The Old Blog in the Desert

I admit it. I’m feeling homesick for childhood again. Happens every so often, usually when the bees start droning louder than my thoughts and the flag starts flapping just right in the July wind. It’s the kind of homesickness that has nothing to do with a house and everything to do with memory—sweaty knees in the grass, sunburned noses, and the sound of unwrapping popsicles with your teeth.

When I was a kid, the 4th of July wasn’t just about fireworks. Sure, we had the parades and the sparklers, but our little corner of the country had a tradition so wholesome and absurd that I still can’t believe it was real–Cow Chip Bingo.

Now, I can’t tell you what outfit held it. It could’ve been the Rotary Club, the Grange, the Lions, the Elks, or maybe just a few bored dads with too much free time and a fence panel. What I can tell you is that it was genius.

Here’s how it worked–someone would line off a grid in a field—maybe 20 by 20, give or take—and each square had a number. Folks would buy a “deed” to a square for five dollars, which, to my childhood understanding, was about the cost of the world. Once all the squares got sold, they’d turn loose a single, well-fed cow into the grid. Then everyone would wait.

That was the whole thing. You stood around, paper plate of potato salad in one hand, hoping a cow would answer nature’s call squarely on your property.

And let me tell you, there was cheering, with hollering you’d hear at a Little League championship, but instead of runs or home plates, the crowd was rooting for digestion. And when the cow finally picked her plot? Oh, the excitement!

Grown men shouted. Grandmas clapped. Kids pointed and giggled, and one lucky person walked away a hundred dollars richer and slightly queasy.

Now, I never won. Not once.

But I came close—square adjacent. The kind of near miss that had me swearing I could feel the vibration through the grass.

Still, it didn’t matter. The real prize was being there, surrounded by neighbors who brought folding chairs and Jell-O salads, laughing under a sky that seemed to stretch forever.

These days, you can’t get away with that kind of thing without a permit, a handwashing station, and at least three lawyers standing by. But back then? It was pure Americana, smelly and sweet and utterly unforgettable.

Funny what we carry with us. Fireworks fade. Sparklers burn out. But the memory of that cow—placid, unconcerned with the crowd’s anticipation—lingers like the smell of barbecue smoke in a cotton shirt.

So yeah, I’m feeling homesick for childhood. Not the place, but the feeling. The freedom of summer, the gentle absurdity of community, and the hope that, maybe just this once, a cow might make you a winner.

And if not—well, there was always next year.

I don’t remember exactly when I started thinking for myself, but I do remember the first time it got me into trouble.

I was about eight years old, sitting in Catechism next to Jimmy, who smelled like peanut butter and jelly. The teacher was explaining how Jonah had survived three days inside the belly of a whale. She said it was a miracle, and that was that.

Well, I raised my hand and asked, “Did the whale chew him, or just kind of swallow him like an asprin?”

Let’s say Catholics aren’t into speculative marine biology, and thinking out loud became strongly discouraged. That day, I learned two things–whales aren’t fans of digestion details, and grown folks don’t much care for kids who ask too many questions. Especially questions that sound a little too much like common sense.

Fast forward two decades, and not much has changed in that period.

I was working a radio gig—the kind with just enough responsibility to keep you awake but not enough to let you do anything grand. One afternoon, during a meeting, we discussed a new jingle package for the upcoming Nielsen ratings in our tiny market.

I asked, “Has anyone ever thought about just skipping the book?”

You’d have thought I’d suggested we have a sword fight with sharpened #2 pencils.

Here’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young and eager to please– the moment you start thinking for yourself, you become a threat to people who stopped doing it long ago. It’s like showing up at a zombie convention and refusing the brain buffet.

Folks don’t know what to do with you, so they either ignore you or try to get you back in line by quoting policy, scripture, or their Auntie. Now, I’m not saying thinking for yourself makes you smarter. It doesn’t always.

I once attempted to fix a water heater because a YouTube video said I could. That fiasco ended with a minor flood, a burnt forearm, and a plumber who laughed so hard he gave himself hiccups.

But it does make you more awake. It means you notice things—like when someone’s talking in circles, or when a plan makes no sense, or when the Emperor’s got his keister flapping in the wind.

Thinking for yourself is a dangerous business. It gets you booted from Sunday school, banned from bureaucratic meetings, and occasionally scalded.

But it also means you’re living your life and not just renting space in someone else’s brain. So, as for me, I’ll keep asking dumb questions and raising an eyebrow when things smell fishy.

