Category: random

1997

When our cat goes outdoors
Then manages to catch a bird,
It’ll play with that so called food
And such a ruckus can be heard.

My wife would be pretty upset
With her purrin’ little cat,
If she thought for a minute
Her kitten acted such as that.

I trailed some feathers once
Into a giant azalea bush.
I could hear that stupid cat
With this bird a-breakin’ hush.

So I grabbed my handy golf club,
The one I use to put across the lawn.
That’s when paranoia started settin’ in
And I spied my neighbor Ron.

On his face was this disgusted look,
As I gave thar bush another poke.
And as the cat let go of that bird,
Ron hollered out, “Jus’ take the stroke!”

He heard of an organization one evening while at a Washoe County Parks and Recreation meeting called the Nevada Rock Art Foundation. The group had formed with the idea of establishing a refuge designed to save a grouping of petroglyphs along Interstate 80 just east of Sparks.

Tommy was so intrigued by the idea that he contacted one of the founders and asked if he and Debra Reid, the newspapers photographer could be taken on a tour of the area. He wanted to do an article on the place, providing he didn’t disclose the location of the petroglyphs.

Debra Reid was a wiry, thin woman in her 50’s. She had been with the paper for nearly 15-years and had a progressive, if not liberal point of view about the world including anything military or political. Saving “Mother Earth” was her thing along with covering protests.

Doctor Bob Fowler agreed to meet the pair.

By the time Tommy arrived both the doctor and Debra were already there. He could see their vehicles from the Interstate. As he pulled up to park he saw that they had not waited for him, they had gone to the site without him.

After he parked, Tommy walked over to the edge of the roadway and looked down towards the Truckee River. In the distance, to his right he could see Dr. Fowler and Debra, so he decided to head down to join them.

He took to or three steps down the hillside and found a loose stone under his foot. Without warning, he started tumbling headlong down the hill, landing on his left side.

For a few seconds he couldn’t catch his breathe. He just laid there gasping over and over. Then he rolled himself onto his back. That’s when he felt the sudden, sharp pain in his left shoulder, as he gulping a large volume of air into his lungs.

Tommy knew that his shoulder was separated. This had happened several times before. “All I have to do is take my time, relax and it should reduce itself,” he said aloud.

Reduce was the technical term the emergency room used to describe what happened when the arms long bone popped back into the socket.

“It hurts like the dickens,” he told his son Kyle, “But afterwards it feels so much better.”

Slowly he sat up and looked around. Things looks so much different from ground level than from up where he had been. “Usually when I come down a hill I get to see where I’m going,” he chuckled.

Tommy rotated his legs underneath himself until he was on his knees, then he stood up. His shoulder was giving him a lot of pain and he reached up to discover it was drooping lower than he had ever noticed before.

He quickly pulled off his thick gloves and neatly rolled them up. Then he reached inside his light parka and underneath his sweatshirt and stuffed the pair of gloves into his armpit. The gloves offered a small amount of support for the dislocation and helped relieve some of the pain.

Once he finished that, Tommy trekked off to find Dr. Fowler and Debra. The interview with the doctor lasted less than an hour and the threesome hiked out of the river canyon along an easy to negotiate trail.

Back at in the newsroom, Tommy was told that the story would be held over until the weekend edition. “I’m thinking Sunday, for a greater impact on our readers,” said the papers editor Angela Mann.

Tommy felt relieved because he wanted to get off work and go to the Reno Veterans Medical Center and the emergency room look at his shoulder. He could feel it starting to stiffen up and he knew that could not be a good sign.

It was Jessica who noticed that something about Tommy was off.

“Are you okay?” Jessica asked. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

Tommy was feeling a little light headed at the moment. The feeling had been coming and going for sometime. “I fell while at the petroglyph site,” he answered.

“Did you fill out an accident report form?” she asked. It was stupid question to have asked and Jessica knew it the moment she asked it.

“No,” was Tommy’s answer.

