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.

Well, the repairman came to the house on Monday and for nearly a hundred bucks declared our washing-machine dead. So this week we’ve been wearing all of our clothing until today when all the dirty clothes hampers were over flowing.

I took Kyle to school and then headed for the Laundromat.

As a kid we had to do this when our washer or dry broke down as well. It was never very much fun and to be honest I felt that old feeling of dread as I pulled into the parking lot and set my truck brake. However, all that dread was washed down the drain by a 71-year old wash woman named Miss Lottie.

She pointed out the best of the washers to use and even helped me get the settings right. Next we started talking. At first it was really about nothing and then it turned to more family history.

Come to find out she, like my father migrated to California from Oklahoma. That’s where our conversation started a new twist, because I discovered that Miss Lottie is a walking encyclopedia of Okie jokes.

It has been a long time since I heard a really good Okie joke. I mean good, with a drawl and everything.

Before I realized it, my laundry was done and it was time to head home. At least I managed to remember 5 of the dozens of jokes she inter-laced in her stories about Oklahoma.

1. What’s the difference between a California Okie and a bag of manure? The bag.

2. An Okie Preacher told his congregation that for the biggest donation any member could get three hymns. One widow near the front wrote out a check for a thousand dollars and immediately stood up and pointed to him, him and him.

3. A Texas rancher decided to visit this Okie farmer. He told the Okie farmer that he had a ranch so big, it took all day to drive around it. The Okie farmer replied that he once had a tractor like that too.

4. What do they call Okie pall-bearers? Carry-Okies.

5. An Okie father and son go to Tulsa to see the big city for the first time. They encounter an elevator and are fascinated by the fancy doors. They watch as a mean and nasty woman gets on the lift and the doors close behind her. When the doors open again a beautiful brunette steps out. Suddenly the father says to his son, “Quick, boy go get yer ma!”

Tommy and his son Kyle went for a weekend dig. It was a university-sponsored event and Kyle found a Chinese coin dating to the late 19th century. The head of the operation said that he could keep the find since they had over a thousand of them from the site. Kyle was very proud of himself.

It seemed to spark an interest in archeology for him as he jabbered all the way home about this method of digging verses that method of digging. To his Dad, there was only one way of digging, so he was actually learning something here. Later that night Kyle asked if his father had a chain so that he might put his coin around his neck. Tommy gave him the chain from his old military dog tags.

The following day Tommy had to take Kyle home to his mother.

Four days later when Tommy picked Kyle up, he noticed Kyle wasn’t wearing his coin on his neck. He waited until Kyle was in the truck and they were out of the driveway before asking where it was. Kyle told his dad that his mother didn’t want him wearing it any more because it didn’t represent Jesus. Tommy instantly felt angry, but he managed to keep my mouth shut for the sake of his son.

Later that evening, Kyle and his dad sat down and had a little discussion. He wanted to know if wearing the coin around his neck was the same as ‘idol worshipping?’ Tommy told him that it was not. He explained that idol worshipping was when a person starts ‘putting’ something before Jesus, like money, work, or even worry.

This is when Tommy’s son’s understanding and wisdom knocked his socks off. He looked his dad and asked, “Then a golden cross full of diamonds could be an idol even though it represents Jesus, right?” Dad had to sit and think about that for a moment. Finally he answered, “Yes.” Then Kyle reminded his father, “After all the original cross was made by man.”