Uh Huh and Darrell

Darrell's Barber Shop was located at Dorian and Broxon for many, many years. Darrell was a large man with small conversation. He was a former Marine and an avid golfer. Both avocations were very apparent in the decoration and magazines in his shop. When Darrell died, 7 or 8 years ago, there was a large turnout of cops and Marines at his graveside services. I still have not found another barber and make my poor wife cut my hair.

I am sure it's no surprise to most that women and men have much different feelings about hair and haircuts. I have found women are much more emotional about the subject.

The first time I took my oldest son, Arthur, to Darrell's he was a young lad in 7th or 8th grade. My wife spent much time giving Arthur directions and instructions on how to have Darrell cut his hair in much detail. I had to hide my grin during the verbal hair briefing.

Art and I drove to Darrell's and waited for a couple of guys who were ahead of us in line. I have no doubt Art observed the interaction between Darrell and his customers. When it was his turn, Art jumped up in the barber chair.

Darrell said, "Little shorter..?" Arthur said, "Uh huh...". The hair cut took barely longer than the verbal exchange. I laughed silently the whole time while greatly enjoying the smell and feel of the barber shop, always a peaceful sojourn. I still feel the alcohol on my freshly shaved neck from going to Darrell's.

Darrell...I miss you and your generation.

Lilacs and Roses...Dippety Doo...

One late warm summer night, Corporal Ron "The Sandman" Axtman and I were dispatched to an apartment complex across the street from the College of Southern Idaho. (Ron had the nickname due to the knack of being able to "put people to sleep" very fast using a lateral vascular neck restraint. That is another story...)

The report was of a female who had made unlawful entry into the apartment of a "just arrived in town" male professor. We arrived and made contact with a very red-face, irate middle aged professor. He said he had just moved into the studio apartment this date. As he was unpacking, the front door swung open and a well-dressed female came into his apartment. She began to disrobe as she walked through the apartment, clearly inebriated, until she reached the bed. Having only her brassiere left covering her body, she climbed into the bed and promptly passed out. "The Sandman" and I had a very hard time keeping a straight face while hearing about the man's predicament. The professor did not share our humor at all.

I checked her purse and found a drivers license showing the address we were currently in. She also had a school I.D. showing she was a 25 year old teacher in the nearby grade school. The teachers had settled their strike earlier in the day and it was clear this teacher had done some celebrating.

We decided to try to wake her up and tried everything we could think of while dealing with an almost nude female. The teacher suddenly got up and strode to the doorless closet by the front door where she relieved her bladder. It sounded like a cow urinating on a flat rock. The female then took off her brassiere and climbed back into the bed. "The Sandman" and I could not contain ourselves and we burst into laughter. We were too amazed to think about ?grabbing? her at the time. The professor did not find the situation funny at all and angrily asked for us to act quickly.

Suddenly we heard a grumble behind us and we turned and saw Captain Roy Lindell standing inside the doorway behind us. Captain Lindell said, "Whaddya got...?" (Captain Lindell always used this greeting and we knew it well). We explained the delicate situation to the Captain and he scowled. Captain Lindell had worked the rough streets when the "speak easys" and the bordellos ran wild in Twin Falls.

Captain Lindell strode across the room and grabbed the slumbering teacher by the ankles and tossed her into the middle of the room. The action was so quick and her landing so soft, due to the Captain's raw strength, that "The Sandman" and I stood dumbfounded and frozen by the action. The teacher got up and groggily crawled right back into the bed. Captain Lindell again grabbed the teacher by the ankles and tossed her on almost the same carpeted spot. She again landed very softly with little impact. Amazing.

At this point, "The Sandman" and I could take no more and Ron gathered the teacher in the bed sheet and hustled her from the apartment. I grabbed underwear, clothing and purse and scrambled in the wake of the escaping duo. Halfway to the car, the teacher gained enough of her senses to stare at me and then at "The Sandman". Although I was in full uniform, she verbally expressed her surprise that, "He's a cop..!!!" referring to Ron. I agreed that he, in fact, was a cop.

We finally found the teacher's new apartment about blocks away. After making sure she was safely inside, we drove away with a sigh of relief. Suddenly, over the police radio, we heard Captain Lindell's gruff growling voice saying, "Lilacs and roses...dippety doo...".