And if that lands me in hot water again, well, at least I’ll be thinking while I’m in it.

When I was seven years old, I wanted to be Muhammad Ali. Not a real boxer, mind you–not like those wiry fellas who could take a punch and keep grinning–but a pretend one.

I blame my Grandpa. He let me watch Ali fight Ernie Terrell on his black-and-white TV one Monday night in February–and by Tuesday morning, I’d already made myself a championship belt using cardboard and aluminum foil.

The only thing missing was an opponent.

That’s where my brother Adam came in. He was three years younger than I, and I convinced him that we should have a title match in the backyard, and he agreed.

Now, I’d like to tell you I trained for that bout, that I ran laps around the yard and shadowboxed in the mirror like Ali. But I mostly just strutted around the house, tripping over my feet.

The day of the big fight arrived. Grandma handed us each a pair of her old crocheted mittens to wear as gloves. That should’ve been my first warning sign. Adam pulled on his with a look of vengeance in his eye while I was still admiring how mine matched my socks.

We squared off. Adam hunched like a bulldog, and I bounced on my toes like a lopsided trampoline. I took one step forward, threw a jab that missed by a foot, and Adam clobbered me right in the stomach.

Now, it wasn’t hard–not even enough to bruise—but it did knock all the wind out of me. I stumbled backward, fell over a tricycle, and lay there blinking up at the clouds, wondering if this was what the end looked like.

I could hear Adam hollering, “I won! I’m the champ!”

And I let him be. I didn’t even get up.

That was the first and last time I ever attempted anything resembling combat sports. My faux-boxing career lasted only 30 seconds, and I hung up my mittens after that.

Later that day, after the swelling in my pride went down, Grandpa sat me on the porch. He didn’t say anything right away—just sat beside me for a while, slow and easy.

Then he said, “Tommy, if you think you’re beaten—you are. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with gloves or jabs or which boy got knocked over a tricycle. Most times, the loss happens long before the first swing.”

That stuck with me.

So, I never boxed again, but I did try out for the track team, ran for class president, and lost, then took up writing stories no one asked for. The thing is, I didn’t stop just because I got knocked back once or twice. I might’ve been beaten that day by my little brother, but I’ve made sure not to lie down so easily since.

Still, now and then, I’ll see a pair of mittens and feel a twinge in memory, and I can’t help but smile.

There’s a sign in our kitchen that reads: “A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.” It was a gift from a cousin, who insists on giving folks decor with sassy sayings, whether they want ‘em or not.

I tried to protest when she handed it to me, but she raised one eyebrow like Grandma used to do, and I knew I’d lost. So now it hangs proudly near the coffee maker, and truth be told, it’s the most honest piece of literature in the whole house.

I’ve never been a “morning person.” At best, I’m a late-morning truce negotiator. At worst, I’m a growling heap wrapped in an old robe and clutching my coffee mug like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

When I worked a regular 9-to-5 job, I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to be presentable by 7 a.m. It wasn’t that I wanted to look good—I didn’t want to frighten small children or end up on someone’s security footage.

Back then, my morning routine was more battlefield prep than peaceful ritual. My alarm goes off. I slap it. The alarm goes off again. I curse the inventor of clocks.

Finally, I stumble out of bed and try to find the kitchen without tripping over the dogs, who insist on sleeping wherever my feet intend to go. Once there, I make a beeline for the coffee pot—assuming, of course, I remembered to set it the night before.

On one unfortunate occasion, I forgot. I stood there, yawning my head off, looking at that emptiness like it had personally betrayed me.

The machine stared back coldly, mocking me with its lack of gurgling. And wouldn’t you know it, that was also the morning the filter decided to clog.

So there I was, standing in my underwear at four a.m., trying to coax a sputtering faucet into filling a pot so I could brew life back into my bones. It’s in those moments that you understand how wars get started.

I’ve tried tea. Folks always suggest it. “Why not try green tea? It’s soothing.”

Sure, maybe for monks and forest creatures. For me, it’s just hot leafy water and false promises. Tea doesn’t whisper sweet nothings to me the way coffee does.

Coffee says, “Hey, you might be tired, grumpy, and aging like an avocado, but you’ve got this.”

Tea says, “You should be wearing yoga pants and journaling your feelings.”

Some folks go all out with their coffee—fancy machines, milk frothers, beans blessed by Peruvian llamas. I’m a simple man and like mine straight-up, hot, and black.

