Christopher is my biological child. Below is the original obituary as written by his loving family…

On Saturday, March 16, 2019, our beloved Christopher Sean David passed from this life surrounded by his family at Kalispell Regional Medical Center.

He was born on Dec. 13, 2000, in Reno, Nevada, to Christine Mattingly Hesselman. On June 27, 2004, he and his mother married Charles David. The family moved to Trona, California, and then to Kalispell where, on July 25, 2007, his Daddy Charlie adopted him, making him “officially” Christopher David. A happier boy would have been hard to find!

Christopher attended schools in Kalispell, Polson and Hamilton and will graduate June 2, 2019, from Hamilton High School.

He participated in Christmas plays at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, “The Night Before Christmas” with Port Polson Players and Special Olympics, earning several medals and awards in swimming, track and bowling. Video games were his favorite and he was good at them.

At 16, he became an organ donor. He would be so very proud to know that his donation has made lives better for possibly 80 people.

Upon leaving the Kalispell Regional Medical Center hospital, Christopher was afforded an Honor Walk through the halls. Doctors estimated that 300 hospital staff, friends and family lined the halls for the walk and that not in 16 years had they seen such a turn out for an Honor Walk.

We wish to thank all who helped Christopher through his life struggles with the positive influence, support and love they provided him. You are forever in our hearts and we are forever grateful for the support and happiness you’ve added to Christopher’s life.

Christopher is survived by his parents, Charles and Christine David, his brothers John and Danny, and aunt, Johna Smith, all of Las Vegas; grandparents, John and Sheri David of Polson, Carolyn and Glenn Waddell, Pat and Sue Mattingly and Betty Matlin, aunts and uncles, Gena Mattingly, Julie (Taylor) Reasonen, Patricia and Shane Parker, Donna and Gene Bonfoey, James and Linda Mattingly, Lewis Mathis, Victor Mathis and Gene Mathis, and many cousins.

A celebration of life and potluck dinner is scheduled for 2 p.m. June 8, at the Polson Elks Club, 512 Main St., Polson, MT 59860.

Friends are encouraged to visit the website at http://www.buffalohillfh.com to leave notes of condolence for the family. Buffalo Hill Funeral Home and Crematory is caring for the family.

Time and again, Bubba the albino Brown Bear found himself being ‘rescued’ by some group of hapless humans and removed from his comfortable woodland habitat. And every time, he’d wake up to find himself alone and pissed-off, posited in the freezing cold clime of the polar ice cap.

And every time, Joe screamed, “FUUUUUCK! Not again!”

While I love wearing my bib-overalls, my wife says she wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair. Guess what she’s going to be buried in?

She told me that I looked like Ernest Hemingway. I immediately wanted to shoot myself.

He had awaken before the sun came up as was his usual routine. He sat at the computer catching up on the news from late yesterday and into the current morning, followed by writing, watching to videos and listening to short podcasts.

Shortly after that certain golden orb made itself known, Brexley retreated to the bathroom, where he showered and dressed. He often saw bathing as the official start to each day and today was no different.

“What a glorious day,” he stated as he drew back the curtain to the sliding glass door that overlook his small backyard patio.

He returned to his room and traded out the jeans he was wearing for a pair of shorts before heading back to the sliding glass door to open it. The sky was clear and the air, warm and not the slightest hint of a breeze.

Brexley returned to his office to retrieve his coffee cup from where he’d left it the evening before. A message flashed in the corner of his computer screen and he paused to open the link.

A new video, an hour and 20 minutes long. He walked into the kitchen, filled his cup with coffee, heated it the minute and ten seconds it took to bring the dark brown fluid back to life and then returned to his office and the computer screen.

It was a very good video, subject matter aside, which was about missing and possibly murdered people, it was well produced and shed light on what had happened and where the investigation stood at present. He had long since drained his cup and decided he’s like to have a second cup, something that was not part of his usual routine.

That’s when he saw all the papers scattered across the hard wood floor from the kitchen table. He’d not realized that the wind had picked up and was causing havoc with the piles of bills and other mail that had been resting on the table.

Brexley quickly gathered everything up, placed them on the table and added a handheld calculator a top to keep them in place. He walked over to the glass door and stepped outside briefly.

The wind was approaching gale-force as it had snapped off a few of the smaller branches from the 20-year-old Aspen tree in the corner of his yard, and deposited them in the neatly groomed grass below. Further, the wind was now hot, very dry and unforgiving when breathed in; much like the Santa Ana winds he’d come to know and so well known in southern California.

But this was northern Nevada.

High shapeless, clouds now filled the once powder blue skies of that morning. Amid their flat, grayness were the unmistakable tracings of aircraft trails; high ones that came out thinly or sometimes invisibly, but which widened into fat, rolling cloud-like lines, thus adding to the over-all gray.