“You should go to the clinic,” Jessica said. She picked up the phone and buzzed Nancy the papers business manager.

Nancy came into the newsroom, “You have to go to the clinic, Tommy.”

“I don’t want to go,” Tommy replied, “I’d rather go to the VA Hospital.”

“Nope,” Nancy said, “It’s the clinic.”

“I’m not going and you can’t force me,” Tommy said. Then he added, “I’m not going to wait an hour to take a piss-test just to get my dislocated shoulder relocated!”

Nancy responded, “The law says…”

“The law says that I have to take a piss-test if I report an on-the-job injury,” said Tommy. “Do you have anything in writing?”

“Well, no?” Nancy answered.

“Then there’s been no on-the-job injury,” he replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tommy smiled and walked out the front door swinging both arms as if they were normal. He fished the keys to his truck from his pocket and climbed in, fired it up and pulled out of the parking lot.

He made certain he had turned off 10th Street and onto Pyramid Way before his manly façade crumbled into what he thought looked like a jagged ball of used paper. Tommy could feel the sweat starting to roll down his back and he gulped for a breath.

It took two hours and 29 pounds of weight for the emergency room doctor to reduce Tommy’s shoulder.

What President George Bush said during a televised press conference from the Rose Garden gave me pause and sent a cold chill up my spine.

Bush said that Khalid Sheikh Mohammed gave the CIA information about operatives within U.S. borders who had been “instructed to ensure the explosives are at a point high enough to prevent people trapped above from escaping.”

On the face of it, this sounds rational because we all know what happened on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. The planes struck the towers high, causing massive damage, and trapping thousands above the burning floors before the structures collapsed.

Because I listen differently than most, I heard something different that adds to the so-called conspiracy theories that the building collapsed because the superstructure was destroyed by individual explosive charges placed inside at critical points. In his speech, Bush used the word “explosives,” when the act was supposed to have been caused by the rupture of jet fuel superheating the internal girders, bringing on the building’s demise.

Could those so-called conspiracy theorists be correct?

Tommy was willing to do what the paper had not been doing for a very long time ant that was going out and investigating stories. The first time he did his own investigation and was able interview a person linked to criminal activities Janine was so appalled that she yelled at him to sit down.

“I don’t care if you when out there and got the story,” she said, “You’re dressed unprofessionally and you put yourself in danger and that won’t happen again! Now sit down!”

Tommy looked at her and wondered over to his desk and seated himself behind it for a few minutes. Then he got up and walked out the back door and got in his truck and drove home.

“Who in the hell does she think she is?” Tommy asked himself as he headed north on Pyramid Highway. He thought about the three different bars he had visited that morning to find the person he needed to talk too.

Calvin wasn’t an easy guy to track down even though he was known to frequent the local biker bars, strip clubs and skin head bars along Fourth Street in Reno. Tommy just had to find out which one he was in and that would take some legwork.

Tommy had done some rough work like man-hunting fugitives when he was younger, however he wasn’t looking for a fugitive and he wasn’t young anymore. He was looking for a man who was at one point the second in charge of the Aryan Nation in the Northern Nevada area. The known leader of the group had just been arrested for soliciting male prostitution and Tommy wanted to talk to a former member.

“His idea is to rekindle the holocaust,” Calvin said as the two men sat and drank beer on Tommy’s front porch.

Tommy looked at him and asked, “I don’t get it, how?”

“The man is infected with HIV and he thinks that if he gives it to enough homosexuals it’ll start the holocaust,” said Calvin. “Sick, ain’t it?”

“You said it,” Tommy answered. He took another sip of his beer.

He had his story. Walking into three biker bars, a number of strip joints and several skin-head bars where he could have been stomped half to death had been worth it. Calvin and his family were going to take a two-week vacation in Southern California as soon as Tommy dropped him back behind the Lady Luck Bar.

Getting banged up on the job was another thing that the newspaper was not accustomed to having happen to their reporters. It was Janine who admitted in a off-hand remark, “Most of the time nobody does anything too exciting or adventurous.”

