Right or wrong…houses of worship are generally relegated to a secondary role in disaster situations. The reason being is that they must sign an agreement with their local municipalities that says they will not take in disaster victims until the municipalities primary facilities are filled to capacity.

It’s done this way so that the municipalities can be reimbursed by the state and federal governments, through your taxes, for services rendered. Often times the reimbursement far exceeds what has been spent, so it is in the best interest of the municipality to keep a tight control on churches, synagogue, temples, etc.

We sat quietly, hidden in the shadows of the room, accessing our situation; the two of us hoping and praying that reinforcements would arrive by the end of the day. It had been a battle alright, but not much in the way of a fight.

“How long do you think we can hold out, Chief?” I asked.

Red-colored, the Indian Chief shrugged, “I’m not sure Sarge, maybe a couple of days, but that’s only a guesstimate.”

Jus’ yesterday the dog had played with us and a couple of dozen figures lost their lives in the struggle, including most of the Cowboys. We both developed a thousand-yard stare, thinking while we tried not to think about the terrors we had witnessed.

Finally, I looked up and stated, “I’m sorry Chief, most of my soldiers got eaten as well. And that new tank I was bragging about — demolished beyond recognition.”

In fact, there were only six of the original bag of Army Men left; three riflemen, one with a mangled Springfield, a bazooka man, one with a pineapple grenade and me, with my 45-caliber pistol. Sadly, we were a compliment of 25 when we were first purchased and deployed.

How many Cowboy and Indian’s were remaining, I had no idea. Then I looked out the window and there in the backyard I saw the dog shitting little pieces of cream-colored Cowboys, red Indians and green Army Men – heads, legs, arms, a torso or two and weapons.

All I could do was bury my face in my hands and cry, “Those are my brothers.”

‘Lucky’ was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. On the other hand, I was born with a wooden stick between my gums and several slivers to boot. That’s the way it has always been. I’m not ‘Lucky’ and I don’t have a swell nickname either.

If I’d been given one, it would probably have been laughable, if not ‘Laughable,’ itself. Yeah, that’s how my so-called fortune runs as ‘Lucky’ is my older brother by a year.

‘Lucky’ throws the rock, I get the beating. I polish the doorstep having ‘missed the boat,’ and ‘Lucky’ gets the girl.

Speaking of ‘missing the boat…’

‘Lucky’ joined the Canadian Army last year and came home looking like a snazzy ‘Foot Slogger,’ the kind everyone’s talking about and the girls swoon over. Meantime, America isn’t getting involved in this fight, though our old man, a staunch Democrat, thinks President Wilson is waiting for the right time to enter the fracas.

At the time that ‘Lucky’ joined, I was too young, but after turning 18 last week, I’ve slipped off to put on the uniform too. It’s been smooth sailing from New York Harbor to Ireland and we’re a happy lot because you can see the shores from our cabin’s single port-hole.

So things are actually looking up, after all I’ve been enjoying a third-class berth on the first-class liner Lusitania, while dreaming of the chance to show those old Hun’s what-for.

“Don’t be mad at her,” Mary cautioned, “after all, she’s an old dog and it was an accident.”

“I know, I know, and I’m not mad at her,” I answered though she hadn’t asked a question.

Mary turned on her bedside light right after I had turned my light off. I’d been up about ten minutes cleaning the mess our eldest dog had made of our bed.

As for her part, Mary had left to go sleep in the other room; my snoring keeping her awake. So when I found her gone, it was a bit disorienting.

“So why are you so upset?” Mary finally asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty.

“Because I heard her whining and when I rolled over to see what was up, I put my hand in it and you weren’t here,” I responded as nicely as I could.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mary said, adding after a brief pause, “Well, try to get some sleep.”

She didn’t have to repeat herself when it came to that last statement. I was already well on my way to slumber-land the second she clicked off her lamp.

A minute or so later I heard Mary ask, “Did you take her outside?”

Inadvertently, I harumphed and answered, “No. She already shit in the bed and I figured I didn’t need to take her out.”

I must have fallen asleep immediately because after that Mary woke me up as she climbed back in bed, telling me, “Don’t worry, I took her out.”

“I’m not,” I quietly answered as I drifted back into sleep.

You know the ‘fake news’ situation has gotten out of hand when local politicians start claiming what is supposedly happening nationally, is ‘actually’ happening locally.

It began after the progressive rag ‘USA Today,’ claimed they had an exclusive: “Secret Service depletes funds to pay agents because of Trump’s frequent travel, large family.” Next CNN picked it up, claiming exclusivity: “Secret Service can’t pay agents for Trump and his family, report says,” followed by other media outlets running the story without properly vetting the facts.

Then in a Facebook rant, Reno City Councilwoman Jenny Brekhus urged the President to skip his planned visit for a speech to be given during the American Legion Convention at the Reno-Sparks Convention Center in front of more than 20,000 veterans. Brekhus argued that the city’s police department was nearly broke following a string of special events, homicides and fatal traffic accidents and therefore couldn’t afford to ‘help protect’ Trump.

“Officers are only capable to work so much overtime, and this previously unscheduled visit adds to already stretched staffing,” she wrote. “Our financial position is fragile and additional costs will hit our budget. In addition, there have been demands on our police department this summer with several homicides and traffic fatalities.”

Apparently, Reno Police Chief Jason Soto didn’t think it necessary to contradict Brekhus, instead saying that around 100 officers would be on duty during Trump’s visit and that the department could deal with protestors, violent or not. He added that Sparks Police and Carson City Sheriff’s deputies would be assisting, while extra RPD officers stood by to respond if needed.

