The day after Dad passed away, his wife Jere’, and I had an appointment with the folks at Foster-Peterings. We were  going there to purchase a casket to bury the old man in.

My stomach was in knots as we pulled in the driveway and walked into the funeral parlor. That feeling soon melted away as we sat down and talked to the young representative about our needs.

He was professional as he walked through the displays of caskets for sale. Unfortunately Jere’ and I were dealing with our grief like most medical personnel—with gallows-humor.

He must have thought he was dealing with two people off their nut. However he would soon know we were nuts.

At one point the representative pointed out a very pricey casket, saying, “This is the Rolls-Royce of caskets.”

With a completely straight face I replied to his description with, “So where’s the Yugo of caskets?”

While Jere’ and I busted up with laughter, the representative stayed true to his training: He never even batted an eye.

It seemed like every cop in the world rushed me as I opened our apartment door. I soon found myself cuffed and loaded in the back of a cruiser and enroute to the Washoe County Jail.

My youngest sister Marcy told the Humboldt County California Sheriffs Department that I was the Tom Darby they were looking for in relation to a pedophile case they were investigating. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t know I was the wrong Tom Darby.

The one they were looking for had been a bus drive in Eureka at one time. But he had moved to Nevada and found work at the Nugget driving a shuttle bus at the same time as I wrote Keno tickets for the same casino.

It took 20 days for law enforcement officials and Washoe County District Court Judge Mills Lane to get the mess straightened out. By that time, authorities in Humboldt County had the right Tom Darby in custody.

Judge Lane signed my paperwork, expunging my record. He also suggested I “stay away from that sister of yours as she’s plain trouble for you, son”

I can still hear his no-nonsense, gravelly voice as he barked out that advice.

The bathroom toilet had become clogged up and my parents decided to take care of the problem themselves. I remember going to the base exchange with Dad and picking up a metal can of what he called “Drano.”

Once we’re back home I was excited to see how the stuff in the can would be used or how it would work. I was standing next to the toilet looking into the water as Dad poured the crystal like material into the bowl.

As the stuff hit the toilet water, it turned into a vapor, which filled my eyes, nose and mouth. I screamed my little head off and ran from the bathroom.

Both Mom and Dad told me years later they had a hard time corralling me as I ran through the house wailing about the pain. Once they had me in hand, they jumped in the car and raced over to the base hospital, where I would spend the next few hours having my eyes flushed out and lungs checked.

From then on, anytime I saw a Drano commercial on TV, I add my own words, “Drano causes pain-o.”

Let me count the ways.

Since this years’ event started, I have been stuck behing old clunker vehicles that have needed to be pushed out of the way. I’ve also dealt with finding streets unexpectedly closed to accomodate visitors, while making it more than difficult for locals simply trying to get to work.

Each year, I have to put up with people who think that because they have been invited to Reno-Sparks, they can disregard safety. I have lost count of the blown stop signs and traffic lights and near-collisions in the last quarter-century because of visitors, both out-of-town and local.

There’s also the noise, which can be pretty exciting, but not after 10 at night. That’s when I wish I could find the culprit and stuff a potato up their vehicle’s exhaust pipe.

Finally, when all is said and done—not one penny has been added to my pocket because of Hot August Nights. Oh, sure, the casinos, the hotels, the motels, the Reno-Sparks Convention and Vistors Authority and HAN organizers are making money, but they have yet to drive business to my bride’s two sandwich shops.

I count six

Spent my night and much of the early morning nursing our pit bull, Roxy. She had a severe stomach problem that caused her to get sick several times.

The bride noticed the dog wasn’t acting right. It wouldn’t settle down and continued to pace up and down the hallway even after all the lights were turned off.

Generally, Roxy is asleep long before anyone or anything in the house. But not this time.

We did get lucky as she was on the bed seconds before she lost some of her dinner. However, she jumped off and left a smelly, gross mess on our bedroom carpet instead.

The second time, she tossed her cookies under our bed. That was the hardest one to clean up as the bed is fairly heavy.

I took her to the front room and stayed with her until she calmed down around four in the morning.

By that time she had been sick so many times I lost count. When I finally awoke around 2 p.m., she was chipper and ready to play.