Captain Roy Lindell

Captain Roy Lindell is a true legend. Captain Lindell's picture is by the definition in Webster's dictionary next to "tough". He served in WWII in the 82nd Airborne and jumped into enemy territory twice, once in Italy and again into France. His regiment, the 504th, was nicknamed by the Germans "The Devils in Baggy Pants". Captain Lindell served on the Twin Falls Police Department for over 40 years and worked graveyard shift, as the Captain/assistant chief, for 35 years. He was tough as nails but bled blue for his fellow uniformed lawmen. Captain Lindell was a cross between Dirty Harry and Karl Malden in "The Streets of San Francisco". His gruff voice and terrible hands evoked fear in those who crossed him.

Captain Lindell called his wife "Half Pint" because of her diminutive size. She won a total of 4 cars during their marriage by putting her name in the jar at different drawings and contests. He spoke of and treated her tenderly as a real lady but that is another story...

My first experience with Captain Lindell was at the Blue Moon Bar. Myself and two other officers were called there because "One Eyed Ernie" was tearing up the bar. (Ernie gained his nickname as he had lost the use of one of his eyes while running through a back yard criss-crossed with hanging laundry. His love tryst had ended early when the female's husband had arrived home early unexpectedly. The hanging laundry stopped most of the buckshot from the irate husband's scattergun but one pellet found Ernie's eye). Ernie was a huge, powerfully built black man hardened by many years of manual labor. The Blue Moon Bar was a true bad bar. Bullet holes pocked the walls and police always did bar checks there in pairs.

After our arrival, that day, the fight was on. The three of us were no match for "One Eyed Ernie" although I was the smallest of the three officers (6'2" and 210 lbs). We were fighting our hardest but we were becoming more tattered, bloody and beaten as the fight continued and we began to despair. (There was no OC spray, batons or tasers back in that day. You had to be tough to be a cop).

Suddenly the front door slammed open and Captain Roy Lindell stepped in to the dark bar from the bright sunlight outside. "One Eyed Ernie" stopped dead still and stood tall with his bloodied hands at this sides. Captain Lindell scowled at "One Eyed Ernie" and you could see "One Eyed Ernie" shiver. "One Eyed Ernie" asked in a quavering voice, "Where do you want me, Cap'n...?" Captain Lindell told him to get in the front passenger seat of one of the police cars outside and to trouble the officers no more. (We had no prisoner partitions in our cars back then. In fact, my car had a "two by four" stuck between front and back seat as the seat was broken and would fall flat without the bolster. We strapped our prisoners in the front seat next to us.) "One Eyed Ernie" quickly walked out and got in my car. I followed, bruised and battered, still shaking from the adrenaline that had flowed through my body for the fight. Captain Lindell winked at me, half smiling, as I staggered by. I drove to the jail with the huge black man sitting stock still next to me. "One Eyed Ernie" was as submissive as a lamb dutifully following Captain Lindell's directive.

I missed Captain Roy Lindell's funeral and I feel the loss often. This is but the first installment of the true tales of Captain Lindell. I love him. Writing this makes me weep. You will see why soon.

My Best Friend

There's something in the way she moves,

Or looks my way, or calls my name,

That seems to leave this troubled world behind.

And if I'm feeling down and blue,

Or troubled by some foolish game,

She always seems to make me change my mind.

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning

And I find myself careening

Into places where I should not let me go.

She has the power to go where no one else can find me

And to silently remind me

Of the happiness and the good things that I know, got to know.

It isn't what she's got to say
But how she thinks and where she's been
To me, the words are nice, the way they sound
I like to hear them best that way
It doesn't matter what they mean
If she says them mostly to just to calm me down.

And I feel fine anytime she's around me now,

She's around me now

Just about all the time

And if I'm well you can tell she's been with me now,

She's been with me now quite a long, long time

and I feel fine.

Sweet Sixteen

1. Batman Begins (2005)

2. Being There (1979)

3. Blackhawk Down (2001)

4. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)

5. Cool Hand Luke (1967)

6. Dirty Harry (1971)

7. Gran Torino (2008)

8. Harvey (1950)

9. Ironman (2008)

10. My Man Godfrey (1936)

11. Payback (1999)

12. Scrooge (1970)

13. Silverado (1985)

14. The Quiet Man (1952)

15. The Wind and the Lion (1975)

16. Edge of Darkness (2010)

Good since 1908...Thanks to John Browning of Utah

My sheepdog "teeth" philosophy.

Grayman

My favorite is the one 4th from the right. The "Groundpounder". I admire this warrior/craftsman for all his "work".

http://www.graymanknives.com/

Chinese Proverb Revisited

Every man is entitled to one good wife, one good horse and one good knife.

