an otherwise foul-mouthed, gambling, fist-fighting, tobacco stained, boozer on my Grandpa’s dairy farm, preaching the word of God to men cut from the same cloth.

My follow-up appointment at the VA was today. My blood-sugar level is actually well within the normal range, so it’s safe to say I don’t have diabetes.

Phew!

However there remains some concern about high blood pressure and an elevated cholesterol level. But since I have changed my diet, started walking a little more and lost 15 pounds, this may not be the problem doctors thought it might be.

What a wake-up call this has turn out to be for moi’.

Even though I had lost my license to drive a government vehicle, I was not prevented from working aboard an ambulance or taking the extra seat on a helicopter when there was a need for an extra set of medical hands. It was a bother to the Captain though, who was constantly on the lookout for a chance to ride me or Barney for one reason or other.

That’s how we ended up getting an extra detail assigned. The Captain simply volunteered them since he was in charge of their work schedules.

One of those extra details came three days before Veteran’s Day.

“How’d we get stuck with this?” I asked.

My voice registered a slight complaint as he looked over at the staff sergeant. He looked back and smiled as he hand me the flags.

They were American flags, rubber banded together and in brown paper bags. Barney and I were given the duty of placing a flag on each grave near each head stone in the old cemetery on base before Veteran’s Day.

I looked at Barney and said, “I’m sorry.”

I knew that Barney was being dragged into the extra detail because of his association with him.  Barney just shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of coffee.

The following day, Barney came into the office and said, “I want to ask your opinion on something.”

“Okay,” I responded, “shoot.”

“Remember when we did that research on the base history and we found those eight German prisoner of war headstones?” Barney asked.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Would they fall under being veteran’s on Veteran’s Day?” Barney followed up.

I leaned back in my chair and looked up towards the ceiling.

After about 30 seconds I answered, “Yes, because a Vet is a Vet on Veteran’s Day and German is an original signer of the original armistice.”

“But we can’t put American flags on a German grave,” Barney retorted, sounding almost horrified.

“No,” I answered,” but we can use West Germany’s flag.”

It took the pair nearly three hours to track down a shop in Denver that sold miniature flags from West Germany. Fortunately eight of the little flags were on hand for purchase.

Barney arranged for the shop owner to deliver the flags to the nearby Army post and to have them flown up to the Air Guard in Cheyenne.  By that late that afternoon, we had our flags.

We had already set about placing American flags next to the headstones in the long unused cemetery. And it was long after night-time had fallen before we completed our assigned task.

All that remained to put in place were the eight flags next to the German POW’s who had died while in the custody of the U.S. Army during World War II. Each stone had a name, a rank and each had been members of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force.

Quietly me and Barney placed the West German flags in the ground next to the headstones. Then they left for the night.

Come the following morning, the Captain was pounding wildly on my barracks door demanding that I open it up. I did as the officer asked.

The Captain was standing in the hallway with Barney just behind him. He had all eight West German flags in his hand and his face was extremely red.

He screamed, “You were given a simple job and you screw it up like this?!”

The Captain waved the miniature flags in my face.

“”Obviously, you don’t know your history very well,” I responded.

“Don’t you give me that crap, mister,” the officer yelled, adding  “Veteran’s day is for Americans, not Nazi fliers!”

“No!” I shouted back, “Veteran’s day is where American’s honor those veteran’s who have sacrified everything for their country, first started as Armistice Day, November eleventh at the eleventh hour to end hostilities of World War I!”

The Captain looked dumbstruck for a moment. He opened his mouth and started to say something then closed his mouth.

I took advantage of the situation and calmly said, “So I recommend you get your ass back down there and return those flags to those veteran’s headstones.”

I paused to take a breath and added, “Removing a flag from a vet’s grave is very dishonorable, Captain.”

Not wanting to be out argued, the officer responded, “How dare you put West German flags in an American cemetery!”

Barney surprised him by saying, “Those eight pilots are resting outside the cemetery walls, sir.”

I held out my hand and said, “If you don’t have the balls to return those flags, we will.”

The Captain looked down at the flags then at my hand and turned away. Instead he gave the flags to Barney and stomped away.

As soon as we were dressed, we headed for the cemetery. We walked around the outside to the back of the cemetery where the German pilots were resting and replanted the West German flags and left, feeling we had done the right thing.

The day following Veteran’s Day, we were directed to report to the Hospital Commander’s office. The Captain met us in the hallway.

