Saw a friend at the grocery store who asked, “What are you doing here?” I answered, “Be vawee, vawee quiet, I’m hunting wabbits.”

Bryan Carroll was born September 20, 1961. He passed away March 28, 2019 in Crescent City, California, following a lengthy battle with congestive heart failure.

An incredibly private person, I won’t share very much about my brother Marine. In fact he’d be embarrassed, not for himself, but for me, knowing that I am crying as I write this.

Further, Bryan would chastise me, reminding me that he knew and loved Jesus and that he was in a better place now. Suffice it to say, Bryan did not have the easiest life.

Anyone who knew Bryan, knew he adored the comic strip ‘Peanuts,’ and he loved to tell about the time he went to Charles Schulz’ home with his dad as a kid. In one of our last conversations, he told me that he couldn’t decide if he were more like ‘Charlie Brown’ or ‘Snoopy.’

I still say ‘Snoopy,’ because of his love for dogs.

He grew up in Gasquet, California, attending school there. Bryan graduated from Del Norte High School in 1979, joining the U.S. Marine Corps shortly afterwards.

Following his Honorable Discharge in 1982, Bryan settled in Occoquan, Virginia. Aside from working as an electronic technician and computer repairman, Bryan was an avid kayaker from an early age, enjoyed photography, was a train enthusiast and an amateur historian.

Bryan was actively volunteering at a local homeless shelter in Crescent City. He was 57-years-old.

Usually, I don’t go shit with the bathroom door open, but I didn’t wanna miss the in-flight movie.

A few years ago the local weatherman came on the TV and stated that it has never snowed on the Fourth of July in the Reno/Sparks area of Northern Nevada. I remember thinking, “Oh, yes it has! 1986, in fact.”

However, a check of meteorological records bears out that the forecaster was correct and I — like so many others were wrong. I recall the event like it were yesterday – but it never happened.

Recently, I learned that this is the ‘Mandela Effect,’ named so after Nelson Mandela, when researchers discovered that a great many people had the false memory of his death in the 1991, when he actually passed away in 2013. So why do so many people believe that they watched, read or heard of his earlier funeral, when it never happened?

Granted, I’m no expert on this subject and I’m certain there is more to it than this simple, but brief overview I’m going to attempt: according to some researchers, there is more than one time-line and they move closely, side-by-side through space, and every once in a while they touch or cross and the lines become distorted and mixed up. This is how, according to these same researchers, memories become confused.

While reading an online article about an upcoming movie release called, ‘Shazam,’ I learned that actor and comedian Sinbad had been battling the Internet over reports that he had made a movie about a Genie that befriends to kids, a brother and sister, helping them find a love interest for their father.

Much to my surprise — and my misremembering – Sinbad never played the part of a Genie in any such movie. I was so gobsmacked that I even posted the question on Facebook: “Am I the only person on Earth that recalls Sinbad playing a genie in a 1990’s movie?”

That’s how I learned of the ‘Mandela Effect.’

Stranger still is that earlier in the evening, my wife and I were discussing singer/songwriter Harry Chapin (Cats in the Cradle, Taxi, W-O-L-D.) Neither of us could remember exactly what year he had died, but we were both certain that it was (also) in 1991.

Separately, we looked his bio up online and found we were both seriously wrong about his year of death. We were dumbstruck to realize he died as far back as 1981.

What in the hell? Did we simply misremember or were we subjected to the ‘Mandela Effect,’ whereby Harry Chapin lives and we each, independent of the other, recalled his passing different from the actual historical timeline we are living?

And are we the only ones to have made this mistake? I know — a lot of unanswered questions.

The idea of time lines crossing or touching is a very interesting subject and one I find worth investigating further. Have you ever misremembered something you were certain happened only to discover you were wrong?

I’d love to hear your stories!

He knew the direction the so-called posse was pushing him. It had been obvious from the start.

Their idea of justice was to corner and capture Medicine Joe, then after a few minutes of mock trial proceedings, string him up in the nearby tree. But Joe refused to let that happen – at least not without a fight.

After two-days of rugged chasing, he was finally in position to put them off his trail for good. He had the high ground and they were unwittingly entering a box canyon – all Joe needed to do was lay and wait.

As he waited, he reviewed the reason this was happening.

Joe had no idea that the man he’d slapped and eventually shot, killing in the darkened corner of the saloon was the sheriff. He took a disliking to Joe the instant he saw the smaller man.

“We don’t cotton to free-grazers, drifters or ‘breeds’ in these parts,” he’d sneered.

It didn’t matter that Joe had a roll of paper money and some jingle in his pocket, the bigger man refused to allow him even a sip of water before he started threatening him. Joe tried to ignore him, but then he pushed Joe to the floor, kicked him and smashed a chair across his back as he tried to get up.

With Joe cornered, his back literally against the wall, the sheriff, who had a four-inch longer reach and a good six inches in height and at least 30 pound more weight than Joe, began pounding him without mercy. Having had enough, Joe  stuck him with the back of his opened hand.

The blow caught the sheriff off-guard and he tumbled backward, falling to the floor. Someone laughed in the small crowd that had gathered to watch Joe’s beating, and the sound set the sheriff off as he jumped to his feet and reached for his cannon.