It’s not about taste; it’s about survival. The first cup gets me to coherent speech. A second cup makes me human. That third cup might even get me to go outside and interact with people. Maybe.

So now, each morning, I shuffle into the kitchen, give the sign a bleary glance, pour a cup, turn to the microwave oven, insert my cup, and press the button like I’m launching a mission to Mars. I yawn as I wait.

That first sip? It’s not just coffee—it’s hope. And if that ain’t poetry, I don’t know what is.

Every time I see Randy, he’s wearing a different T-shirt with a smart-aleck saying on it. And I don’t mean just a little “World’s Okayest Golfer” kind of thing. I’m talkin’ full-on philosophy printed in white block letters across a size-too-tight cotton tee that usually looks like it came straight from the bottom of his laundry basket.

Last week, it read, “Sarcasm: Just One of My Many Talents.” And the week before that, “I’m Not Arguing—I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right.” He’s become a walking bumper sticker, only you don’t need a car to get run over by his opinions.

Randy lives down the street and owns exactly two pairs of shorts and 143 T-shirts. I’ve never seen the man in anything with buttons. He swears he hasn’t owned an iron since the Reagan administration. He told me, “Wrinkles add character.” I didn’t ask if he meant shirts or his face.

One day, he showed up at my place wearing a red shirt that read, “I Tried to Be Normal Once. Worst Two Minutes of My Life.” I offered him coffee. He declined and pulled a Red Bull from his pocket like it was a magic trick. “Caffeine is caffeine,” he said, chugging it in two gulps. He crushed the can with one hand, tossed it in my recycle bin, and settled into a lawn chair like he was fixin’ to stay a while.

We sat under the carport, swapping lies about our younger days, and I finally asked, “You got a whole closet of those shirts or do they just multiply when you leave ‘em unattended?”

Randy smiled, pleased with himself. “Oh, I got a system,” he said. “Every time the world annoys me—which is often—I buy a shirt that says what I’m thinkin’ so I don’t have to say it out loud. Saves time. And friendships.”

“Your shirts are doin’ a lot of heavy liftin’ then,” I said, sipping my coffee.

I once asked him if he ever wore anything plain. He blinked like I’d asked if he believed in gravity. “Plain? Why? If I can make someone snort milk through their nose at the grocery store, I’ve done my civic duty.”

Randy considers himself a public service announcement. He’ll walk through town like a parade float, gettin’ honks and laughs. At church, the pastor once had to pause his sermon when he noticed Randy’s shirt said, “Technically, Moses Was the First Person With a Tablet Downloaded From the Cloud.”

He wore one to the DMV that said, “In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised.” That one earned him a side-eye from the woman behind the counter, but even she cracked a smile when he winked.

I suppose we all have our quirks. Mine’s refusing to use the self-checkout. Randy makes people laugh even when they don’t want to. And between the two of us, I think the world might survive a little longer.

Anyway, I saw him yesterday in line at the hardware store. His shirt said, “Some People Age Like Fine Wine. I Age Like Milk.” I nearly dropped my paint roller.

“Lookin’ fresh,” I told him.

He puffed out his chest. “Thanks. Got it on sale. I think the sentiment was free.”

I shook my head. I may not agree with everything Randy says, but I’ll give him this—he never needs to raise his voice. His shirts do the talking.

It was one of those mornings where the coffee maker sputtered like it needed last rites, the dogs decided my boot was breakfast, and I realized too late that I’d put on two different socks—again. I mumbled something unholy and shuffled out the door, figuring if this was the start, the rest of the day might be a dress rehearsal for Judgment.

Now, I ain’t no saint. I’ve had a few too many disagreements with fences, deadlines, and certain bureaucrats to float that high. But–I do talk to God now and then.

Not always on my knees—most times behind the wheel, sometimes staring at the ceiling when sleep refuses to join me. This particular day, I muttered, “Dear God, we could use a little more heaven down here.”

I wasn’t being dramatic. I’d just come from the grocery store, where a lady clipped my heels with her cart and then looked at me like I owed her an apology.

Somewhere between the canned beans and the checkout line, I saw a man arguing with a clerk about expired coupons as if it were a matter of national security. It was just one of those days where everyone seemed two degrees hotter than their patience could handle.

Later, I sat on my front porch bench nursing a bruised heel, a lukewarm coffee, and my faith in humanity. That’s when I saw her—probably seven or eight years old, little red cowboy boots and a face full of determination.

She was holding a popsicle like it was a sword, melting faster than she could manage. In front of her was a pigeon with a bad foot—hobbling around in that sad little lopsided way that pigeons sometimes do.