He muttered, “You’re both screwed,” as Barney held the door open so all three of us could enter the admin office leading to the commander’s office.

Once inside the Commander’s office, we were met by another officer, who worked for the Office of Special Investigation. It was the Air Forces version of the Navy’s Investigative Service’s or the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.

Both Barney and I were suddenly struck the gravity of the situation.

The Investigator asked, “Did you guys put West German flags inside the base cemetery?”

“No, sir,” we both answered.

“Where, then, did you place them?” the Investigator asked.

“We put them on the German graves outside the cemetery walls,” was our response.

The Captain interrupted, “Liars!”

The Investigative officer turned and looked at the officer, calmly asking, “Do you have proof of this?”

“I certainly do,” the Captain answered.

As he answered he pulled a packet of photographs from inside his uniform jacket and handed them to the Investigator. The officer quickly thumbed through them.

Then he turned to the hospital commander and asked, “With your permission. can these two be dismissed?

He was talking about Barney and me.

Then he added, “However, I’d like to sit and have a chat with the Captain.”

The Commander nodded his head and both Barney and I disappeared as quickly as we could. However Barney couldn’t help but point out the irony in the fact that it was about a minute after eleven in the morning.

In 2005, Mary, Kyle and I took a short weekend vacation to northern California. Down the road by about an hour from where we were staying is the original site of the first Russian settlement in California, known as Fort Ross.

The fort, though reconstructed, is strong reminder about how tough explorers, fur traders, soldiers and the like must have been in those days. It includes a cemetery as well as a small church with very plain — yet somehow — artistically designed wooden steeples.

Those church steeples are a fascinating piece of architecture buried inside a well-documented history.

Every time Mom and Dad turned around, Adam and I were in trouble. We were either pick a fight with one another, our sisters or some kid in the neighborhood.

So when most kids were allowed to look after themselves, we were under the care of a babysitter. It was embarrassing and we were teased by neighborhood kids, but it was our own faults.

Usually, our parents would call Sue Skaggs, who live across the highway from us to come look after us. She was a strong-handed woman, who didn’t let us get away with crap.

She was also a chain smoker, whose cigarette smoke-filled the house every time she sat us. Dad was trying to quit smoking at the time, so my folks decided to find someone else to watch us troublemakers for the summer.

They hired an Air Force brat, a girl a few years older than me. Her name was Nadine Redd.

At first Adam and I were apprehensive about Nadine. We had no idea what sort of sitter she’d be.

As it turned out, she was one of the best. Her rule was that as long as we didn’t break anything in the house or cause one another to bleed severely, she was cool with our behavior.

Too bad her father was transferred the following year.

It was a surprise the Del Norte High School boys track team had voted on and appointed me to complete. The surprise was an award for our head coach, Brian Ferguson.

Called, “The Golden Jock Strap award,” it took me a few days to figure out how to shape and stiffen an actual jock-strap. I ruined a pillow and a couple of hand towels as I applied several layers of plaster to the course fabric.

It took the jus’ over 24-hours for the “sculpture,” to dry completely before I could spray the first coat of gold paint on it. This was followed by designing a base for the award and having a metal tag etched.

The hardest part was rigging the contraption to the wooden base in a way that would keep it from falling over or collapsing under its own weight. But somehow I managed to find the perfect point of balance without a whole lot of fuss.

The night of the school’s sports banquet, I kept the Mr. Ferguson’s award hidden in my locker. I also arranged with Mr. Raleigh, our athletics director, to give the award as the final offering of the evening.

When the time came, I carried it out to the podium, covered by large cloth. I called Mr. Ferguson up to the stage and read a statement I had prepared for the event.

Then I handed it to him, still covered. When he pulled the cloth off the bronzed strap, he turned bright-red and did his best to laugh through his embarrassment.

Worst of all, a photographer from the Del Norte Triplicate took his picture and it was published in that Saturday edition.

“This is your room,” the woman said to me as she turned the key and pushed open the door.

It was a very elegant room.  The bed had a dark and high headboard. The covers were layered with quilts to help keep out the chill of the Humboldt County nights. The lace of the curtains allowed the room to filled with just enough sunshine as to warm the place comfortable.

Placing my small leather case on the foot of the bed and said, “Thank you,” as the woman closed the door behind me.

This was the first time I had ever took lodging at the Charlotta Inn. I was planning to meet Mom and my step-dad, Del for dinner and spend the night at the once famous Inn.