Medicine Joe was slightly faster and watched as the surprised look on the sheriff’s face faded into a mask of death as he toppled forward, face first to the floor. It was both the deathly silence and the look of the spectators eye’s that told Joe that he needed to shake the dust of that little town off his boots – and he’d best be quick about it.

The first three of fifteen riders, who’ve been trailing Joe ever since, entered the narrow slot of the canyon’s mouth and soon they’ll either be dead or Joe would be. As for the hanging tree, no one will ever swing from it again as Joe chopped it down and it’s now a part of his defense, holding a few dozen large rocks that, with a single and well-placed shot, will cascade into the narrowed slot, block all escape by horse.

This would put these riders on the ground with Joe, who as a half-breed was comfortable fighting while on foot. And soon, Medicine Joe’s death-chant would echo along the rocky walls announcing his deadly intent and every man’s coming fate.

Her: “Undress me with your words.”
Him: “There’s a spider in your panties.”

It stood up and the cattle separated in fear as cow punchers ran for their lives. Only Sierra Pete remained in the pen with the ungodly beast.

Soon another cowboy joined him, carrying a rifle and preparing to use it. But he paused, noting Pete’s calmness.

“Whatch’ya plannin’ to do?” the cowboy asked.

“Boss says if its got horns, brand it, carve up the ears and if its got balls, caponera’em — and I’m gonna do jus’ that,” Pete answered as he shook loose the loop of his throwing rope.

The Minotaur had no idea the Hell it was in for.

“I know Sheriff,” the deputy said, “The kid’s story doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

They were talking about the 14-year-old Franklin boy, found wandering a back road in snow up to his thighs. He was in emergency surgery as doctors worked feverishly to save his feet from a case of severe frostbite.

“Well,” the sheriff responded, “Do we have any idea where this camp’s located?”

“No, sir,” the deputy answered, “But I’m on my way over to the kid’s parents to see if they might have an idea.”

When discovered in the early morning hours  Jimmy Franklin, Jr. was delirious from the freezing cold and the blinding snowfall. He did his best to tell his rescuers, an older couple out on snowmobiles checking their livestock, what happened.

“Uncle Buddy…set up the tent…I got the fire…then they appeared…out of nowhere…I ran…but Buddy…” the boy kept saying.

“Who appeared?” the woman asked.

“Indians…horses…like ‘Dances with…’” Jimmy mumbled as he faded into unconsciousness.

They took the boy back to their home and called for help. The old man told his wife that he’d seen this before in grown men and that he feared that the child wasn’t going to make it.

“Yeah,” said James Franklin, Sr., “I know where Jimmy and my brother’s camp’s set up. But what’s this about an Indian attack?”

“Honestly, we don’t know, Mr. Franklin,” the deputy said. “Like I said, he wasn’t making very much sense.”

As the deputy drove away, she could see in her rearview mirror the Franklin’s truck racing down the snow laden highway towards town and the hospital. She drew the microphone close to her mouth and radioed for the sheriff.

Soon the pair were on their way to the campsite with members of local volunteer Search and Rescue team, who had the necessary snowmobiles to get to the isolate spot on the map. Eleven miles later, they were on foot searching for the exact spot.

“I still don’t get the whole ‘Indians rode into our camp,’ thing,” the sheriff complained.

It didn’t take more than 15 minutes for word to come back that the camp was found. Quickly, everyone moved towards the site.

“Holy shit,” the deputy uncharacteristically exclaimed, “He’s been…”

She looked down at the body of Buddy Franklin, Jimmy’s uncle, and noted the three handmade arrow shafts jutting out of his back from between his shoulder blades. But what really got her, was the wound to the top of his head and the lack of hair and skin that came with it.

“What in the hell happened here?” the sheriff wondered aloud, “We need to talk to that Franklin kid again. I’m starting to think he came up with this cock-and-bull story to put us off the scent of his killing his uncle. We’ll need to back-track his movements to see if we can find that missing scalp of…”

Suddenly, the sheriff’s voice fell away, having noticed the color of his deputy’s cheeks gone pale. He turned to look at whatever it was she was staring at.

“What the…” his voice broke and a sudden chill vibrated down his spine. Etched into the snow-drifted red clay embankment, overlooking the campsite-turned-homicide-scene, appeared twenty well-mounted Native Americans, in traditional garb, carrying shields, lances and bows, looking as if they might at any moment ride down into camp.

Jesus sent his disciples across the Sea of Galilee in a boat. But soon the wind and waves began battering the craft.

A short time later, Jesus, walking on the water went out to their vessel. The sight scared them.

“It’s a ghost,” they agreed.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s me,”Jesus responded.

“If it’s you,” Peter challenged, “tell me to come to you!”

“Come,” Jesus said.

Peter got out of the boat, but after a few steps began to sink.

“Save me!” Peter cried.

Jesus reached out and caught Peter’s hand, “How many times have I told you not to run?”

Burning Man near Gerlach, Nevada was underway. One afternoon, in a local bar, a Burner struck up conversation over a beer with a long-time cowboy about religion.

“There’s no God,” the Burner stated.

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve been around the world and I’ve seen some shit. We’re jus’ accidents of nature.”

After a brief pause the cowboy replied, “Lemme ask you a question.”

“Sure.”

“The horse, the cow, and deer all eat grass, right?”

“Yeah…”

“But the deer craps pellets, the cow — patties, and the horse — clumps. Why’s that?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“That’s what I thought – you really don’t know shit.”