I Wanna Be Like Mike

My mind keeps rolling over all the little brother Mike experiences I have filed in my memory. I keep trying to come up with one other than this one but this event keeps coming back and over-riding all else.

When Justin, my middle little brother, was estranged from his family and was deep in his funk, he was sallow faced, suicidal and near catatonic. He stayed with me for a time.

One day found Mike, Justin and myself in Mountain Home at the "House That Mom and Dad Built".

We started playing basketball out in the driveway, just the three of us, and I quickly saw the magic "spark" and connection between Mike and Justin. Mike’s inherent kind nature and huge heart, exhibited through his verbal and non-verbal interaction with Justin, shone brightly as we played hard at the game. Mike’s ebullient and forgiving ways drew Justin out of his shell and for two sweaty, competitive hours Justin was back. Justin was the fun-loving and sparkling person of old as the loving and long fought battle between younger, middle and older brothers was rekindled.

When the game was over, Justin withdrew back inside his painful shell. I never saw the "real" Justin again.

Mike has a way of bringing out the best in the people around him like no other. You cannot be mean spirited in Mike’s presence.

I wanna be like Mike.

Happy Birthday Mike...And Justin...say hello to Dad for me...

Indian Country

Twenty five years ago I found myself in Indian Country. Yeah, how is a westerner ever not in Indian Country? Well, I was in Baltimore, Maryland working in a grocery store in an area in town referred to as "slum soup". The store was owned by a stereotypical Jewish merchant and my responsibility was the cereal aisle. I rode the bus to and from work and worked all day for peanuts in the grocery store.

It was quite scary as it was predominately a poor neighborhood with mostly a black population. The kid who worked the next aisle over was from the neighborhood. He took me under his wing and taught me the grocery gig not to mention the ways and means to navigate and survive in the "hood". The kid was gregarious and genuine towards all. No one messed with him at all or me when I was in his company. I was accepted in the street due to my affiliation with him. We listened to Billie Holiday who was born and raised in Baltimore.

One day I sliced my hand badly with a box cutter and he was right there to fix up the poor white boy. I cannot, for the life of me, remember his name. I wish I could but maybe it doesn't matter. He saved my life and I learned alot from him about ignoring skin color and loving the person. Thanks, man...

Affiliation

Society seems intent on categorizing people in many different ways. Society tries to use race, religion, ethnic background, height, weight, eye and hair color, shoe size, etc., ad nauseum. One may be put into the "good box" or the "bad box". One's politics may label a person whether they lean left or right.

I came up with the only real cogent method of categorizing people as a small child. Quite simply, there are "long-heads" and there are "round-heads". My father was a "long-head" and my mother was a "round-head". Of my siblings: Lorin, Susan, Charlotte, and Lissa are "round-heads" while Loralyn, Justin, Jeanie, Michael and myself are "long-heads". This mix happens quite often with diverse parents. My wife and I are both "long-heads" hence all three of my sons are "long-heads".

Throw all the other labels, categorizations and "boxes" out the window with the bad air. There are only "long-heads" and "short-heads".

I should have gotten royalties for the Charlie Brown cartoons as they came long after my epiphany.

But then I find that the author, William Samuel Sadler, wrote of "Long heads and round heads; or, What's the matter with Germany" back in 1918. The categories can also be interpreted as "Alpines" and "Nordics". Who woulda' thunk it.

I guess that just goes to show you that L.A. Police Detective Charlie Crews was right when he said, "The Universe makes fun of us all" and "It IS all connected"...(Crews is a long-head and his partner, Reese, is a round-head).

Shoemergency

Last December, I called my brother, Mike, in a panic as the most special Air Jordans released without me paying attention. I have a predilection for black Air Jordans and the 23 was the epitome of the Jordan mystique and coolness. I called him and his wife, Julie, immediately went into action. She made phone calls and hit two stores in SLC before she was able to score the coveted kicks.

Everytime I wear those AJs, as recent as last Friday, my heart is warmed by my recollection of the shoemergency and Julie's sensitive and caring actions. Thanks Julie and I promise to never put another rug burn on Mike's forehead again.

What Is In A Name

I am going to pretend Bryce and Kadra's new earth spirit is named after me...

Mothers and Sons

My mom was on the top of the world at age two...or at least on top of the mailbox. A couple of decades ago, I only half-jokingly told my mother I was the "black sheep" of the family. I searingly received a 3 degree "Bunna" look that stopped me in mid-sentence. She was having none of that.