She bent down, broke off a piece, and set it gently near the bird. “There you go, mister bird,” she whispered, “you look like you’ve had a rough day.”

Now, maybe the bird didn’t understand her, but I sure did. That tiny moment of grace, unnoticed by everyone except me and that broken-footed pigeon, was the kind of heaven I’d been asking for.

And wouldn’t you know it, the universe has a way of doubling down. An elder man—white hair, denim shirt tucked in tight—came by with a broom and dustpan, tidying up the sidewalk like it was his sacred duty.

“City don’t pay me,” he said with a wink, “but I still live here.” I nodded.

We didn’t need to say much more.

So maybe heaven isn’t pearly gates and a choir of angels. Maybe–it’s a kid sharing kindness with a bird or a man taking pride in a clean sidewalk. It might be a stranger holding the door or someone calling to say they miss your voice.

I don’t know much, but I know this–we ain’t short on Hell down here. It’s easy to find—turn on the news or try renewing your license.

But heaven? It’s quieter. It appears in small places, like wildflowers in the cracks of a broken sidewalk.

So, yeah—Dear God, we could use a little more heaven down here. Maybe He already sent it, but we’re just too angry to notice

I reckon I should’ve known better than to open my mouth that day at the diner—the Roadrunner Cafe, right off U.S. 50, with the cracked vinyl booths and that crooked ceiling fan that spins like it’s got arthritis. But I’d just finished my eggs and toast, and something about how the morning light was hitting the Formica made me think about my Uncle Luke and the time he tried to baptize a goat.

So I started telling that story.

Now, I didn’t mean to draw a crowd. But you know how it is in a small town like Dayton—if there’s laughter floating out of a booth, people start drifting over like moths to a porch light.

I told it like I always do—not fancy, not fast. Just plain and steady, like I was whittling a stick.

I told them about Uncle Luke’s home-rigged livestock trough, the old hymnal blowing in the wind, and the goat, whose opinion was unconsulted. Folks laughed until they cried, and a few snorted.

One man shook his head and said, “You ever think about writing that stuff down?”

That’s when it hit me.

See, it’s not that the stories themselves are all that earth-shattering. Half of them are more about the way things felt than they went. Maybe Uncle Luke didn’t sing “Shall We Gather at the River” while wearing his Sunday suspenders, but in my mind, that’s how it always plays.

The goat? It might’ve been a sheep. Doesn’t matter. The feeling’s true.

There’s something about telling a story how you remember it—and not how it happened, but how it settled in your bones. Folks respond to that.

Not because they had a goat or an Uncle Luke, but because they had something like it. Maybe it was a neighbor with a lawnmower that only started on Tuesdays–or a grandma who used Vicks VapoRub for everything from bee stings to heartbreak.

And when you tell it plain, like you’re sitting on a porch snapping peas or shucking corn, people lean in. They recognize the rhythm, the smell, the sound of it.

That’s why I keep writing this way. Not for applause. Not for clicks. But because these little stories—about stubborn chickens and misfiring tractors and granddads who told tall tales—they mean something.

They remind us who we are.

In a world where everything’s sped up and slicked down, this kind of storytelling is like an old quilt—faded in places, patched in others, but warm and hand-stitched. It’s got character. It lets people rest, imagine, and maybe see themselves in the story.

So yeah, I write it this way because it’s honest, even if the facts are fuzzy. It’s friendly, even if the subject’s tough. And it’s mine, even if I hand it over to you.

And if you stick around long enough, I’ll tell you the one about Ma Sanders, her prize-winning pumpkin pie, and the bear with a sweet tooth and no sense of danger.

But that’s another story.

My dogs are in cahoots–and not just with each other–no, sir–they’re in league with the weather, gravity, and some ancient, cosmic trickster spirit that gets its kicks watching me try to maintain my rural dignity.

We live in the scratchy outskirts of Reno/Sparks, where the wind comes free with every sunrise and leaves with most of your lawn furniture. Last night’s storm was a classic—trees bending like ol’ men in a pew, fence boards clapping together like gossiping church ladies, and a trash can lid that made it halfway to Elko before dawn.

So there I was this morning, doing what any decent man does after a gale–trying to make it look like nothing happened. I was out back gathering broken branches–some big enough to call “kindling,” others small enough to stick in a scarecrow’s mouth. The sun was poking through the clouds, casting a golden light on the sagebrush and leftover chaos, and I was knee-deep in pine needles, bird complaints, and misplaced ambition.