Brexley sighed and stepping back inside, closed and barred the door, then slid the heavy drape across the glass blocking out the remaining light. He sat down at his dinner table in the darkened room and mourned the glorious day that had been, forgetting about that second cup of coffee.

Some folk are like fog. When they disappears, it’s a brighter day.

I found a whip, mask and handcuffs in my wife’s dresser drawer…I can’t belive it…I’m married to a superhero!

That whichs frightens me, makes the better written story, for I know it best and it knows me better.

I’m not ugly – but I do have ‘severe appearance deficit.’

There’s something awe-inspiring when fiction (especially time-travel) and non-fiction (actual historical events) criss-cross. Begun in 1995, but left unfinished following Christopher Reeves riding accident, I’d heard five or six years prior about how ‘Somewhere in Time,’ screenwriter/author Richard Matheson, came up with his story-line.

In 1975, while visiting Piper’s Opera House in Virginia City, Nevada he saw a photograph of the late actress Maude Adams. Having become smitten with her, and using her penchant for reclusiveness as a focal point, he created Elise McKenna, Richard Collier and William Fawcett Robertson.

However, and since Robertson’s character never came with a full backstory and odd things were said by and about him, I’ve always fancied him a time-traveler, too. Thus, I created a new story-ending some 24-years in the making (or is it 39-years…)

Robertson stood quietly beside the partially opened door, allowing only a fracture of light from the hallway to stab its way into the vacant hotel room. He knew Collier would be walking by at any moment, all he had to do was listen.

Collier’s steps were heavy on the stairway and even heavier as he rounded the corner leading to the main hallway. Robertson palmed the penny in his left hand and waited for the younger man to pass by.

Suddenly, Robertson sprang on Collier, striking him hard in the head with his right fist. The blow, though landing directly against Collier’s temple, did not immediately knock the man down as intended.

Robertson fell on top of Collier, striking him again and again. It was not Robertson’s intent to inflict harm on the man, rather to simply keep him confused so as to slip the coin into one of the man’s pockets.

Having finally succeeded, Robertson stood up and backed away. To his surprise, Collier rushed him, fists swinging.

One of the blows struck Robertson in the jaw, driving him backwards and to the carpeted floor. His head swimming, all he could see was the younger man towering over him, directing him to get up and fight or perhaps instructing the dazed man to stay away.

It did not matter to Robertson what the message was as he rolled over and using the wall, climbed to his feet and stumbled towards the lift at the far end of the opposite hallway. As he retreated, the ringing in his ears subsided and he could suddenly hear Elise crying from someplace behind him.

This was Robertson’s fifth jump into the past. He knew that there was no way to know how he might have altered Miss McKenna’s future, until he returned to his own time.

Once outside and far enough away from the Grand Hotel and the possibility of being seen, Robertson withdrew another coin from his pocket and held it up so that the reflective glow of the moon fell upon its shiny face. Robertson first looked at the great man’s profile, Abraham Lincoln, then to the date, ‘1979.’

He felt the uncomfortable pull of gravity and the dizzying slide in his mind as he twisted backward to the date on the copper-colored penny. He soon awoke in the deep-underground Laboratory Nine of Area 51 in southern Nevada, having returned from 1912 and laid there looking up at the several faces of the many concerned scientists.

After a few hours of rest, Robertson readjusted to the confusing effects of moving between space and time. The journeys back-and-forth had left a toll on him and he was informed that he would never again be allowed to travel either forward or backward in time again as it may cost him his sanity, since the process used nothing more than the mind and self-hypnosis.

“I’m sorry,” Project Director Matheson said, “But we still weren’t able to redirect the past, creating a different future for McKenna. Seems her fame piqued and she faded into obscurity exactly as she always has following the last four jumps.”

“Well, we gave it a good shot,” Robertson relied, “I’m happy to know that mankind is still far to small to have any real effect on the world’s outcome, either now or in the past. Any idea yet on how Collier is making his jumps?”

“Me, too,” Matheson said, as he looked over the pages of compiled notes, before answering, “There’s a rumor that he’s freelancing, using a book by Jack Finney called ‘Time and Again,’ as some sort of instruction manual.”

“Finney, the sci-fi novelist?” Robertson said with an air of incredulity, before adding with a smile, “You know, with a good writer and editor, all of this would make a damned good piece of science-fiction work.”

Matheson snickered, “Yeah, maybe.”

“You could call it, ’Bid Time Return,’” Robertson grinned.

“That’s what I like about you — you’re always thinking ahead,” Matheson said, looking up at the man entering the room behind Robertson.

The time-traveler never heard the man, nor the explosion the bullet made as it blasted from the barrel of the gun, piercing the back of his head. History would never recall his name.