My mother has always had unconditional love for me even when my actions hurt or disappointed her. When I am in trouble, she is there for me. My mother embodies charity and rarely do you hear a discouraging word from her.

It would have been hard to be the oldest in the family, fatherless at age 16 and having a widowed mother who worked outside the home. Can't imagine it.

Last night, at a family gathering, I made a comment about an ethic of my family growing up: You did not complain. My mother remarked that she would have listened...and she did and does listen very well. Nonetheless, it was clearly part of our family ethic that we did not complain.

I remember wanting a pair of "rough-out" cowboy boots and a Levi jacket, when I was in junior high, as that was the style. My mother took me to Sears, on State Street, and bought me both. Being a perfectionist, I was unhappy that the boots did not have stitching on the uppers and the Levi jacket had a red, instead of plaid, lining. I can't remember if I complained out loud. I later realized that the purchase was probably a real sacrifice at the time as I had many siblings also needing food and clothing. I still feel shame at my selfishness. I hope I didn't complain as that is not what Walker children did.

My mother is the closest person to being a saint that I know. Thank you, Mom.

Elemental...

When I was a child, my first real taste of freedom was when I had access to my first bicycle. I left my trusty three wheeler for the balancing act of riding a bike just like my older siblings. I have no doubt I traveled all the streets of each town my family landed in.

It has been proven the bicycle is the most efficient form of travel but the experience transcends this mundane plane. I love riding my trusty road bike down the pavement with no cares except to make the combined man/machine move down the road. Riding a mountain bike is okay but requires more attention to rocks, logs and debris. Not as pure for me.

Being a "tarhead" is the ultimate bike experience. Finishing the century ride with "nothing left in the tank", legs cramping when trying to stand and sprint at the end. The magic of riding a bike is elemental, serene, competitive, pushing limits, feeling the pain of effort, climbing endlessly, wondering how far you can push your straining muscles and mind. Tight pacelines with trusted friends. "Screaming" down a long descent, tires barely keeping contact, knees gripping the top tube, hands and body tucked on the curled bars. Pain is weakness leaving the body.

It hurts so good.

Why Ruin It With Buckshot

My father, Hal Wilson Walker, was a natural "crack" shot with a rifle, handgun or shotgun. He had a trusty Remington 12 gauge semi-auto shotgun.

In the mid 70's, I was sitting on the lowered tailgate of my Dad's Suburban. My lifelong friend, Dan White, sat next to me as we flew down the road to the next pheasant hunting oasis somewhere between Buhl and Castelford in southern Idaho. Fred Sheltrown, city folk turned country gentleman, was in the front with my father. We had been pheasant hunting for most of the day and were marveling about how my Dad never missed a shot. Although we were travelling about 45 to 50 miles an hour, my Dad slowed the car to a stop. He said he had just heard a pheasant in the barrow pit and he backed up to the alleged spot. Fred, Dan and I laughed as there was no way anyone could have heard a pheasant given the circumstances. My father leapt from the car just as the pheasant launched itself across the road left to right. My father's shotgun swung in an easy arc leading the "loud" male bird. Suddenly, the bird's flight was interrupted by a bundle of low slung cable adorning the line of power poles. The pheasant flipped around the cables and fell to the ground lifeless.

My friend Dan turned to me and said, "He doesn't even have to shoot the damn things. They just surrender!"

Mrs. Lubkin

Mrs. Lubkin, prim and proper, lived in the oldest house on Harrison Boulevard in Boise, Idaho. She may have been the oldest person living on Harrison Boulevard. She lived two doors to the north from me. The Hamiltons lived between (another story).

As I was passing from childhood into adolescence, I was often her companion, employee and protector. It was probably my first non-family experience as a "sheepdog". Mrs. Lubkin's home was dark stone with a wrap around green porch and a porch swing. We would often sit quietly on the porch together rarely uttering a word. The garden and yard was a true "secret garden" with hedges full of hidey holes, hanging vines, a low back shed from which to spring on unsuspecting prey in the alley and plenty of alternating shadows and sunlight.

Mrs. Lubkin would send me to the little store on Hill Road (precursor to the current Co-op) to buy a loaf of bread or some tea. She would pull out her small black leather coin purse, count out the exact amount of money needed (she never missed) with an extra nickel for me.

I would rake the leaves out of her perimeter hedge, delighted when she could never catch me doing it, and watch her wonder at her unknown benefactor. I think she knew.

