The Old Blog in the Desert

When I was a kid, I thought church was about pinching my brother when Mom wasn’t looking and trying to stay awake through the preacher’s third use of the word “righteousness.” We’d sit in the third pew on the left side, the wood worn smooth from decades of fidgeting kids, behind Mrs. Lacy and her hat collection that could’ve rivaled a Vegas showgirl’s.

But that summer, something strange happened—something none of us forgot, not even Old Man Holloway, who’d forgotten most everything else, including his wedding anniversary three years in a row.

Someone decided to have a sunrise revival service at Miller’s Pond. The preacher said it’d help us connect with nature and the Lord. I think it was mostly to give us a break from the sweltering sanctuary where the fans moved the air with the enthusiasm of a napping cat.

So we all showed up before the rooster did, dragging lawn chairs, thermoses of weak coffee, and enough bug spray to deforest a jungle. Mama wore her blue dress with the white daisies that made her sneeze if she stood too close to herself.

Now, what no one accounted for was the goat.

Clarence was his name, and he belonged to Mr. Luther Dale, a wiry bachelor who’d been trying to train Clarence to pull a wagon for reasons known only to Luther and possibly Clarence. Luther claimed Clarence had “potential,” though most folks suspected he had brain damage from the time he tried to headbutt a moving Ford truck.

The revival had just hit full stride. Brother Mallory was reading from the Book of Acts in a tone that suggested fire, brimstone, and indigestion. The sun peeked over the pines, setting the pond aglow like God Himself had shown up with a flashlight.

And that’s when Clarence made his entrance.

He came trotting out of the trees, flopping ears, beard swinging like a professor with somewhere to be. Then he spotted the preacher and thought the pulpit—a plywood crate with a cloth over it—was a challenge.

Clarence charged.

Brother Mallory yelped and leaped aside, losing his place in Scripture and dignity. Clarence climbed atop the crate and stood there, regal as a mountaintop prophet, tail twitching in approval.

Nobody knew what to do. And for thirty seconds, we just sat there, mouths open, while Clarence surveyed his flock.

Then Luther–mortified beyond words, came sprinting from the tree line, slipped on a patch of wet grass, and slid face-first into the pond. His hat floated after him like it had second thoughts.

The goat sneezed.

We never really got back on track that morning. But something about it stuck with me.

Maybe it was how the morning mist lifted or the sound of laughter rising where scolding should’ve been. Mama said later that maybe Clarence had the Holy Spirit–and was a little confused about how to share it.

Brother Mallory didn’t think it was funny, but he had to admit the turnout the coming Sunday was more than usual. Folks came hoping for a sequel.

There wasn’t one.

Clarence retired from public ministry and returned to pulling Luther’s wagon full of squash to the farmer’s market. He never climbed another pulpit, but he’d earned a kind of reverence around town.

And I suppose that sometimes the unexpected is exactly what we need. The Good Book might not mention goats with a calling, but I reckon God’s got a sense of humor–and maybe even a soft spot for a goat named Clarence.

“Movement, eleven o’clock,” a voice called out.

“Got it,” replied our SAW gunner.

A short burst from his weapon dropped the target.

“Cease fire, you bastards!” a familiar voice shouted.

“Tony, that you?”

“Yeah.”

Scrambling forward, staying low, I feared the worst. Instead of bullet wounds, Tony had shattered both ankles.

“Why didn’t you signal you were hurt? The guys would’ve hauled you back.”

“Didn’t want to be a burden… Hey, Darb, look over there.”

I glanced back—figures moved through the trees.

“That’s Bravo, don’t sweat it.”

“They change uniforms or something?”

I looked again.

“Shit.”

Creeping forward for a better view, I tried to count their numbers. They spotted me.

Bullets tore through the trees as I fired back. Sprinting to Tony, I hoisted him over my shoulder and bolted for our perimeter.

An RPG screamed past, knocking me down with its blast.