Tommy broke the mold of reporters sitting behind their desks.

Mary Elizabeth Moore Escola was my seventh grade teacher at Margaret Keating School in Klamath, California. Born May 28, 1948, in Portland Oregon, she passed away peacefully at her home August 23, 2006, in Chico, at the age of 58.

Our class as whole was not kind to the first-year teacher as we did several things to make her life miserable. The worst was flooding or classroom, for which I eventually found myself expelled from the district and having to go to St. Joe’s Catholic School, in Crescent City.

To this day, I still feel ashamed of myself for the way I behaved as she showed nothing but kindness to me.

Prior to the ‘flooding incident,’ I remember how Miss Moore, as we knew her then, came into the classroom obviously brimming over with excitement. It was that morning that she announced that our fifth grade teacher, Don Escola had proposed to her.

She didn’t return to MKS after that year. Instead, Mary decided to remain home on Azalea Drive and raise her children, Michael and Douglas, jus’ up the street from where I grew up.

Doc stood in the doorway of sick-bay when he saw the Humvee roll up tot the Commanders’ tent. There were two Marine Corps officers in the vehicle, one was driving and had the rank of Captain. The other, the passenger was a Lt. Colonel.

Both men got out and went inside the tent. The Captain had a wooden box in his hands that he had taken from the back of the Humvee.

Doc wasn’t curious about this activity as it happened several times a week. He continued to lean on the aluminum frame of sick-bay and sip at his luke warm coffee.

A couple minutes later he turned and went back inside to finish up the paper work from the mornings sick-call duties. There wasn’t much to do as not very many Marines lined up for sick-call.

“Hey, Doc,” came a voice from outside the tent. It was Staff Sergeant Murray. He was a munitions expert and was in the middle of his third enlistment.

“What?” Doc answered.

“Their handing out Good Conduct medals,” Murray replied.

Doc shook his head, before commenting, “So, I’m not entitled.” Then he asked, “You going to get one?”

“Yup,” said Murray. Then the slightly older man smiled.

Doc could see that the smile meant mischief. The Corpsman knew it was half-smiles and raised eyebrows that tended to get him and others in trouble. It was also the reason Doc wasn’t entitled to the medal.

“What?” Doc asked Murray.

“I dare you to go stand in line with everyone else when they start handing them out,” Murray said.

“No way!” Doc responded.

“Must be chicken-shit, huh?” Murray countered.

Doc looked at the sergeant, than took the bait. “No!” he shot back. Then he added, “Okay, I’ll do it and when I do you’ll own me a bottle of JD. Got it?”

“You’re on,” Murray said as he stepped out side the tent and disappeared out of sight.

Doc hurried to finish his paper work and get it properly filed. He thought about the bet and what a bottle of booze would do for the moral of his squad.

Minutes later he was back standing in the doorway of the sickbay. The two Marine officers came out of the C.O.’s tent and stood looking up and down the camp.

The announcement of a general formation had already been post a couple days before, so Doc knew when and where he was to be. He felt a slight wave of nervousness sweep over him and he chuckled at the thought of what he was about to do.

Just before noon, Marines started milling about in the common area of the camp. Doc went over and joined in until when formation was called. About 30 men lined up shoulder to shoulder. Doc took the position on the very end to the far left of the formation.

Within minutes the two Marine Corps officers were moving down the line, taking time to pin a medal on each Marine, shake hands in congratulations’ and then a salute. The Captain had the wooden box in his hands, open and exposing a mass of Good Conduct medals in it.

It took about fifteen minutes for the Colonel to get to Doc’s place in the line. He took a one of the medals from the box and pinned it above the Corpsman’s left breast pocket.

Then he shook his hand, stepped back and saluted Doc. He saluted back and that was the end of the ceremony.

Once the formation was dismissed, Doc returned to the sick-bay tent. A few minutes later Murray appeared in the doorway. He dug a bottle out of his pocket and set it on Doc’s desk.

