An obituary is a strange piece of work. It is unlikely we will ever know what will be written about us. It will be a summation of our lives as someone knew it…but it won’t necessarily be gospel. It will contain the pertinent data; born, died, next of kin and maybe those predeceased. However moral politics get involved and a bad husband or bad seed may get no mention at all. That may appear spiteful, but it could also be the last laugh of the deceased.

What Obit readers want is a capsule critique of the life of the demised…and if the truth is stretched a bit, who cares? Praise can be flowery and even suggest sainthood is just around the corner, but it must not be damming even though the deceased may be headed for damnation. On the other hand, the Obit should be flushed out with something of more substance than “she loved the Mets” or “…he fancied fly fishing”. Here are a couple of examples I would like to see in the next DN obituary:

If the deceased was a man, either a big burly guy or a little shin kicker, something like this would be refreshing: “Eddie loved his family but loved to fight even more. One time, years ago, when he was in his prime, he emptied a road house in Gerber called “The Spot”, two Saturday nights in a row.” If the deceased was a woman, then a simple statement such as “Long noted for her caustic wit and her show girl legs, she was often the belle of the ball”.  Remembrance as these would remain in our mind long after their party was over.

However, we will continue to see the Obits circumspect and reverent. That is if they are written by acquaintances. However…why not compose your own obituary before the fact? You could give me a copy and I could jazz it up a bit. I charge $85.00 per hour for consultation, but it would be money well spent…and money you can’t take with you.

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The expression, “An act of God”, describes devastation wrought by hurricanes and the like. However, comic Ricky Gervais says, “If a person believes in God…then everything is an act of God!” Yes, but conversely, to the non-believer, nothing is an act of God…unless one is an insurance adjuster.

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Oil gushing into the ocean and threatening the shorelines claims first spot on the evening news night after night, and every network is scrambling to find a new angle. However, what we see is repeat footage while talking heads bemoan the lack of progress. The standard viewings are, in order, the network’s “special correspondent”, oil on the water, correspondent in a boat dipping her hand in the water, an oil covered bird, President Obama proclaiming the government will do everything in its power, a congressman berating an oil company exec, a boat owner who is about to lose his livelihood, a resort owner taking cancellations over the phone…and the news that another planeload of congressmen are on their way “to get a firsthand look” at the environmental catastrophe . But the one character I look for every evening is the Governor of Louisiana, Bobby Jindal. Now, you just don’t get creditability in my book, sporting a name like “Bobby”. You can get away with it in sports; Bonds in baseball and Orr in hockey, Fischer in chess, and Riggs in tennis…but, as Governor? I’ll see you later on that one. Years ago, our head cattle buyer, Hank Kerber, noticed I was being called “Bobby” by the employees at the meat plant. He thought I would garner more creditability with “Robert”. He cited, as an example, a cattleman named Billy Glines who was, in Hank’s words, ” 85 years old, for chrisake!”His point was well taken. But changing my first name did not save the meat plant, so perhaps the old adage “What’s in a name” is passé. And yet…Governor “Bobby Jindal” is going to kick the oil company’s arse? Not likely.

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Last week’s quiz was again answered by L. Brown and J. Angelo who knew that Gen. Custer led the 7^th Cavalry regiment, a bowling alley is 60′ long and it is 60.6 from the front of the pitcher’s rubber to the rear of the plate. L. Brown, however, dug deeper and came up with additional measurements which will not stop the slide of the Ess Eff Giants.

This week’s quiz:  How many cavalry men “rode into the valley of death” in the “Charge of the Light Brigade”? What was Harry S. Truman’s middle name…and the first Presidential airplane, a C-54 in 1944 was nicknamed what?

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A man and his wife were awakened at 3:00 am by a loud pounding on the door. The man opened the door and found a drunken stranger in the pouring rain asking for a push. He told him not a chance at 3:00 in the morning, slammed the door and went back to bed. When he told his wife the drunk needed a push, she asked, “Did you help him?” He replied he certainly did not…it was pouring rain and 3 in the morning. She said, “You have a short memory. Do you remember when our car broke down last month and two guys helped us out? I think you should go out and help the man!”

The husband reluctantly went to the door and called out, “Do you still need a push?” The drunk yelled from the dark that yes he did. The husband shouted “Where are you?”

The drunk replied, “Over here…on the swing.”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

Back in time with Shelley and forward with Parker…

“The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one another’s being mingle;

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;’

No sister flower would be forgiven

If it distained its brother;

And the sunlight claps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?  ”

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)              and

“In youth it was a way I had to do my best to please,

And change with every passing lad, to suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know, and do the things I do;

And if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you!”

Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

Little Joe Harris who works on the kill floor at the plant, gave me a copy of “The Northwestern Enterprise” published for the colored people in Seattle. It had an editorial about eating places discriminating against colored soldiers by putting up signs reading “NO COLORED TRADE SOLICITED”. The editor’s argument is that the colored men had nothing to do with starting the war and as long as they are willing to go out and fight for their country they should be treated as men and not as dogs.

Another item tells about a Eugene Smith who was struck by an automobile and taken to the hospital where it was found he had broken both legs and both arms and suffered internal injuries as well, but “his condition is not serious”. That man must be really tough.

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When I was 14, my father bought me my first bicycle. It had a New Departure coaster brake and I thought it was the last word in class. Each bike in those days had a small leather case suspended from the horizontal frame containing a tiny tire punch, wrench and tire patching equipment. We put “never leak “in the tires and if we got a cut in them big enough, this sticky mess would be mostly on our clothes before we got back from a ride.

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Some of the local service stations have an electrically heated device for branding your name on your tires. The idea is the same one that prompted cattlemen to brand their cattle. In order for a thief to sell a stolen tire, it will be necessary for him to rub out your brand. The important thing is for you not to buy a tire that has had a brand erased on the side of it.  No matter how badly you need a tire, if you buy stolen tires you are no better than the thief.

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Dave Minch 1900-1964

In 1979, our meat plant, 2 miles west of town, had been closed for four years. I had been writing a monthly column for Meat Industry Magazine for 42 issues, and thought I needed some help in remembering the old days. So I asked Uncle Stan, our general manager, John Hoy, former general manager, Carmen Rutala Sr. maintenance manager, Skeet Flournoy, kill floor foreman and his brother Herb, our cow buyer, for a get together at my house to see if they could come up with anecdotes that be of interest. They did and they were certainly worth putting to paper. One such story dealt with hogs and dogs

In the old days, the holding pens for hogs were on the west side of the plant, so, on hog slaughter day, we called out a few workers from the plant to help herd the hogs from the west side to the east side of the plant. One day, we managed to get all the hogs in the corral except for two very large sows, which had a mind of their own, and decided to head on down the road toward town. At the time, I had a large German bred Boxer dog named Max…a big headed fellow weighing in at 135 or so. I had trained him to help capture animals that would occasionally escape confinement at the plant. For the large bulls, cows and steers, he would just get out in front of them and head them back to where they came from. But for hogs, he learned to grab them by the ear and hold them until I could catch up, flip them over and tie their feet with baling wire prior to hauling them back to the plant.

When the sows took off, Max was at home, so I borrowed Uncle Stanley’s new Studebaker truck, fetched him, and we drove back to the plant looking for the escapees. I finally tracked them a mile away going up the incline into Oak Hill Cemetery. I stopped the truck inside the cemetery and Max and I and some baling wire took chase. We were able to catch one sow and I wired her feet together while Max held her by the ear. Then we took off after the other one, cornered her on the edge of a cliff only to have her topple off to the gully below. When we finally got to her, she was fighting ass mad and kept chomping her teeth and making angry sounds. Max got her by the ear and I got her on her back and called him off. But he was also mad and kept going after her leg and tail. Not wanting to damage her, I dragged Max back to Uncle Stanley’s pickup and shut him up in the front seat with the windows down enough to give him air. Then I went back to the sow to see if I could handle her alone. Fortunately, she had enough running and was laying down in the shade. I managed to get her back feet wired so she could not stray further, and then went back to the truck to get help to load her. However, to show his frustration at being taken off the case, Max had ripped the head lining out of the cab which was hanging down like moss from a tree. When I showed the damage to Uncle Stan he was not happy with the appearance of his no longer new truck. It cost me plenty to get it restored…but not as much as if the sow had not been captured.

Such was life at the old meat plant when men were men and dogs were hog catchers.

When, feeling empowered and considering writing a book …something more permanent than a column, I take stock and realize my limitations.

For example, I sent a novel to The Saturday Evening Post which recounted the experience of a cowboy and his horse, which bucked every time he rode him. I received a nice letter which read “The editors thank you for submitting the enclosed contribution, and regret it does not meet with the immediate requirements of the magazine.” The last 13 words were underlined in red, and in the margin was the notation”Sorry, MSB”. Now that I read this 40 years later, I take heart that when MSB underlined “…does not meet our immediate requirements”, she was holding the door open for another submittal. But I took that as “Forget it”, and submitted no more.

