Less than four days following the attack on innocent lives and the murder of 22 people and the wounding of another 24, I found myself walking into our local Walmart before 5 am. On my hip, as usual, I sported my pistol.

Soon I was approached by a young man who asked me to please leave the store, because I had a pistol. He explained that in response to the deaths in El Paso, Texas, ‘they’ve’ decided to stop allowing open-carry in ‘their’ store.

Surprised, I asked, “Really? I’ve been here lots of times while open carrying.”

“That maybe, but things have changed,” he answered, as two male employees walked up, joining him.

The four of us began heading towards the front of the store and the only door open at that time of the morning. As we approached the exit I asked: “Can you guarantee my safety if I come in here unarmed?”

“Yes, we can,” he smiled, “We have a uniformed officer at the front door.”

Looking to where he was pointing, I saw an older woman, sitting on a stool facing the interior of the store and completely unarmed. I had walk right by this person when I entered the store and she said nothing to me.

“What, her?!” I exclaimed, fully shocked, “Not only is she unarmed, she’s facing away from where the threat will come. Basically, she’s nothing more than live-bait for an armed predator and she’ll be the first person in this store who gets shot.”

“She’ll be able to call radio in any threat that comes her way, long before any ‘threat,’ steps inside the store,” the so-called ‘manager’ stated.

He made air-quotes when he said the word, ‘threat.’ I couldn’t tell if he actually believed what he was saying or if he was that well rehearsed at regurgitating a ‘company line.’

“Good to know,” I replied, while shaking my head and I left the store without offering further argument.

Tragedies will happen with firearms and genocide without them.

Some three millennia before, rose along the Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo,  the Sy’u-gi’ Ckulp’c in the R’um-ja’ of Mo’Bu-Ju’, with its odd gray and misshapen stones and its queer looking peoples. Translucent red, with loose and heavy skin, elongated noses, flabby lips and protuberant eyes, the peoples of Ckulp’c were considered a horror to behold.

However, their civilization had survived and adapted to the half-dead planet on which it was forced to reside. The peoples of  Ckulp’c found pleasure in dancing under the gibbous moon to their ill formed half-lizard, half-rat God, Zaa-q’ran and once they rediscovered fire, the celebration rose to nightly performances of hideous shapes casting shadows across the open expanse of the dust-fill vastness that lay all about them.

Then from the west came travelers, who upon discovering the Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo decided to settle their remaining numbers along it’s tangled banks. And there they established, along the coming trade route, the Sy’u-gi’ of Lo’meh, a place that soon prospered.

The one-time travelers looked down of the people of Ckulp’c and their awful ceremonies, their ugly god and their unnatural forms and decided to make war on their peaceable neighbors. At once they set upon the older community and slaughtered the inhabitants, leaving none alive.

After they disposed of their enemies corporal fleshiness, having rolled the festering dead bodies into Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo, they set about dismantling  Ckulp’c, destroying their center of worship and all carvings, drawings and likenesses of gods, including the one they hailed as Zaa-q’ran, shattering it before tossing the pieces into Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo as well. Satisfied, they opened the razed buildings to the ever-expanding population of Lo’meh for resettlement.

Life was grand for the next one-thousand-years and it was during the kyr-annum celebration of that Great Conquest of Ckulp’c, that the people of  Lo’meh laughed, ate and danced with the knowledge that they had in one night and one day laid waste to a grotesque and evil society, once known as the Ckulp’c. And as the grand celebration drew nearer, Kings and vagabonds tossed up tents inside and out of the city’s high stone walls in anticipation.

Feasts, with great long tables were offered to visitors, noble and slave, and each were bid to take more than their share and enjoy. Among these wondrous foods, spices and drink was the prized G’lea’g, large and speckled in many colors that were drawn from Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo by the bushel for those gathered to feast on.

Served on silver platters, bedecked with fiery opals, throughout the Palace and high in the Priest Towers, the official revelers made merry with delight in their feasting. It is said, too, that G’lea’g was served outside the walls to those lesser Priests and Princes as well, so that no man, woman or child was exonerated from the joyous occasion.

Not one votary noted the hellish red mist that fell from the gibbous essence cast by that nights moon glow onto the embankments of Ly’u-bol Glas-p’oo. Nor was attention paid when that same mistiness dipped beneath the waters surface only to reemerge moments later, rejoining with the gibbous face of the single sky being above.