“You got away with,” he said, adding, “I can’t believe it.”

Both men laughed as Doc picked up the bottle and dropped it in the bottom drawer of the desk, locking it up. He felt relaxed now that he was no longer being dared to do something stupid just for a bottle of Jack Daniel.

The early morning sunlight was bright and a slight breeze blew across the track as Tommy stepped on it. The rubbery surface felt good as his spikes dug in. “This is the big day,” Tommy thought to himself.

He had spent the last three summers work towards this day; an Olympic try out.

Today he would run the one hundred yard dash against the fastest men in the world. He was one of them. At sixteen he was also the youngest.

“Well, open it up,” Dee Sullivan urged to him.

Tommy just stood there looking at the envelope with the five interlinked rings on it. Dee was taking great pride in her second star pupil. ”

Open it up, Tom,” she said again.

That snapped him out of his trance like state and he pulled at the glued down flap. Once the envelope was discarded and the letter inside revealed.

He fumbled nervously to unfold it.

The letter was an invite to participate in the open one hundred meter dash. Again Tommy just stood there, this time with his eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

Mrs. Sullivan smiled. She knew what it was all along. For the past two summers she had pushed and trained him to levels he never thought he could achieve.

Suddenly he let out a scream and a whoop that caused everyone on the little high school field to stop what they were doing and look. What they saw was Tommy jumping up and down in long strides around the track.

He looked as if he had springs attached as bound high in the air. Tommy laughed and he hollered as he continued bounce around the other tracksters on Thuen Field.

“What’s going on,” someone asked. Dee smiled again, “Tommy jus’ got his invite to Oregon State this summer.”

“Isn’t that where their holding….”the person started to ask.

Dee cut them off, “Yup.”

Training intensified. Tommy worked harder than ever. This was the most important meet of his life.

Everyday he would run twenty-five wind sprints in the sands of Pebble Beach. Then he would set up the starting blocks and do twenty-five starts. He worked hard at putting his knees high and keeping his head low.

Tommy ran when it rained and against the gale winds that blew off of Whalers Rock. Then he would do more wind sprints.

Twice a week Dee Sullivan would take him up Highway 199 and along the Smith River to run a longer distance at a higher altitude in the Six River National Forest. Some days she would drop him off at Gasquet or Hiouchi.

Other days it would be Patrick’s Creek or Washington Flat. Then she would drive ahead and Tommy would have to catch up to her.

Dee would eventually be found sitting in her Thunderbird reading a novel as Tommy came trotting in.

Finally the big day came. The evening before he left he spent one last evening at the Sullivan’s home.

“This is it, Tommy,” she said as he got ready for bed. “I can’t do any more for you. It’s all up to you.”

With that Tommy crawled into bed and fell asleep. And just as planned Dad stopped by at six am for the trip to Eugene.

He and Dad talked very little of the track meet. They spoke more about hunting and fishing as well as the number of times they had traveled this same road as a family to visit Mom’s Dad in Salem.

They spent a fitful night sleeping at a hotel.

Tommy was ready first. He wanted to get down to the track.

“Runners, remove your sweats, “the starter said.

Tommy was on the far outside lane in number eight. He was fighting off the nervousness he felt in his stomach.

The crowds were more than Tommy had ever seen. The buzz they made from their constant talking was like nothing Tommy had ever prepared for.

The runners moved forward to remove there sweats. Tommy did like wise and burst of laughter came from behind him.

His sweats were at his knees when he suddenly realized what had happened. Tommy dropped tot he ground and laid on his side as he struggled to pull his sweats up.

Later that afternoon he and his Dad stopped in to a diner for a late lunch. The waitress came over and took their order.

As she brought it to them she asked, ”Ain’t you the one who shot the moon in Eugene?”

Blushing a deep red, Tommy answered, “Yes.”

“Don’t worry, honey, could have happened to anyone,” she said,” Besides you have a cute butt, anyway.

