Category: random

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.

There are easier ways to spend a three-day holiday than wandering around the backcountry in winter, but at the time, that did not occur to me. The trip had been my idea—mine and Chris’s—and when a man helps plan a thing, he generally believes it will turn out well.

Seven of us from the Air Force hospital in Cheyenne had driven nearly four hundred miles into the mountains. Most of the group worked together in one way or another. Chris and I had organized the outing because we both liked cold weather and the outdoors, which in hindsight might have been the first warning sign.

The others were an assortment of medical staff who had decided a little mountain air would do them good.

Linda was from Texas and had something to say about nearly everything she saw. Alan came from Ohio and had never been anywhere quite this isolated. Blair and Steve worked together in the doctor’s office and insisted they were not a couple, though nobody believed that for a second. Edward had previously served at a remote post in Alaska and seemed entirely comfortable with the wilderness. Jocelyn had grown up in the Cascades of Washington State and handled the mountains better than most of us.

We reached the park late the first afternoon after stopping every few miles to admire the scenery. By the time we arrived at the cabin, the sun was already lowering behind the peaks.

The place was a steep-roofed A-frame built so snow wouldn’t pile up on it. According to the brochure, it slept ten people comfortably, which meant seven of us and a mountain of gear fit just fine.

That first evening, Alan produced a tiny television and tried to tune in a station from Denver. The screen flickered weakly while the rest of us gathered around it like cavemen discovering electricity.

“I thought this place had electricity,” Alan said.

I shook my head. “Rustic,” I told him. “That means no electricity and no running water.”

The room went quiet.

Blair planted both hands on her hips. “What do you mean no running water?”

Chris pointed toward the back door. “Bathroom’s out there.”

Blair opened the door to inspect the outhouse and immediately got buried under a small avalanche of powder snow that fell in on her. She stood there blinking while the rest of us laughed ourselves silly.

The next morning, we set out to explore.

Chris took the lead because he knew the area better than the rest of us. I brought up the rear, keeping an eye on the group. We stayed about ten feet apart as we crossed a broad field of crusted snow beneath a glacier.

It was one of those clear mountain days when the sky looks like polished glass and every sound carries for miles.

“Never realized how quiet it could be,” someone said.

“Or how cold,” someone else answered.

Everyone laughed.

Linda glanced back at me. “Sure is pretty up here,” she said. “Ain’t got nothing like this in Texas.”

From the front, Chris shouted back, “Hey now—don’t be putting Texas down like that. We’ve got other things. Like the most beautiful women.”

That earned another round of laughter.

We continued up the slope, stopping now and then to rest and take pictures. The air grew thinner as we climbed, and the snow under our shoes made that steady crunching sound that follows a person through winter mountains.

Then something bothered me.

At first, I couldn’t say what it was. Maybe the wind had shifted. Maybe the mountain sounded wrong.

I stopped and listened harder.

“Quiet!” I called.

Everyone turned to look at me.

I was staring up toward the summit. The hair on the back of my neck had started to rise, and that is a feeling a man learns not to ignore.

Chris looked back at me. He knew that look.

“Avalanche,” I said.

Then louder: “Run, Chris! Run!”

Everyone bolted.

We were crossing a wide snow bowl, and the only safety was the far side, where the slope flattened out. Behind us, the mountain came alive.

Stephen tripped and fell. Alan hauled him up again. Jocelyn slipped next but managed to scramble back to her feet.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw the white wall racing toward us. First came the wind and loose powder blasting ahead of it like smoke before a train.

We were almost to safety when Linda suddenly slipped. She slid down the slope nearly twenty feet.

Without thinking, I changed direction and ran toward her.

I grabbed her arm, hauled her upright, and dragged her toward the edge where Chris was already reaching down.

He grabbed her and pulled her up.

Then I jumped for the edge myself.

I almost made it.

The edge of my snowshoe caught the avalanche just as it slammed into us. The noise was unbelievable—louder than a jet preparing for takeoff.

I saw Chris shout something, but I couldn’t hear him.

Then the mountain swallowed me.

I tumbled violently through snow and ice. Up and down stopped meaning anything. I remembered my avalanche training and began swimming on my back, trying to stay near the surface.

One thought kept running through my head.

What if I’m upside down?

I kept swimming anyway.

After what felt like forever, everything began to slow. The snow packed tighter around me. I clenched my fists and shoved them in front of my face, trying to create a pocket of air before it all hardened.

Then everything stopped.

I was buried solid.

My chest felt squeezed by the weight of the snow. One leg twisted painfully behind me, and I suspected it might be broken or dislocated. It was pitch dark, and I couldn’t even tell whether I was right side up.

The silence was worse than the avalanche.

Eventually, the panic drained away. I figured that was probably the end of the story.

Then I heard something.

Crunch.

Another crunch.

Footsteps.

I pushed harder against the snow around my face until a small burst of light broke through.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Over here!”

A moment later, I felt hands brushing snow from my face. Chris was lying flat on the surface, clearing the ice from my eyelids.

“Tom!” he yelled. “Talk to me!”

I blinked, though it hurt.

“Hiya, Chris,” I croaked. “Get me out of here. I think an ice age is starting.”

Chris started laughing right then and there.

And the rest of the crew began digging me 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.

I will never again tell anybody about the fact that I have read the entire set of Little House on the Prairie books. I am being teased like crazy over it and I am about ready to explode.

It was my third grade teacher who first read one of those books to me and then I was in the fifth grade when that teacher read the second book to the class. I have like them ever since.

Deirdre actually got the set from her Godmother, Mrs. Damm, who is also the same person who was my third grade teacher. She put them out in the rumpus room and they nearly got tossed out. I grabbed them up and

I have set in the barn where I sleep.

For me Laura Ingle Wilder has been kind of an inspiration on how to write in a very simple form. She keeps her word descriptions in a way that are understandable.   Her conversations are short and to the point and you don’t have to reread something catch what she meant.

But I swear, having told my English class this was a mistake.   They lau.ghed like I was some sort of fool and that’s exactly how I felt.  I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I am just afraid that this is something I will never be able to teach myself.