Lost in their own reveling, celebrants failed to see the odd cast of shadows that fell against the walls, that moved along the floors of the many public buildings and crept deep into the darkened places, between the private dwellings and the visitant-laden streets of fated Lo’meh. It was slightly ahead of midnight, that the gold-plated gates burst open and all the half-million within those massive walls, poured forth in a blackened throng out onto the desolate plains of the R’um-ja’ of Mo’Bu-Ju’, in all directions.

Those that fled, not understanding why but with fear written in their faces and quickly convexing eyes, muttered strange and repelling words that none would understand. Mad men, crazed and ever-changing, cast bulging eyes back upon the Priests Towers and the open-framed windows of the Palace only to witness to their alarm the vision the hideous dancing of a people translucent red, loose and heavy skinned, elongated noses, flabby lips and protuberant eyes.

No more do men regularly travel to that which was once Lo’meh, and those hearty beings that do, do so with only an idle curiosity. When they do, they find no splendor withing the remainder of a city, rather a slimy residue and creatures best described as half-rat and half-lizard over-populating the once vast dwellings and public sites that beheld the once victorious sy’u-gi’, Lo’meh.

While it may seem like I’m in deep contemplation, it’s also possible I’m simply thinking about ‘boobs.’

And here I thought the worst thing Trump could do as President was admit he had sex with Hillary at one point.

Did you miss me? No? Hmm…

I missed you!

Well, so much for running away from problems and taking 30-days to travel about. Life on the road isn’t like it had been a few years ago, but I’ll bring you up to date when I post my journal entries for those days a little later today.

Lots of things have happened in these few ensuing days, including the death of one of my wife’s friends and the euthanization of one of our dogs, which actually precipitated my sudden departure. So, clearly there is a reason for the way events shook out this go-around.

Anyway, this is the story I had planned for my return September 1. It’s called ‘Thirty-days Later.’

“So, you say you entered Mexico without your passport, correct?” the state department clerk asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Tom answered.

“You do know they’ve been searching for you since you disappeared last month?”

“I figured people might look for me.”

“And now you’d like help securing a passport so you can get back home?”

“Yes, please.”

“How did you enter Mexico in the first place?”

“I came in with the Swedish Bikini Team.”

“The Swedish Bikini Team?” the clerk asked, a look of puzzlement washing over his face.

“Yes,” Tom answered.

“How did that happen? Were you kidnapped or something?”

“No. Not at all. I got in their raft willingly.”

“I see. Their raft.”

“Yeah, I was taking a picture of a flower when I heard a woman yell ‘Hey!” I looked up and all these beautiful bikini-clad women were floating by. One  asked if I wanted to join them and I said ‘Yes,’ hopping in their raft as they passed.”

“And you remained with them, even after the rafting trip was over.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They had lots of beer, lots and lots of beer.”

“So where is this Swedish Bikini Team, now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What, did they abandon you?”

“No,” Tom said, “Quite the opposite!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I abandoned them.”

“Why?” he asked.

“They ran outta beer!”

It took me a little more than half the day to finally get home, having hitched a ride from a fella named Jim, in the back of his pick-up truck. I showered, and dressed in clean clothing, ate a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich and downed two cups of freshly brewed coffee.

My stomach was a bit queasy from nerves as I sat outside on the front porch step and waited for my wife to get home. Her beaming smile at the sight of me was wonderful to behold and worth the absence.

And while I expected her to chide me with some sort of ‘I told you so’ comment, none has come. Instead she gave me a strong hug and a gentle kiss as we went inside.

“It could have been worse,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “They could have slit my throat or something.”

She screwed up her face before turning to the stove, “Do you always have to go to the worse imaginable place?”

“No,” I answered, “But I gotta admit you were right about the dangers.”

Her back may have been to me at the time, but I felt her grin as she glowed at the idea that I admitted she had been correct.

After finishing telling her what had happened, she made a huge plate of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes with fresh salsa, some crisp bacon and sourdough toast for my dinner. Once I had eaten, I washed the pans and loaded the dishes as I’ve been doing for years now.

Since then, we watched a previously recorded TV show and now she’s gone to bed. I’m still up tidying up this last entry to my notebook and very happy to be back home.

Once finished here, I’m going to retire to the backyard patio with a small glass of whiskey, put my sore, swollen feet up and stare up at the twinkling stars, the glow of the moon, and enjoy my ‘isness.’