The seven figures were strung out along the base of the glacier. It was not an expedition by any means, just a group of friends walking on the crusty ice. None of them were aware that there was anything more than a mountain range beneath their feet.

“Never realized how quiet it could be,” one person said to the group. Another shot back, “Or how cold!” Everyone laughed.

Barney and Doc had planned this get together and the trip almost two months before. Both enjoyed the outdoors and the frigid winter weather.

Barney led the parade since he was the most familiar with the area. His partner, Doc followed up the rear. And each hiker was separated by at least ten feet and equipped with shoe shoes and hiking poles.

Deanna turned to Doc, “It sure is pretty up here.” She took three more steps than added, “Ain’t got nothing’ like this in Texas.” Doc smiled.

Barney, who was raised in Corpus Christi, shouted back, “Hey, don’t be putting’ Texas down like that…we got other things like the most beautiful women.” Everyone laughed aloud at that.

The group was made up of medical personnel from the air force hospital in Cheyenne, Wyoming. It was a three-day holiday and they were going to make the most of it. This was their second day in the backcountry with the snow and higher elevations.

The day before was spent mostly driving four hundred miles. At every turn it seemed they stopped to look at and photograph the scenery. When they finally reached the park it was late afternoon. That left them with just enough time to get moved into the cabin.

The cabin was of typical ‘A’ frame construction. It’s designed to have an extreme sloping roof so that the snowfall would not build up and eventually crush the building. The brochure said it could sleep ten people comfortably so there was extra room to spare for all the extra equipment they dragged along.

Alan was from Ohio. “The land,” he explained, “is flat for the most part.” Later he would confess that he had never been isolated like they were now. He came from a large family and a populated neighborhood. He was also the top ranking person in the group with a specialty in medical administration.

Linda and Steve worked together in the doctor’s office. They did the prescreening and medical workups on patients prior to the doctor seeing them. They did everything together yet claimed not to be couple. Everyone else knew better though.

Then there was Edward. He had been assigned to a remote station in Alaska. “It was my choice”, he claimed, before the trip no one could understand why anyone would ask to assign to a remote station, soon everyone recognized in himself or herself why he would do so.

Lastly there was Jocelyn. Like Doc and Barney this was her first duty sight. She had met Doc during a routine flight physical. She grew up in the Cascades of Washington state and was much the Tomboy, this independence and her simple beauty caught Doc’s eye immediately and he asked her along.

That first night in the cabin was strange as Alan pulled out his mini-television and turned it on. He could only get one station to tune in from Denver, Colorado. The seven huddled in mass to watch the fuzzy screen as it bathed them in bright gray light.

“Thought we were supposed to have electricity?” Alan asked.

Doc shook his head sideways “Nope rustic means no electricity and no running water.”

Everyone stopped and looked at Doc

Then Linda spoke out “What do you meaning no running water?” She stood in the center of the cabin with both hands on her hips. “What are we going to do for the bathroom?”

Barney piped in and said “It’s out the back door.”

Linda walked to the back door to look out at the outhouse. She pulled the door open and in fell a wall of powder. It rushed over her before she could do anything. She just stood there as the rest of them laughed.

“According to the map, “Barney said, “We should head up that way behind the cabin.”

“Thought you knew this area,” commented Stephen.

Barney defended himself by saying, “I do. I just never started from this place before.” He turned and tramped up the rise.

The sun had risen about two hours ago before they started off for a day in the snow. The hike up the mountainside was harder than any of them expected. They rested several times for several minutes as they made their way higher and higher.

As they spread out each member of the party became lost in their own thoughts as the majestic mountains enveloped them. Several times the seven stopped just to look and take pictures.

The air was clear and cold. A slight breeze blew down from the summit. It was silent.

Deanna blushed at Barney’s joke about the beauty of Texas women. And everyone laughed heartily at the obvious prejudice. Barney carried in his heart for all things Lone Star state.