Turns out both stories are fake, designed to ‘prove’ how destructive to the U.S. the Trump Administration is becoming.  But, what isn’t fake is the media’s on-going ‘destruction narrative’ which is simply a fantasy of delusional minded Progressives.

Folks of the desert region knew Pacey to be a ornery cuss; truth was he didn’t have much use for people. He only came to any ‘over-growed spot,’ to fetch supplies or ‘wet his pipes.’

On this cold, sleet-filled night, Pacey came to town to do both. He knew the saloon would be full of greenhorns, so getting a stake by the fireside meant he’d have to skun the lot.

“Boy,” he called to the 10-year-old, “Take my Sally to the stable, give’er some grub and a shot of whiskey.”

The child, reins in hand disappeared around the corner into the darkness, the old mule following behind. Pacey then entered the hall for a much-needed shot of whiskey and a beer himself.

What had been a raucous room, died to a mild din as Pacey strode up, demanding, “A whiskey and a beer, pronto!”

The man behind the wooden counter topped off a stoneware mug, served room temperature, and a smaller glass of golden fluid. Pacey downed the liquor, followed swiftly by the other.

“Mister,” came a child’s voice from behind Pacey. Turning, he looked down at the boy he’d charged with caring for his mule.

Pacey didn’t look the least surprised as the child stated, “Yer mule won’t take the whiskey like you wanted.”

The entire room fell silent.

“Nonsense,” Pacey protested. “You ain’t tried hard enough is all.”

The man behind the counter, obliged to defend the boy, his son, “You old fool – mules won’t drink whiskey!”

“This’en does!” Pacey shouted, “Try again!”

He waved the boy off in the direction he had come. As the child left, curiosity overcame the initiate-crowd and they followed the boy outside into the misery, each wanting to see such an entertaining spectacle as a mule drinking whiskey.

“Set me up another round, and make it two beers this time,” Pacey directed the boy’s father.

Five minutes later, the group of men following the boy returned, “Still won’t take the whiskey,” the child explained.

“Fine! Then I’ll drink the damned thing!” the old loner stated gruffly. By this time, Pacey had staked out a spot where he could warm his ol’ bones fireside.

God’s timing so great, humor harsh, humor true:
First time since childhood
Millennial’s see the sky above.

Only matters be far worse:
The Godless, their prattled-hype
Create mass-delusion,
As nation stopped,
Faces skyward turned —
Stunned by nature’s beauty.

Truth shines beyond the moon shadow focus:
Our Creator is cast aside once again,
By our prayer, our praise — silence resounding.

Each Monday morning I try to remember to weigh myself.  Yesterday, my wife caught me standing on our scale while sucking in my stomach.

“You know Tom, that won’t help you,” she chuckled at the sight.

“Oh it helps me more than you know,” I responded, “in fact, it’s the only way I can see the numbers.”

She got a pretty good laugh out of it.  Unfortunately, it turns out I really didn’t wanna see those numbers after all.

It always amazed me how Mom could go from screaming lunatic to a polite woman in the world when pissed at us kids and having to answer the telephone at the same time. As telephone become less frequent in households, being replaced by the cellphone, I figured it was an art-form that would soon be dead.

Yet, one recent afternoon as I was driving in town, I pulled up to a stoplight and looked at the woman driver to my left. She was carrying on a heated conversation with no one in the car, screaming and gesturing with her hands, obviously angry at someone.

Suddenly, she looked at me, catching me staring at her. She smiled, and rolled the electric window down on the passenger-side of her car, “I’m yelling at my son – we’re on cellphone,” she politely stated in the sweetest tone imaginable.

All I could do was smile and nod my head as she rolled her window back up and commenced with the screaming and gesturing. Obviously, the ability to go from lunatic to polite woman will never go extinct as long as there are children to yell at and strangers to be nice too.

It’s always amazing when God speaks to me. He doesn’t use words per se, like you and I do when we talk to one another, rather He finds some way to communicate that I need to be open to at the time.

For instance, last year I planned to go into downtown Reno, Nevada and take some pictures at some festival. However, I put it off and put it off, finding other things to do around the house.

Later, and jus’ before I decided I’d put it off long enough, I sat down and checked Facebook. There I saw how the local police had shot and killed a man who had purposely run a street barricade, then attempted to run down a law enforcement officer.

Wow! I’m glad I didn’t go.

A few days ago I was talking to God (‘talk’ is my euphemism for prayer,) about why my blog, after more than 14-years has never been as successful as I’d like it to be. Heck, I can’t even monetize it because I don’t have the required number of followers.

After finishing asking Him for direction, I sat down and turned on the TV. The channel was on TBS and a preacher who was talking about pride. I changed the channel and there was another preacher – again talking about pride.

“Oh, shit,” I thought. “This is meant for me.”

Then I was over come with the feeling that I better return to what that first pastor was saying. No sooner had I changed the station back, he made statement that has stuck with me.

“There’s a difference between your dream and your destiny.” he said. “Your dream is not your destiny, it’s simply to motivate you to where you need to be.”

He went on to explain that too often dreamers get hung up on the dream and when it doesn’t come true, get upset and filled with pride, complaining that things are not working out like promised. And that, my friend’s describes me and my frustration with having a less-than-famous blog.

The easiest way I can interpret this is that I am allowing my pride to get in the way of my destiny because I am so focused on the dream – in this case as a professional blogger. So, here I am in the process of breaking-off this prideful sin-nature, so I can fulfill the destiny God has laid out before me.

It all boils down to this, which comes from Luke 16:10, “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much…”