When I entered the column business, in the Corning Observer, I became complacent and believed my writings were loved by all. Then, I received a letter, in 1966, from Webb Petty, who happened to be the son of editor and publisher Mari Petty. He took umbrage with what I had written about John Lennon, and wrote, in part, “Mr. Minch, there is one undeniable fact: John Lennon was more successful at the bottom of his career than you may ever be.” He concluded with, “There are so many things I’d like to say to you, Mr. Minch, but the best thing said to you should come from Lennon himself: ‘Living is easy  with eyes closed misunderstanding all you see…’. The kid nailed me, for sure, and I am happy to say, years later, we became friends and laughed about the incident.

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Joe Klein writes in TIME: “Democrats tend to be more interested in legislating than in managing. They come to office filled with irrational exuberance, pass giant fur balls of legislation…stuff that often sounds fabulous, in principle…and expect a stultified bureaucracy, bereft of the incentives and punishments of the private sector, to manage it all with the efficiency of a bounty hunter.” Nicely expressed.

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Last week’s quiz opened more doors than I anticipated. The question “Whose record did Babe Ruth break when he hit 60 homers…was answered by  J. Angelo who knew that Ruth broke his own record of 59…and that the  U.S. Mint began producing coins in 1793. However, as to the question of the only woman to appear on U.S. currency, my source said Martha Washington, whereas Mr. Angelo and L. Brown discovered that Pocahontas appeared on currency in a tableau at one time.

This week’s quiz: What was the number of the last cavalry regiment commanded by George Armstrong Custer, what is the length of a bowling lane from the foul line to head pin, and the distance between the pitcher’s rubber and home plate in baseball?

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Here is a joke grandmother once told as full of double entendre as was grandmother.

Father Murphy, trying to raise money for the church, learned that anyone with a horse could make money. But. at auction, he could only afford a donkey. Undeterred, he entered it in a race, and the headline in the paper the next day read,”Father Murphy’s Ass Shows”. The Archbishop was mortified and told Murphy to tone down the publicity. However, the next time he ran the donkey, the headline proclaimed “Father Murphy’s Ass Out In Front”. The Archbishop was not amused. When the donkey was run for the last time, and it came in to place, the headline read “Father Murphy’s Ass Back in Place”. The Archbishop instructed him to remove the donkey from future races, and the headline read “Archbishop Scratches Father Murphy’s Ass”. Finally he was told to get rid of the donkey, and so he gave it to Sister Agatha. When the Archbishop told her to sell it, she did for $10.00 which created the final headline, “Sister Agatha Peddles Ass For Ten Dollars.” The Archbishop was buried two days later.

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

Dr. William Martin and wife JoAnne are headed south. They are planning to reside in the Carmichael area, and experience life in a retirement community.

They arrived in Red Bluff 50 years ago and joined the Presbyterian Church because of the charismatic minister, R. Stanley Wallace. The Martin’s marriage flourished, whereas that of the minister, did not. But, I digress…

The missus introduced the Martins to the community as she was also in the Presbyterian Church at the time. As time passed, and the Martin tribe increased by 4 and soon the Martin girls were on the high school doubles tennis team partnering up with the Minch girls. Before long, the missus invited JoAnne to join her tennis group, and Bill and I began batting the ball around. We eventually evolved into doubles tennis with other ageing players for more than 30 years.  So, it is with heavy heart we see them depart.

They spent time in Thailand on medical missionary work, so this will not be their first foray from home…but it may be their last. They are both healthy and active, but these late-in-life moves have a tendency to be permanent.

I mention this for the dilemma it creates with their friends. On the one hand, we want them to be near their children during their declining years…and retirement communities’ offer many conveniences. On the other, their leaving creates a void…and the Martins may prove to be a hard act to follow.

When the missus thinks of the old days, and the laughs she shared with the doctor’s wife, she will wish she had spent more time with her. And when I am sweeping off the tennis court, I will have a pang of regret that I won’t be facing the old fellow across the net again. Such is life…the bitter with the sweet.

(Ed. Note: I had been writing the I Say column for the Daily News since my father’s demise in 1964, and, at the conclusion of one such, wrote of a Community Concert)

“Impressions of the Tuesday night concert in the RBUHS auditorium; a fine young performer, a rickety old piano, a built-up non adjustable bench, a spotlight square in the eyes of the pianist…and the hardest seats this side of Athens. Who could possibly ask for anything more? Possibly the proponents for a new community auditorium.”