The group crunched on. Doc was the last in the line of people as they walked their way across the floe. He paused momentarily to listen harder than he had before.” Quiet! Quiet!” he calmly shouted. Everyone stopped and looked back at him, as he stood frozen with his gaze transfixed up the mountain towards the summit.

Each member of the group looked around at Doc then up the slope to the top of the mountain. Not even a breath could be heard coming from the seven.

Doc shot a glance towards Barney. Barney knew the look, the focus of Doc’s eyes. He had seen it before. Doc sensed danger and the hair on the back of Barney’s neck hackled.

“Avalanche!” Doc stated. “Run, Barney, Run!”

They all took off after Barney. Each trying desperately to reach the other side of the bowl before the white death swept them from the face of the earth.

Stephen tripped and stumbled, then fell. Alan dragged him to his feet, and then Jocelyn went down. She got up without any assistance.

They could see the wall of loose snow flying their way and they were trapped directly in its path. It curled up and over much like a wave of water. It was the air in front of the actual avalanche being pushed ahead. It blinded them of the approach of the real danger.

They were all within steps of safety on the other side of the bowl. Suddenly Deanna lost her footing and fell, sliding spread-eagle down the hill nearly twenty feet. Doc changed his direction and rushed to her aid. He pulled her to her feet and half ran and half dragged her to the wall. Barney was there to grab her arms and yank her to safety.

Doc jumped for the wall himself but it was too late. The edge of his snowshoe was caught up in the roaring flow of snow and ice. The sound was deafening, louder than a fighter aircraft preparing for take off.

Doc saw Barney’s mouth open, but he could not hear what he said as suddenly he was swept away.

Doc tumbled viciously head or heels. He felt chunks of ice slam into his body. He lost his ability to recognize up from down. His instinct to survive had kicked in and he recalled his training. He started swimming the backstroke, trying to stay above the snow and ice. His mind raced ahead with the thought, “What if I’m upside down and going backwards?” He just kept swimming as hard as he could.

Suddenly it started to slow down and stop altogether. That was Doc’s signal to try and make a fist with his hands and put them in front of his face. The idea was to create a bubble of air in front of his nose and mouth and hopefully push the snow away from his face so he could breathe. This might increase his chance at survival.

Doc pushed against the snow with all his might. It moved very little. Suddenly he found himself entombed in a silent and cold block of ice.

The cold numbed and blocked out the pain of what he figured was a dislocated hip or broken leg. His left leg was behind him and it felt twisted inward.

Then there was the crushing sensation of the snow as it settled firmly against his chest. It squeezed at him like a vice grip. Still he managed to flex his hands and push against the snow that threatened to close in on his face.

Everything was dark and he could not tell whether he was upside down or right side up. The silence he found himself in was as deafening as the roar of the avalanche. Then he relaxed. Panic had faded from his being and waited for death to take him.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, was the sound he heard.

It was distinctive in the prison of silent cold death. Then Doc heard more and more crunching noise. He immediately recognized it as footsteps.

He started to struggle, pushing harder against the snow that pushed down on his face. Suddenly he saw a bright burst of light across his check bones. His eyes were covered with snow and he was unable to see because of that. However he could tell he was upright and been able to push an opening in the snow.

“Hey!” Doc called out. “Hey! Over here.” He could see shadows moving from side to side and then voices. He was going to survive after all and his friends were going to save him.

Barney lay on his stomach and gently wiped away the snow that had frozen to Doc’s eyelids. “Doc, buddy, speak to me,” he cried out.

Doc tried to blink but it was hard. “Hi ya, Barney, get me out of here. I feel an ice age coming on.”

With that Barney started to laugh as the team pitched in to dig Doc out.

Grandpa had a rodent problem; namely, gophers everywhere in his yard. He was so proud of his yard, but the gophers did not know this. If they had, they would have stayed away.

Now Grandpa was getting pretty up set with the gophers and he set about trying to chase, catch or kill them anyway he could. He tried putting golf balls in their holes. He tried placing rattraps in them at night.