“Get off my fucking legs!” Tony yelled, then grinned through the pain. “Jesus, some rescuer you are.”

He laughed as I pulled him to safety.

Late afternoon-early evening. I had wandered up the hill west of the house and settled into the scrub to take in the view of Spanish Springs Valley. It hadn’t always looked like this—so crowded, so filled in. Once, there had been more open land than rooftops.

Somewhere nearby, I heard the sharp yips of coyotes.

Unconcerned, they don’t usually bother with people. But within minutes, four—maybe five—of them appeared, silent and sure-footed, approaching from the brush.

My pulse quickened as they circled, sniffing the air, sniffing me. I stayed still, not daring to move. I figured any sudden gesture might startle them—and I didn’t care to get bit.

But after a moment’s cautious inspection, they settled. One sat beside me, another just ahead, and the rest lingered on the edges. Together, we watched the lights in the valley come on, one by one, as dusk wrapped the world in shadow.

Then, as quietly as they’d come, the coyotes rose and slipped away, vanishing into the deepening night.

I stood up slowly, legs stiff, back aching. Then I walked home, the hillside behind me, and something wild flickered beneath my skin.

There’s winter, and there’s spring. Then there’s whatever is in between–something I like to call The Lying Season. It’s when the sun comes out just long enough to convince you you’re splitting wood no more, and then come morning, you’re waking to sleet slapping your kitchen window like a used car salesman trying to sell you the jalopy you just got rid of.

I reckon my body’s as honest a barometer as any. The joints in my hands, particularly the knuckles on the right, sing out like a choir of rusted screen doors whenever a cold front’s considering dropping in. My lower back–courtesy of two breaks—gets twisted up like barbed wire anytime the air pressure shifts. It’s like my personal Doppler radar, except it doesn’t beep or flash–it just hurts.

Now, I can handle a solid winter. Give me a clear-cut season with snow stacked like birthday cakes on the fenceposts, and I’ll dress for it, fire the stove, and make peace with the ache.

Springtime, I can prepare for too–mud, frogs hollering in the ditch, and every blade of grass trying to outgrow the other. What I can’t get used to is the in-between curse.

Yesterday was a prime example. I stepped outside in the morning, warm enough to ditch the long johns. Birds were chirping, my neighbor’s rooster was already crowing like he was running for mayor, and the air had that hopeful smell to it–like wet dirt and green things just thinking about poking through. By lunch, I’d hung up my coat, put on a light flannel, and thought about airing out the camper.

By three o’clock, the wind kicked up outta nowhere, dropped the temperature fifteen degrees, and drove a curtain of hail sideways across the pasture like a gang of angry marbles. I watched my laundry—yes, foolishly hung on the line–turn into ice flags, flapping stiffly in the wind like frozen surrender.

Even the free-range horses are no help this time of year. During the in-between weeks, they’re as moody as the sky. They swish their tails like summer’s here, then hunker like they’re expecting a blizzard.

I’ve realized–slowly, painfully, and after many failed attempts to guess the weather based on how much I’m limping–that this season is like life–unpredictable, messy, and best approached with humor and a good hat. You can holler about it, keep a coat by the door, aspirin in the drawer, and laugh when your socks freeze stiff on the clothesline.

Eventually, spring will settle in for real. The frogs will keep croaking past sunset, the grass will need mowing twice a week, and my joints will ease up just enough to make me forget how mad I got at the weather in between. Until next year, of course.

But that’s just how it goes. So, I make peace with the pain, bet against the sky, and watch the horses–even if they don’t know what in the hail they’re doing.

The gunfire erupts like a storm, a deafening roar that swallows everything else. Bullets snap past, tearing into the dirt and stone around us.

Flat on my stomach, my heart hammering when I see Rodriguez—our radio operator—slump forward, his headset dangling, blood pooling beneath him. Bastards gone, just like that, in the opening seconds of this hell.

There’s no time to think.