Dang dog.

While out taking pictures in downtown Reno, I had no problems. However, when I took a photo of the Thompson Federal Building, I found myself being scrutinized by the U.S. Marshal’s Service.

An agent came out and asked why I was taking pictures of the building, saying it looked like I was casing the joint. I apologized and offered to erase the pictures.

He told that wouldn’t be necessary. Then he thanked me and went back into the building.

The encounter left me feeling a little creeped-out. I decided it was time to pack it in and go home.

There are times I wish I had the guts to write as raw and dirty and twisted and lusty as Charles Bukowski. Even his book titles leave one thinking about their own emotional state of mind.

To have the courage—or perhaps the lack of sense—to write whatever comes to mind in the lowest of form would be a pleasure at times, I do think. The harsh reality is though, that I lack the courage to step off that building’s ledge.

While the freefall excites me, the sudden stop is frightening.

The phone rang during the early morning hours and Dad answered.  It was a fire and the two of us rushed down to the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department at the head of our street.

Dad started up the white rescue rig as I went to the chalkboard and wrote down the information we had on the blaze. It was a home fire at the end of Paine Road, where least three families lived: The Bruhy’s, the Brown’s and the Paine’s.

We set up in front of Mrs. Paine’s home.  We could hear other fire engines coming with their sirens blaring.

Jus’ as I started for the door, I heard a swoosh from over head. It was followed by a smashing sound behind me, which happened over and over again in rapid secession.

As I pushed open the door, out of the smoke came a couple of sheep, a number of chickens, several cats and a horse. It was very surreal.

Then Dad yelled, saying he saw someone in the window above me. I raced up the stairs and through the smoke to find Mrs. Paine tossing stuff out of the window.

She refused to leave until I had helped her lift and throw three  extremely large and heavy suit cases to the ground below.  Later I would find out the suit cases were stuffed thousands of paper dollars, while the jars held coins.

I still don’t know what to think of her living arrangement or banking habits.

Working overnight at KOZZ left me in the building by myself most of the time.  I didn’t mind it until management started remodeling the from office, adding a new sound booth and redirecting the hallway to the studios.

That’s when strange stuff started to happen.  And I couldn’t get my boss, Jim McClain or his morning-show partner Steve Smith to believe me as they figured it was jus’ my imagination running away with me.

One morning I saw “Moon Kitty,” in the hallway. She looked at me and ran down stairs into the engineering office where she disappeared. 

Problem is—“Moon Kitty,” had been dead for several years. She had been buried in the indoor garden, but that garden was removed during the remodel.

The most frightening event was the morning that I was returning from the kitchen area with a cup off coffee. As I walked around the new wall created in the hallway to accomodate the new sound booth, I passed through a foggy mass that chilled me to the bone.

I literally ran to the end of the hallway and into the studio, where I attempted to barricade the door.

Later in the day it occurred to me that I recognized the ghostly-form. It was a long dead co-worker by the name of Christine, who killed herself nearly ten-years earlier in the studio across the hall from where I encountered the chilly mist.

And I swear there was nothing more than coffee in my cup!

While running errands for the bride, I happened upon an older man being beaten by two women, one with an aluminum baseball bat. He was on the ground, being stomped, kicked and savaged by both la femme fatale.

The man left his dog locked in his truck (a no-no in hot weather,) and went into the store and the two women, saw the dog, decided to waited for him to return. Once there, they ambushed him and the beating commenced.

I drove up at that moment and decided to intervene.

The older woman took a swing at me with the bat after I yelled at her to stop. I stepped inside the swing and took the brunt of the strike with my right shoulder and forearm.
I then smacked her in the nose, causing blood to gush all over the place and knocking her on her butt.

She hit the asphalt and let go of the baseball ball. The aluminum bat rang out as it bounced across the parking lot.

Before I realize it, another guy comes rushing to the aid of the woman with the bat. And now, he wants to fight.

Luckily he backed down when I flicked open my lock-blade knife. Then I stood near the beaten man as the two women hustled off to their car and drove off.

I have a couple of rules about situations like this: First, two wrongs don’t make a right and secondly; if a woman picks a fight with a man, she should expect to the man to fight like a man.