I loved her.

And So It Begins...

It has been said the motorcycle itself is only a down payment for the parts. My Fatboy Lo is poised in the garage calling me. S & S intake, Big Radius exhaust and FuelPak computer are waiting for installment. Anticipation for the dark bike called "Grim". Much cheaper therapy than a psychiatrist. It would be cool to have the same name as one of my ancestors..."Fear Sturgis"...

Every Man...

A wise man once said, and I paraphrase, "Each man deserves two things in his life...a good knife and a good woman". My father once told me, and I live it to this day, that a real gentleman always carries and knife and a handkerchief. I must add one more item to this list.

Each man, especially an American, should possess and own a .22 rifle. I have finally found quite possibly the epitome of a gentleman's rifle. The Winchester Model 52 bolt action rifle in .22 caliber. Mine has factory fixed sights, a rarity. The 52 was initially introduced in 1920 by Winchester. (Samuel Colt said the only thing a pistol was good for was to give one time to get to a rifle.)

I was greatly influenced by my dear friend of 33 years, who continues to impart real wisdom, in life and firearms. In fact, he bought me my first .22 pistol. We should see each other more often but when I see him it's like I just talked to him yesterday. I have only known a few real gentleman.

I feel blessed.

Wanna....Wanna...Wanna...

I feel like I am waking up from a long, dark scary sleep. Major changes in "the job" and my life at the root. I haven't really wanted anything for a long time. Material things have been moot. But now I want a new ride. Fatboy Lo. Dark and menacing. Bad boy bike. 103 cubes with nasty Big Radius pipes and thumpety cam. High black risers with drag bars. Biltwell forward controls. Damian Blade would approve. Can't imagine life without a bike.

Gym...

I can't wait to get back in the gym. I have some new Jordans to try out. The gym is the only place I can exist where the rest of the world totally ceases to exist. I only exist for the next pass, the next shot, the next assist, the next rebound. The smell of sweat, leather and exultation. The trash talk. I only exist as a baller; no bills, appointments, work, life's demands. I usually play too long to exist in the gym as long as I can. Can't wait........

Zen...?

"If you want them to be still, be still.
If you want them to keep their distance, back up.
If you want them to relax, be calm."

Blue Gangster

I belong to the largest gang in the United States. My gang all wears the same attire adorned in symbols and armament. I wear special totems that exhibit my status in the gang. We have initiation rituals and one must be a prospect, who is tested through baptism by fire, before being accepted into the gang. Actions speak louder than words. Deeds not words. We drive the same cars clothed in symbols and equipped with the tools of peace and war.

Integrity and adherence to "the code" is paramount and lesser standards are not accepted. Failure to adhere to "the code" quickly results in expulsion and being banished by the gang, your name never spoken again.

"The code" is to protect, even with a gang member's life, those who are unable to protect themselves. My gang allows the innocents to sleep soundly in their beds knowing there are rough gang members out and about to do violence to those who would do harm.

My gang is called many names: Po-Po, coppers, pigs, sheepdogs, "the heat", officer, "the man", 5-0, the thin blue line. You can call my gang members anything because we are called whenever there is trouble and you don't know who else to call.

We run towards the sound of battle but never away...

Born in the U.S.A.

I tell folks I was born in Oakley, Idaho as my family was living there at the time. I was actually born in the Twin Falls, Idaho hospital but still bear trauma from that experience. In Oakley, I have memories of grazing raspberries right off the bush, sleeping on the floor with my head on the soft mop and wearing a satin dragon festooned jacket brought back from Asia by my seagoing Naval uncle. Thinking about it makes me feel peaceful.

Damien Blade

Yeah, I know Damien Blade is a fictional character from a movie but I wish I was Damien Blade. As I imagine he would be if you could expand his aura and karma outside and past the movie screen. A wanderer. Carpe diem and all that. Only your Harley and what you could carry on it. Cathartic activity at it's best. Wind for the soul. Damn.

Ruminations about Relationships

Coming from a large family, with many cross currents and foibles, I was pondering how to "fix" issues and conflicts probably carried from childhood. After a long conversation with a sibling, I came to the conclusion that I must concentrate on my one on one relationships with each sibling, cousin, parent, etc., rather than the family as a whole. As least I believe that's all I can do.

Further thought brought great appreciation for two younger siblings who I greatly admire and look "up" to. I will only say "Tricky Mickerson III" and "Wiener".