The radio’s still crackling, a lifeline in the chaos. I scramble over, grabbing the radio, my hands slick with sweat and dirt. Marines are already moving, shouting, returning fire—doing what they do, keeping the edge.

I fumble with the handset, pressing it to my ear. Static hisses, then a voice cuts through, calm and steady, like it’s coming from another planet. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, this is Overwatch. Sitrep, over.”

My throat’s dry, but I force the words out. “Overwatch, this is—” I hesitate, realizing I’m not even sure what to call myself. I’m not the radio guy. I’m just a grunt who picked up the damn thing. “This is Alpha. Rodriguez is down. We’re taking heavy fire, cut off, enemy’s everywhere. Need support, now!”

Around me, Marines are in motion.

Staff Sgt. Callahan’s barking orders, directing fire toward the tree line where the muzzle flashes light up the dusk. Pvt. Lopez is dragging a wounded man behind a shattered wall, his M16 still slung across his back.

They’re fighting like hell, holding the line, but the enemy’s closing in, shadows weaving through the smoke. Surrounded–and it’s only a matter of time before they overrun us.

“Copy, Alpha,” the voice on the radio says, cool as ice. “Can you mark your position? Need to confirm friendlies.”

“No clear lines!” I shout, ducking as a round ping off the rock beside me.

“Friendlies and enemies are mixed, all over! Perimeter’s collapsing—Charlie’s getting hammered!”

I glance toward Charlie Company’s position, maybe 200 meters off. Screams and gunfire tell me they’re in deep shit. Bravo’s holding, barely, but Alpha’s taking the brunt of it right here.

“Pop smoke!” I yell to Callahan, who’s laying down suppressive fire with a SAW.

He nods, grabs a smoke grenade, and hurls it toward the open ground. Purple haze billows up, but it’s not enough. The enemy’s too close–the smoke’s just a beacon for both sides.

“Overwatch, smoke’s out, but it’s a mess!” I say into the radio. “We need air support, now! They’re on top of us!”

My voice cracks, but I don’t care. I can hear the enemy’s shouts, their boots crunching closer. We’re running out of time.

“Roger, Alpha. Stand by for air. Confirm your position, 315 degrees, 150 meters out?” the voice asks.

I glance at my compass, hands shaking. “Yeah, 315, 150! They’re advancing north, right at us!” I yell.

The ground shakes as an explosion rips through the tree line—too close. I flinch, praying it’s not our own arty going wide.

“We’re stacking BLs from 7,000 feet,” I say.

“Hold tight.” returns the icy voice.

Then, like an out-of-body experience, I hear myself say, “Broken Arrow.”

Broken Arrow. The words hit like a punch. It’s the call you never want to make–it means we’re goners unless the sky saves us. I swallow hard, looking at the Marines around me—Callahan, Lopez, the others—fighting, moving, keeping that edge. Charlie’s screams are fainter now, and I know what’s coming if I don’t act.

“Say again, Alpha?”

“Overwatch, this is Alpha,” I say, my voice steadying. “Broken Arrow. I say again, Broken Arrow. We’re overrun. Confirm Broken Arrow!”

The radio goes quiet for a heartbeat, then, “Broken Arrow confirmed. Hold the line, Alpha.”

I drop the handset for a second, grabbing my rifle to fire a burst at a shadow darting through the smoke. Callahan’s reloading, Lopez is back in the fight, and the others are shifting positions, keeping the enemy guessing. They’re warriors, every one of them, and I’m now just the guy with the radio, and I may have just condemned them to death.

The first jets scream overhead, a sound like the heavens tearing open. The radio crackles. “707 attacking tree line, 315 degrees. Stay low, Alpha.”

“Get down!” I bellow, and we hit the dirt as the naps falls.

The world explodes—fire, smoke, and deafening blasts rip through the enemy’s advance. The shockwave slams into me, and I grip the radio like it’s all I’ve got.