And there, stretched out on the patio like sunbathing aristocrats, were my two dogs. They weren’t helping, of course. They were watching like judges in a reality show for the recently henpecked.

I swear, they were whispering to each other, muzzles pressed close.

“Look at him,” Buddy probably said. “Out there flailing around like he knows what he’s doing. You think the female human told him to do this?”

And Honey, with her tail doing that soft little tick-tick-tick, nodded solemnly like, Oh yes, this is the human version of chewing a squeaky toy.

They were grinning too, eyes half-closed, like old gamblers who know how the hand will play out.

I don’t believe in omens, but I do believe in timing. It’s why I should’ve known something was up when I took one step backward and felt that unmistakable squelch under my heel. Warm. Fresh. Direct hit.

And before I could even mutter a decent curse, both dogs sprang to life like shot-out jackrabbits. Bolted inside the house and turned to face me through the sliding glass door, their tails wagging in sync like a couple of furry metronomes. Honey whined like a high note in a gospel song, and Buddy did that bouncy shuffle dogs do when they’re either excited or feeling smug.

They were mocking me. I know it. If dogs could talk, they wouldn’t use words. They’d use moments like this.

I’ve learned not to hold grudges, not against dogs, anyway. They’ve seen me in all my unfiltered glory—dropping barbecue tongs into the coals, trimming the wrong side of the hedge, wearing socks with my sandals “just this once.”

They don’t judge. They giggle with their tails.

And maybe that’s the point. You can plan all you want, rake your branches into tidy little piles, and pretend you control your morning. But sometimes, life hands you a windstorm, a fresh pile of mischief, and a couple of companions who know exactly where to leave it.

The trick, I think, is learning to laugh with them–once you’ve cleaned your boot off, of course.

I was between jobs–a phrase that sounds fancier than it feels, like calling a mud puddle a seasonal pond. My days had the rhythm of a scratched-up record–wake up, brush teeth, tie on the good boots, and march out with my clipboard like some wandering census taker of disappointment.

This clipboard, mind you, was not ordinary. It had character.

Dings on the corners, a crack on the side from when I slipped on black ice, a deep stain where a pen once exploded like it had given up, and another where I blocked the projectile of a spitting llama. I used it to fill out applications and collected scribbled notes like who I’d talked to, what they’d said, and what they hadn’t.

It gave me an air of preparedness. Confidence, even. Like I was somebody going somewhere. Turns out I was only going in circles.

Now, in a small town, your business ain’t yours alone. It’s more like shared property, like the church lawn or the gossip around Aunt Madge’s Thursday evening quilting circle.

So it didn’t surprise me much when I walked into radio station KCRE–and Jerry Yarberry, the station manager, was waiting with his half-empty mug and a raised eyebrow. Jerry looked like someone had wrapped a scarecrow in polyester and taught it sarcasm.

His office smelled like old records and pipe tobacco, though he hadn’t smoked since ’67. He waved me in with a kind of reluctant amusement–like he’d just invited a raccoon into his kitchen and was curious what I might do–and offered me a cup of coffee and a seat.

“So, you’re still carrying that clipboard,” he said.

I nodded. “Gives me purpose.”

He leaned back in his chair, which groaned like it had opinions.

“Tom,” he said, not unkindly, “that clipboard is starting to look like armor you put on so folks don’t see the bruises underneath.”

I blinked. “It’s just for applications.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, setting his mug down with finality. “It’s a shield. And it’s starting to whisper things about you, you don’t want whispered–like maybe you’re afraid you have nothing to offer.”

That stung. The truth often does. It sits in your stomach like cold beans and waits for the gas to kick in.

He smiled then, softening. “I’m not saying you’re not worth a damn. I’m saying you don’t have to look like you’re trying to prove you are. Put the clipboard down so folks finally see the person holding it.”

I ended that day without a job but with both hands, free. It felt strange, like walking barefoot after a long winter in boots. Vulnerable, but honest.

A week later, I landed a gig at Bistrin’s Clothing store. Barry said he liked how I looked him in the eye. I thought about telling him the clipboard but decided some things are better left unsaid.

Still, I kept the clipboard. It’s on my book now, next to a tangle of extension cords and a box marked “papers.” Now and then, I think about Jerry and the brotherly way he pointed out I was using a slab of particle board to hold up my self-worth.

Sometimes advice sounds feels like someone’s poking holes in your pride when they’re just trying to let the light in.