Those never did work except for the time one caught Grandpa’s black lab, Barney on the nose. Grandpa just about woke the entire neighbor hood chasing him around. Barney sure looked funny with that rattrap on the end of his nose. Barney was never quite right after that. If Grandpa snapped a toothpick in half, Barney would head for the high country.

The traps did not work and plugging up their holes did not work either. Grandpa was just about to give up when the next-door neighbor, Mr. Breedon gave him a great idea. Mr. Breedon had read about a way to get rid of gophers back when he was twenty.

The instructions were simple. Mr. Breedon told Grandpa to get a pint of gasoline and a gallon of water, then pour the water down the gopher hole and let it soak in a little. After that Grandpa was told to pour the gasoline down the same hole. All that needed to be done after that was to light the gopher hole on fire. “The gasoline is going to go further down the hole since gas and water don’t mix, Greg.” Mr. Breedon finished.

Grandpa understood. He was going to burn the gophers out.

Grandpa grabbed his walking stick and left out the gate for the gas station down the road. He returned home with a borrowed five gallon can full of gasoline. Then he went straight to work pulling his garden hose out running it down a gopher hole and then turned on the water. He could hear the water gushing down deep inside the ground.

Then Grandpa went inside to have his lunch.

After lunch, Grandpa went out to his tool shed and rummaged around until he found the funnel he used for filling John Popper. John Popper was his old yellow and red tractor that sat in the dairy barn in the pasture.

Grandpa turned off the water and pulled the hose out of the gopher hole. He replaced it with the funnel. Then he slowly poured the gasoline down the hole. The smell of gas was everywhere.

Then he reached deep down into the pocket of his bibbers and pulled out his pipe matches. Grandpa lit it and dropped it into the hole. Nothing happened as Grandpa stood there with both hands in his pockets. He stared at the gopher hole. Still nothing happened.

Grandpa sighed and muttered a couple of cuss words to himself and walked over to the first step of the porch. Barney sat next to him. The dog cocked his head and looked at Grandpa then back at the hole wondering what his master was up to.

Suddenly, Barney’s ears perked up and his eyes grew wide. Then he bolted as a sharp whining noise started. It turned into a shrill whistle and Barney could be heard howling as he headed for the high country.

Ka-pow! Ka-pow! Ka-pow!

Three gopher holes erupted into flame, spitting debris everywhere; fiery chunks of old corncobs, twigs and rock came pouring out of the ground.

There was more whistling and whining. Grandpa thought about following Barney to the high country. But he couldn’t because his beautiful yard was exploding with hot gopher gatherings and burning gopher holes.

Grandpa stomped on one patch of fire after another. He ran from one popping gopher hole to the next. He cussed a blue streak as each new hole spewed forth more fire, smoke and rubble.

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Grandpa was exhausted and confused. Barney was clear to Oregon by then and the yard was a green and brown patch quilt mess.

Then the bone-chilling whine started in again. Ka-pow!

Grandpa was off and stomping. He had never seen a rose explode before; its red petals scattering in the smoky air and landing only to be blown into the air again. This went on from afternoon until early evening.

That night Grandpa sat on the top step of his porch and watched the sun set. He looked over at Barney, who sat very nervously by his side, sigh heavily and shook his head. He wasn’t upset over destroying his yard. He was disgusted that he didn’t have a single gopher to show for all his trouble.

The following day Grandpa left early. He wandered over to Mr. Breedon’s ranch. He wanted to tell him about what happened, but as he entered the gate Grandpa noticed a gopher hole.

My past reached out and bit me in the butt again this week. I could not believe it. I admit that I have not been the best husband in the world. I put that behind me though and changed my life for good. I stopped screwing around and playing the field and all those things that I should not have been doing as a husband.

Admittedly I have had extramarital affairs. I have no excuse for what I did and you can say what you will about me because it is probably true. I refuse to dodge the beating when it is justified.