“Overwatch, keep ’em coming!” I shout, my voice raw. “Charlie, Bravo, Alpha—report in!” I don’t know if they’ll answer, but I know we’re still here, still fighting.

Weeks later, back at the FOB, the brass reviewed the engagement, piecing together the chaos. They know I called Broken Arrow, know it saved Alpha, Bravo, and what remained of Charlie.

In another world, an act like that—stepping up, taking the radio, bringing the sky down on the enemy—might’ve earned a medal or a promotion. But I didn’t follow the chain of command. I was a grunt, not the radio operator, not the officer in charge. I bypassed protocol and acted on instinct, and while it worked, the Corps doesn’t reward breaking rank.

There’s no punishment or court-martial—they can’t dispute the lives saved, but there’s also no recognition, just a nod from Callahan, a quiet “Good job” from Lopez, and the chance to live and fight another day.

That’s enough and has to be.

My Cousin Elmo says, “My wife says she’s proud of me after I came home from the bar sober. I don’t have the heart to tell her it was a salad bar.”

I woke up this morning, shuffled past the coffee pot that don’t perk quite right anymore, and stared into the face of my past—plastered all over the walls like a museum curated by a sentimental raccoon.

There’s an old Polaroid of Gerald “Tooth” Miller from when he tried to start a canoe rental business on Johnson’s pond. That lasted two weeks, tops. Turns out canoes sink when you patch them with duct tape and optimism.

Tooth always smiled like he knew something you didn’t, which usually meant he’d done something he shouldn’t. But I liked that about him. I still do, wherever he is–probably in Arizona. Or jail.

Right next to that hangs the lopsided oil painting I made of my dog, Roxy, in ’05. It was a birthday gift for a friend, but they took one look at it and said Roxy looked like a goat with mange, and that was that.

That’s when it hit me. My house is a shrine to memories nobody else remembers. I started pacing, slow at first, then with a purpose.

Each wall told a story. Each shelf groaned under the weight of objects that meant nothing to anyone but me.

A taxidermied bass I caught with Uncle Adam the day he got electrocuted by a fence he didn’t see comin’. A cracked teacup from Aunt Barbara’s cabinet, which she swore was used by Eleanor Roosevelt—though it’s more likely it came free with a bag of flour.

I felt something low in my gut, like an old worm that had slept too long in the dirt. You know that feeling.

The one that says: what’s all this for?

Not in a sad way, but in a way that asks whether you’re the man you set out to be or just a man who collected a lot of junk on the way.

I pictured dragging one of those big metal haul bins up next to the porch, maybe spray-painted orange, so the neighbors knew something serious was happening. I’d open the window and start chucking out all of it.

The broken clock that never ticks. The letters written to me. The high school yearbooks. I imagine the satisfying clatter as it all landed. Lightened.

But then I thought about the worm again.

He’s a stubborn old thing. It lives deep, likes the dark, but always stirs when there’s movement.

He’s the part of me that keeps scratching at the surface, that still believes a good story is worth telling, even if only to myself. He’s the one who says, “Don’t toss it yet. There’s a memory in that mess that still needs finishing.”

So I sat down and had a bagel with cream cheese—the good kind with sesame seeds.

Outside, the morning light curled over the fields like an old dog settling in for a nap. Everything looked just as it should.

And inside, the clutter stayed. Not because I couldn’t part with it. But because it’s not junk. It’s the trail of breadcrumbs back to who I’ve been.

Maybe someday I will rent that bin. But not today.

Today, the worm lives.

The squad had been without coffee for a grueling 14 days, pounding through the dense trails of Central America in pursuit of the Hot Sauce Gang—code for the elusive Sandinistas who seemed to haunt every border from Nicaragua to Honduras. Our chase was relentless, and the absence of caffeine made each step heavier.

It was late afternoon when the four of us—me, Hawk, Rico, and Snipe—spotted a villa nestled into a hillside, shrouded by thick jungle brush and towering mahogany trees. Signaling the Skipper, a Captain, he gave the order to secure the building. That meant kicking in doors and sweeping room by room for threats, a task that set every nerve on edge.