Tired, sore, hungry and stupid. These have been my four companions all this day as I struggle to recover from the night before and this morning.

Allow me to preface this with a few extra facts that didn’t seem pertinent yesterday, but seem to play a solid roll in my life this day: Jake, Karen along with Sam lived out of an old beat up Pontiac, that they had draped with plastic tarps for a makeshift shelter.

That’s the first thing. The second is that cup of Earl Grey that I was offered and accepted.

It may have been doped as I awoke with a banging headache, and much later than usual, and no memory of the family packing up and driving off. Worst of all, they took everything I didn’t have on me or in my sleeping bag with me.

My rucksack, food, extra clothing – gone. I am finally done with this adventure and have been heading east along the back roads towards Reno.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of my former escorts from the day before said, with a knowing smile beaming across his face.

“They robbed me,” I admitted, while trying no to sound defeated.

“Should’ve kept going, huh?” the other one laughed.

“Yup,” I answered as I rolled up my bag and tied a length of twine I’d found nearby.

Without saying anything else and head held high, I trekked off towards the highway some mile-and-a-half away. With my ‘bedroll’ slung across my body, I couldn’t help but think of the 1970’s TV show, ‘Kung Fu,’ only I am not Kwai Chang Caine or David Carradine for that matter.

Night seemed to fall too quickly and I have set up a cold camp, if I can call having only a sleeping bag, notebook and pencil, a camp. I shall have no fire this night as I’ve nothing to start one with and nothing to eat.

As I try to fall asleep, I can hear my wife: “See? I told you so!”

Late in afternoon I tripped upon a homeless encampment. There were some fifty people here, from children to slightly older than me and it has me unsettled.

When I first realized I was nearby this tucked out of the way place, I was confronted by a pair of men who wanted to know what I was up to.

“I’m traveling through,” I said.

“What does that mean?” one asked.

“It means I’m simply going to keep on going, not stopping.” I answered.

“Good,” stated the other one.

As they escorted me from one side of the encampment to the other, people said ‘hello,’ and one young man asked if I’d like to sit and have a bite to eat and visit with his wife and little boy. I looked at my escort and they turned away.

It was obvious I was out of my depth. I studied the guy that asked me to stay, he looked like he’d been living rough for a long while and that some of that time had or was still spent on a meth addiction.

Tired and hungry, I failed to heed my voice of intuition that whispered harshly at me to be careful. I sat down anyway and allowed myself to relax.

“Don’t mind them,” Jake said, “They’re assholes and think they’re protecting us. But guaranteed, if the law showed up they’d disappear as fast as a jack rabbit.”

“Well, thanks for rescuing me from them,” I said.

“My wife, Karen and this is Sam,” Jake said.

I stood and shook Karen’s hand, then smiled at their baby. Cute kid.

We talked about life, travels, shared a few stories and laughed. This greatly lifted my spirits from the day before.

We had hot dogs, beans and a salad, made mostly of wild gatherings including dandelions and dandelion leaves. I offered some of my beans and rice, which they refused to take.

To drink they offered me a warm cup of Earl Grey tea, a treat, I told them. And as I readied to toss-off for the night, I felt better about the aspects of travel come the morning.

This date would have been my younger brother, Adam’s 56th birthday. I remembered to wish him a ‘Happy Heavenly Birthday,’ as I said my prayers that evening.

“You Can’t Go Home Again,” is a novel by Thomas Wolfe published posthumously in 1940. I cannot help but think of that title and apply it to my situation now.

Only the third day out and I have realized that the life of a vagabond, bum, or what have you – isn’t as it was nearly two-decades ago. I am older and the world is much harder, and because of this I am unable to enjoy myself.

My friend wandered off after breakfast this morning and I’ve not seen her since. Women! Perhaps, this is one of the reasons that this evening as I establish my camp, I am unhappy and in puzzlement.

Whatever the reason, I’m certain that it comes down to this fact: both the times and I have changed. I am thinking that I ought to return home and enjoy the goodness I have there.

Tonight, I’m having beans for dinner and since I’ve found a small creek, I shall eat and soak my aching feet in its icy waters. This will make up for the lack of adventure I’ve experienced, after all, how many people can claim to be doing what I’m doing under these blanketing stars?

Answer: not very many!