It was then that Editor Jim McGiffin responded in an Editorial in the DN:

“I Say, Mr. Minch:

Mr. Bob Minch, who apparently has endured the stone bleachers of Athens, suggests in his column that there is good reason to build a civic auditorium in this community. We will go Mr. Minch one better and suggest that what we need is not only a civic auditorium but one that could double as a convention center. Convention attendees would swell local motel receipts, local restaurants would do more business; in fact, all retail trade would jump as a result. The building might consist of meeting rooms, a comfortable auditorium and so forth. So now, Mr. Minch, the ball has been thrust right back in your hands.”

As it turned out, I just watched as the ball went to Goldie Walston and Ron Clark…and the rest is history.

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(also in the column in 1966)

What would you think was a tough university to get into? Stanford? And what would you think would be a tough grade average to maintain at said university? Straight A? Well, Paul Rutala is a straight A student at Stanford, and his father, Carmen Sr. is in charge of our maintenance department at the meat plant. We are justly proud of them both. I am a Stanford man, myself. I took a 5 day course there a couple of years ago. Nothing to it. Piece of cake.

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According to the Chinese, is the year of the Horse, and I heartedly suggest that everyone horse around a little this year, anyway you like.

(An epic poem after seeing a Northern California highway sign)

Henley Hornbrook awoke one morn, and found that all his clothes were torn.
He rubbed his eyes and scratched his head, and said, “I think that I will just stay in bed”.

He asked his dogs, both Tiny and Tim, If they knew, perchance, what had happened to him.

They shook their heads, and wagged their tails, and asked if they could polish their nails.

“Yes, you may,” old Henley said, “but don’t get the polish on my bed.”

The dogs set busily about their task, which made Henley proud to ask,

“You’re both so clever, do you suppose, that when you’re done, you’d paint my toes?”
At his remark, they laughed and laughed, and thought their master completely daft.

Just then Henley’s wife came in the room and chased them out with a mop and broom.

Out the door went the lot of them, Henley Hornbrook, Tiny and Tim.

They ran as far as they could run, then rested awhile in the noonday sun.

It was then that Tiny said to Tim, “I think Master has something wrong with him!”

“I’ve got it!” said Tim, with a twitch of his nose, “Master Henley’s not wearing a stitch of clothes!”

And, sure enough, Henley’s body was bare, an unclothed sight for the world to share.

But Henley didn’t seem to mind a bit, except for the cold rock where he tried to sit.

However, when he saw his dogs amused, it tended to make him quite confused.

“What’s to be done, do you suppose? Remember, someone has torn up all my clothes!

Though this rock is cold, the sun is hot, and sun burned cheeks could hurt a lot.

I need help, and I need it fast, or my poor body will never last!”

The though sobered Tiny, and did Tim too, and they thought real hard what they could do.

Then Tiny said, “For you to hide from view, I know just the thing that will cover you.

It’s very simple, though you’ll think it queer, but the solution is for you to grow lots of hair!”

“Of course, that’s it!” cried Henley then, “I’ve always grown hair on my head and my chin,

So, if I strive, and sit in some ink, my body will turn dark and hairy, I think.”

The dogs quickly found Henley a barrel, given to them by a girl named Carol.

And happily Henley sat in the fluid till he became dark and hairy as a Druid.

Much cheering and clapping did then ensue, for they were all happy with what Henley grew.

Then proudly they marched him back to his home, and you may think this the end of the poem,

But, Oh! Such a scene, did his wife then promote, they ran from the house and took a vote.

They decided that Henley could never just win and live with people with only bare skin,

So today, if you’re looking for Henley, Tiny and Tim, you needn’t look far for the likes of them.

For the next time you children go to visit the zoo, look for the apes, there’s always a few.

If one of them sits, with his rump in the sun, and you look to see if he’s really the one,

If running nearby are two doggy friends, you’ll know it’s Henley …and this poem now ends.

Robert Minch @ 1965

You will note, around town, a plethora of signs springing up like wild flowers. It is the time for all things political. The financially oppressed Daily News scents an opportunity for profitability and offers attractive rates for those running for office. I assume they do. Not having ever run for office, except as cheerleader in high school, I have little knowledge of the costs of getting elected…or staying elected. It must seem a sorry business for those long at the City or County trough to have to pony up big bucks every 4 years to stay in office. Is it demeaning to put out the signs and show up at every rubber chicken candidate night? I do not know but perhaps an office seeker must have to have a high embarrassment threshold and a cast iron butt to attend the meetings and remain in office until retirement.

This subject is lead in for the emergence of a new sign which now appears to be a spur of the moment decision for the office seeker. Seeing several small and modest signs pop up on Antelope Blvd, and knowing the fellow well, I called his law office. When he came on the line I said, “Is this the Judge speaking…or is my conjecture premature?” He replied that it was very premature because he was not running for office… his father was. Rats! Once again I was clever by half.