The villa was a ghost house. Dust coated the furniture, and the air smelled of stale time. Whoever had lived here had fled weeks before the U.S. Marines came crashing through their world.

While the rest of the 13-man squad fanned out to lock down the hillside, Hawk, Rico, and I rummaged through the villa for intel, supplies, or otherwise. We tore through drawers and cabinets, finding nothing of value until we hit the kitchen.

A large pantry–stocked with dry goods, rice, beans, and stale crackers, but not a single grain of coffee. I was about to curse our luck when I turned and saw it—a 32-cup coffee percolator still plugged into the wall like a forgotten relic.

The villa had no electricity, and the percolator contents were as dead as the house. I pried open the lid and peered inside. A thick layer of green-gray mold floated on the surface of the ancient brew, the liquid beneath it black as tar.

Rico wrinkled his nose. “That’s a biohazard,” he said, but I wasn’t about to let a little fuzz stand between me and coffee.

So I grabbed a spoon, skimmed off the mold, and poured the dark liquid into a large saucepan I’d found in a cupboard. Outside, I scrounged a pinch of C-4, rolled it into a small ball, and set it on the ground.

With a flick of my lighter, the C-4 ignited, burning hot and steady. I balanced the saucepan over the flame, and soon, the coffee got to bubbling and sending up a rich, bittersweet aroma that cut through the jungle air.

The smell hit the squad like a siren’s call. Heads turned. Boots shuffled closer.

Before I could blink, every man Jack in the platoon, including the Skipper, was crowding around with canteen cups outstretched. Carefully, I poured out the steaming brew, cautious not to mention its questionable origins.

Cups got lifted, Grunts sipped, then grinned.

“Best damned coffee I ever tasted,” someone declared, smacking his lips.

Rico nodded, his eyes half-closed in bliss. Even the Skipper, usually stone-faced, grunted his approval.

Not a soul suspected the coffee had been a moldy stew just minutes before. As the squad savored their cups, the villa felt less like a warzone and more like a fleeting haven.

And for a moment, the Hot Sauce Gang could wait. We had coffee, and that was victory enough.

You ever have one of those days, where the wind feels like it’s got a grudge against you? Like maybe it was a cousin of yours in another life that you wronged somehow—stole his girlfriend or dented his Ford Fairlane—and now he’s come back as a Western Nevada gust bent on payback. That’s the kind of wind we had today.

I had every intention of heading down to Yerington this morning. Figured I’d take the camera, maybe catch the early light playing hopscotch across the tin roofs and hay fields. But the clouds rolled in like drunks at closing time, and the thunder—well, let’s just say it had a kind of ‘old man with opinions’ quality. Loud. Unapologetic. Full of static.

Still, I was feeling productive last night, and for reasons known only to me and possibly the ghost of my grandfather, I decided to go out after work and pick up all the deadfall in the yard. I should’ve known better. When the desert wants to hand you a test, it doesn’t call ahead.

So this morning I watched from the living room window as everything I gathered and stacked neatly by the side fence turned into airborne projectiles, tumbling like gymnasts across the property. There went the cottonwood limbs, bits of juniper, and, unless my eyes deceived me, a plastic garden gnome I swear I never bought. I suppose he’s someone else’s problem now.

In moments like that, when the world insists on being unpredictable, I sit still and think about my life. Which, admittedly, I do anyway. Thinking about the past is cheaper than therapy and requires less small talk.

As I inch toward retirement this August, I’ve been doing a lot of inventory. Not just the physical kind, though Lord knows I’ve got enough stuff stacked in my office to open a halfway decent museum dedicated to strange careers. But the mental kind, too. The big questions are: What have I done? What haven’t I? Did any of it matter?