And I slept with a woman I should not have. I am not the only person she had sex with in this time frame either, but that is another story and yet all apart of the bigger picture.

About three months after our last sexual encounter this woman called me (while I was on the air at KOZZ) and told me she was pregnant. She said it was her deceased husband’s baby (he had died some months earlier due to a heart problem) and that she had it done through in vitro fertilization.

She also told me she was upset because her parents were angry with her for getting pregnant due to her disability which had worsened in the last couple of months. They felt certain she couldn’t care for a baby let alone herself.

As the time for the birth drew near, this same woman told my wife the same story she had told me about having had in vitro fertilization and that the baby was her long-dead husband’s. She also wanted to know if it was okay if I’d be the child’s God-father. I said I would.

When the baby-boy was born at St. Mary’s Hospital, I was one of the only two non-family members to come visit her in the hospital. Later I stood in front of a crowd of several people at a little Catholic church on Pyramid Way and swore that I’d be the ‘spiritual-guidance’ for her son should anything ever happen to his mother.

Within a 2-year period I would find myself moved up from God-father to being accused of being ‘Daddy’ to her child.

This came about after I was notified by a Washoe County Marshal that I was being charged with abandonment and neglect. Then these charges were modified to abuse because the child’s mother had roommates that hit him hard enough to leave bruise and other marks. He had been removed by Child Services from the home and placed in protective custody.

Up until then I was completely unaware that anything was happening with my ‘God-son.’ She never called or anything.

Never in my wildest imaginings did I think I’d get accused of such criminal misdeeds!

Paperwork shot back and forth from the Washoe County District Attorneys Office to myself and I had to go to court where I was fearful that I was going to be forced to go to jail for refusing to give-up my DNA. This is a matter of principle because I hold a birth certificate that says her deceased husband is the father of her child, not me.

And it is signed by her as well as a county Washoe County official on behalf of the State of Nevada.

Aside from her attorney, her parents were there in court with her. Mind you this is a 30-year old woman, whose mom and dad seemingly are holding her hands through this entire event. Plus the father is a Correctional Officer at the Susanville State Penitentiary. I was by myself and I felt very intimidated.

In the end though, that birth certificate turned out to be the deciding factor.

Once I entered that into evidence, the die was cast and her claim fell apart. No amount of glaring or posturing in the courtroom hallways could get beyond that simple piece of paper.

All charges were dropped.

That is until this week when an envelope arrived from San Bernardino County. I knew immediately I was in for another fight. Unfortunately, I knew it wasn’t going to be a fair fight or a simple instant replay.

Here’s the deal: twice in the last 5-months I have received two personal letters from this woman asking me to give up custodial rights to her child, so that her new husband, who is making good money as an engineer, can adopt the boy. The problem is that I have no rights to him and never did, so I realized very quickly that this was a set-up.

A sucker-punch was coming from somewhere and it finally landed in the form of this request for child support payments. I immediately drafted a letter and made a copy of the birth certificate mailed them both to the ‘Support Officer’ in San Bernardino County.

Now all I can do is sit and wait for the next move.

And the reason it isn’t going to be a fair fight is plain: the State of California is so frickin’ liberal that they’ll punch hole in that birth certificate and compel me to take a DNA test. I will refuse to do so of course because it is one of my civil liberties guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.

Besides I am not the ‘Daddy’ to her son. She told me so, she told my wife so and she told Washoe County so.

UPDATE:  In June 2007, I was contacted via registered letter that I was not only being sued for child support by the State of Montana on behalf of Christopher, but that I had to submit to DNA testing at my expense. This also came with a second choice; to sign away all parental-rights.

While I did argue that I had no parental rights in this case as I was never Christopher’s parent, only his God-father, my attorney recommended signing the paperwork and surrendering my ‘rights’ regardless as to no do so would eventually lead to the possibility of bankruptcy. So here I sit — wondering: am I the father of Christopher or am I his God-father?

The question it seems has been rendered moot.