If someone were to aspire for high office, a judgeship would be a logical upward move. I once thought a judge did not have to have a degree in law, but this is not the case. I can imagine, back in the 1800′ a guy like Roy Bean could call himself a judge and operate out of the back room of his saloon. Today, however, it is essential to have been a practicing attorney to become a judge, either appointed or elected.

Anyhow, this judgeship-come-lately fellow is an attorney of record…but is running as a write-in-candidate. It seems unlikely write-ins can prevail, but then we have seen many judges sitting atop their perches…and wondering how they achieved that loft.

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I am eligible, and then some, to be a member of the American Association of Retired People, now abbreviated to AARP. However, if I were to join, those busybodies might require me to respond to a survey like this one in the Ess Eff Chron the other day headlined “SEX EBBS FOR THOSE OVER 45″. Without shattering the concepts of the young, there is sex after 45. However, this recent survey states that the 45’s and up are more open to sex outside of marriage than they were 10 years ago, but they engage in sex less often…and with less satisfaction. The experts think that financial stress is a prime culprit. What? Does that mean couples, in this age bracket or older, when watching television and noting a sharp drop in the Dow Jones, one or both get an immediate headache? A reverse voyeurism of sorts? Chalk up another reason to unplug the set.

We shall dispense with the more prurient parts of the AARP survey, but leave readers with this closer: Respondents, who had a partner, but weren’t married, had sex more frequently and with more satisfaction than the respondents who were married.  As the Prime Minister character on that BBC series years ago would often say, “I can’t possibly comment on that”.

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Last week’s quiz was answered by the retired manager of the Chamber of Commerce, J. Yingling, who has a lot of time on his hands. He deciphered “SHOOT   SHOOT” as parachute, “VAD  ERS” as space invaders, and “busines” as unfinished business.

This week’s quiz: Whose record did Babe Ruth break when he hit 60 homers, name the only woman to appear on a U.S. currency note and when did the US Mint start producing coins?

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If we are ever able to resolve the problem of over population, we must first get the Pope to admit that he is not infallible, and is willing to rethink the church policy regarding birth control. The rhythm method is just not getting the job done. But to address that lofty decision, he should get his ducks in line regarding the Shroud of Turin. Sources say he has all but endorsed the authenticity of this relic, which modern day testing has proven to be a medieval forgery.

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When you saw Stanley disappear into an open manhole in a Laurel and Hardy film, it was funny, but you knew it was an unlikely happening. However, the Police blotter of May 6^th stated that a woman reportedly slipped into an open manhole on an unspecified street in Red Bluff. Uh huh. Just name the street, mam, and we will alert Public Works.

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Jesus saw a crowd throwing stones at an adulteress. He said, in a loud voice, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone!’” Suddenly a stone came from the crowd and hit the woman on the noggin. Jesus was momentarily taken aback…then looked up and said,”Mom…!”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

While a voice on the phone was saying something about “taking her off life support”, the missus was signaling me that she had our 13 year old grandson on the other line…and it was time to sing Happy Birthday to him.  The word for two contrasting bits of information is dichotomy. It was that, alright. A life was perhaps ending…and another was about to embark on a teenage journey. It would be a transforming moment for both.

Vivacious Kathleen Moller had lived life to the fullest. She was active to the point of being hyper active, always in motion, with energy to burn and a sense of humor verging on the sardonic. An innocuous word, uttered in her presence, could be, in a flash, turned into a wicked double entendre.  This might suggest, to the casual observer, that she was calloused or insensitive, but this was not the case. She saw the ironic side to most everything…and yet could be very considerate of the plight of others. She often acted on impulse regardless of the consequence.

As an example, her mother-in-law was missing, and word was out that her car may have skidded into the river.  Kathleen was standing on the river bank as the car was being pulled from its watery grave. A woman from a TV station took up a position, microphone in hand, in front of Kathleen, and got roughly knocked to the ground for her effort. Learning of this, I advised Kathleen that she should apologize to the reporter to avoid a possible assault charge. She did, but with great reluctance and a few choice words for my ears only. She felt it was her duty to deny film of the tragedy to viewers of the 6 o’clock news. The familiar expression, “did not suffer fools gladly”, well applied to her.

The true contrast of the phone calls was verified the next day when we learned she had breathed, skied and laughed her last. She would have been furious to learn she would not live long enough to ski free at Mt. Shasta.

Images will burn long in our memories of that one-of-a kind woman.

R.I.P. Kathleen