I mean, I’ve been a stuntman, stand-in, sketch artist, cowboy, and paramedic and a firefighter. I rode shotgun on news stories no one remembers and sat in war zones that history hasn’t figured out how to classify. I’ve been told I wasn’t experienced enough to be hired and then told I was too experienced to be affordable. Somewhere in between those two lies the sweet spot where dignity lives, but I’ll be damned if I ever found it.

And now here I sit—surrounded by paintings, photographs, old uniforms, and enough notebooks to build a log cabin if I ever ran out of firewood. Part of me looks around and thinks, What’s it all for? The other part starts mentally pricing a haul-away bin and wonders how far I could throw my past if I tried.

But I don’t throw it away. Not today. Because deep down, I know something I forget too often: that everything I’ve done, all these odd jobs and strange turns, weren’t just filler between paychecks. They were my way of shaking hands with the world.

Even now, in the quiet that follows a thunderstorm and the chaos of a bad wind, I remember that being a witness—being there—matters. Even if nobody claps. Even if the medal never comes. Even if the only thanks is from a dog who liked how you smelled after a brush fire.

So I pour another cup of coffee, listen to the wind rattling around the porch like it owns the place, and wait. Maybe tomorrow’s the day I go to Yerington. Maybe not. Either way, I’ll write it down, because that’s what I do when I can’t do anything else. I turn on the computer, pull up the keyboard, and try to listen through the noise of my mind.

And sometimes I want to ask: can you hear my pain?

As a boy, I could climb any tree you pointed at and run for miles without thinking about what I was running from or to. I just ran.

Fast as a barn cat on a moonless night, flatfooted and howling with the wind. These days, I steady myself before I fart, and if I sneeze too hard, I gotta sit down and reintroduce myself to the world.

But I wasn’t always like this. There was a time—Lord, there was a time—when my legs were like spring coils, and I thought gravity was just a suggestion.

One hot June afternoon, when every day stretched out like a new frontier, and chores were just speed bumps between adventures, I decided to race a squirrel. Not on purpose, mind you. I’d just finished hauling feed sacks with Grandpa out to the shed, my shirt stuck to me like wet newspaper, and I was halfway through a Mason jar of ice water when I saw the squirrel.

He was a fat one. Not fat like store-bought chicken fat, but solid.

Thick through the haunches, like he’d been lifting acorns for sport. He’s perched up on the old apple tree that leaned east like it was listening to Nevada, and he was eyeing me like I’d interrupted something private.

Now, I don’t rightly know what came over me—maybe it was the water, the ice, or just the sheer dumb thrill of being twelve—but I locked eyes with that squirrel, set my jar down, and hollered, “You’re on!” even though he hadn’t said a word.

Off we went—him, zigzagging, like dodging sniper fire, and me, arms pumping, legs flying, my sneakers flapping like loose tongues. He bolted down the tree, tail flicking like Morse code, and tore across the yard toward the fence line.

I was close. Real close.

I hurdled over Grandma’s herb bed–crushed the dill, but it never held it against me–and shot past the rusted-out washing machine she used as a tomato cage. The squirrel juked left, and I followed. He went right—I tried.

I don’t remember the exact moment I lost him. He vanished somewhere between the woodpile and the old scarecrow.

But I do remember the moment I lost my footing. My right shoe caught something—might’ve been a root or my pride—and I went sprawling like a sack of flour.

I landed face-first in a clover patch, buzzing with bees and smelling faintly of manure and sunshine. I laid there a good while, breathing hard, grass in my teeth, trying to piece together what happened.

After a bit, I heard the screen door creak. Grandma leaned out, apron on, her hair pinned up in a bun she used for baking and battle.

“You alright, Tommy?” she called.

“I was racing a squirrel,” I mumbled.

Long pause. “Did you win?”

“No, ma’am.”

Another pause. “Then, come in and wash up.”

I learned something that day, though it took a few decades to sink in–sometimes you chase things for the joy of the chase, not because you’re gonna catch them. And if you fall flat on your face, that’s just part of growing up.