The Charlotta Inn had been the stopping place at one time for movie stars and gangsters. Now it was considered off the beaten path and though it still drew a rare visit from a movie star or outlaw type, it had settled into its more conventional role of historical Inn and local watering hole that served lunch and dinner to the year round tourists and accommodated over night guests like me.

Its history had its moments of stardom such as appearing on film and in trial records during murderous acts. None was more sensational them those of the man rumored to have been shot on the front porch after a late night game of cards. This man managed to return to the front lobby and had climbed up the stair case but died, having fallen into the arms of his wife.

The man who shot him was never caught.

Having always heard these stories and enjoying them, I considering them both history and folklore at once. Yet I never paid any mind to the whispered notion of the ghosts that haunted the Inn.

I never had too as I had never stayed there before.

Meeting Mom and Del for dinner at seven as planned, we ate dinner and sat talking into the late evening. It was nearly eleven o’clock when they decided it was time to head for home. I offered to purchase them a room for the night, but they refused, opting for the comfort of their own bed at home.

After saying goodnight in the parking lot, I wondered out to the edge of the woods. I could hear the laughter coming from the bar as it echoed from the backside of the Inn. And somewhere in the short distance I heard a couple of pony’s nicker and whinny.

“I’m glad something’s haven’t changed,” I said to himself.

Again I heard laughter and loud voices from the bar. The night air was getting a bit chilly so I decided to wonder over and check out the tavern.

Once inside I was surprised to find only the barkeeper and two patrons.  They were watching television.

“Must have been the idiot box I heard,” I muttered.

I ordered a shot of whiskey neat, tossed it back and headed up stairs for the night.

Walking slowly up the stairs towards my room, I recalled warmly the wonderful evening I had just spend with my parents. I was also looking forward to some sleep. As I made the top of the landing I heard the distinct sound of high-heeled cowboy boots out on the front porch.

Inside my room I sat on the edge of my bed and labored to remove my own high-heeled cowboy boots. Once they were off, I wiggled his toes.

“It feels good to have those things off,” I thought.

Suddenly I heard a faint “popping” noise, much like a champagne bottles cork letting loose under pressure. Then I heard a door open and close hard. This was followed by footsteps on the outside wall by the head of my bed.

I felt more than heard a “thud” as something dropped downward and then against the wall, shaking the bed frame and me on it, this was followed a soft sobbing just beyond the wall.

Jumping up and racing around the corner, I peered into the dimly lit staircase only to see nothing but tapestry covered steps. I walked down to the bottom of the land and back up estimating where I had first heard the “thump” on the wall in my room which caused the bed to move.

It was twelve steps.

Continued up the remaining steps, I paused at the top long enough to look back at the empty stairwell. I returned to my room and went to bed, tossing and turning, thinking about the strange occurrence I though I had witnessed.

It was still on my mind as I woke up having dropped off some time early in the morning.i quietly showered, shaved and dressed, wishing to get down to the Inn’s restaurant before it closed.

It was hard not to recall the night before as I passed the very spot in the staircase where I felt certain the unusual noised had come from. I paused and shifted my weight on the twelfth step as if to test it, wanting to see if it made any weird noises.

It did not.

After breakfast I wandered out to his truck and turned it north on Highway 36 towards Mom and Del’s home. Still I couldn’t shake the strange feeling of the night before and how spooked it had left me.

As soon as I arrived at my parents home I told them what had happened. They did not seem surprised.

“I’ve heard others say the same thing,” Del told me.

I finished my story, and then it dawned on me that maybe I had heard more than the foot steps on the stairs.

“I heard a card game as well as horses tied up outside,” I thought.

I felt as sickening chill rush over my body as the idea came to me.

Later that night I was sitting in the living room when I decided he wanted to read.  I picked up an AA pamphlet and read the 12-steps on the back.

When I got to the final step and read the words, “Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps,” I stopped, having recalled the number of steps in the staircase.

My entire body shuttered as I quickly put the pamphlet down and fumbled for the television remote.

It was a harsher sounding knock at the door than usual. And as usual all four of my dogs went crazy. Turns out it was our not-so-friendly mail carrier with a certified letter.

I immediately thought, “Well, this can’t be good.”

Once signed for, I opened it and found myself holding a subpoena for the situation I found myself involved in August 20th. That’s when I noticed a vehicle driving very slow and weaving in between lanes as I was heading home.

I called it in and eventually filled out a report as law enforcement officers arrested the driver.

So now I’m going to court to testify November 3rd. It’s the price of being a good citizen.