Jonesy stood across the street, in the shadow of a doorway. The 22-year-old had been there for a couple of hours, casing the liquor store, waiting for street to grow empty.

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d knocked off a place for money. Less than 10-hours before, Jonesy had held-up a gas station in Vernal, Utah, locking the old man in the supply closet, grabbing 30 bucks and stealing his truck.

That’s how he came to be in Reno, Nevada, planning yet another robbery. This time, the mom and pop liquor store, which he now stood across the street from.

“Odd,” he thought, “I don’t seem to be scared to do this shit anymore.”

Jonesy reflected back on the one time in his life that he’d been really scared, so scared he was nearly paralyzed – uncertain if the Gooks would kill him first or if the weather would. It was also the only time in his adult life that he prayed to God for mercy.

It was also the first time he’d ever been outside the United States, and he found himself in what he believed to be a god-forsaken country, fighting jus’ to survive. Chosin wasn’t even on most maps and yet he and his Marine buddies were trapped there, freezing and dying.

When the order came to move out, Jonesy recalled being relieved, “At least we’re gonna do something besides sit on our asses and die without a fight.”

The 78 mile trek from the reservoir to Hungnam left a lot of men dead, and those who had survived, emotionally damaged. That was nearly six-years ago and Jonesy still couldn’t get over the nightmares that terrorized him when he fell asleep.

—

He looked at his watch. Jonesy had it all planned out: hit the store, locked the woman behind the counter in a back room, grab the money and maybe a bottle of booze and then rush to the Mapes Hotel down the street, buy a ticket to San Francisco and hop the Greyhound jus’ as it pulls out of town.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Jonesy felt for the .45 in his waist band. He knew it was there, but it helped reassure him that nothing would go wrong with his planned heist.

The pistol was a hold over from his time in Korea. In fact, besides the boots he was wearing, the old rattle-trap was the only thing he’d managed to hang onto from that awful period in his life.

Up until that time, he’d never killed a man. But after wards, he could never say that again.

The pistol played a crucial role in keeping him and five of his buddies’ alive one night.

It began with the Skipper getting killed by a sniper. The ‘old man’ as they liked to call him never heard the rifle report or felt the piece of lead that slammed into his forehead.

He was dead before he hit the icy ground.

Jonesy was the first to react, grabbing the Colt from the dead man’s hand and firing into the rushing Chi-com’s as they tried to over run their position. Nine shots, nine dead Chink’s within a matter of seconds.

By that time, other Jarhead’s had begun blasting away into the darkness, ending the sneak attack that had killed the young officer lying at Jonesy’s feet. It wouldn’t be the last charge of the night – nor would those nine dead Slant-eye’s be the last Jonesy would send to hell during the fight.

Jonesy was a natural with the .45 and with the Gunny’s blessing, he kept the pistol even after shipping back state-side. Reassurance, that’s what the gun meant to him then and it meant the same now.

—

He crossed the street, pausing to look up and down the sidewalk. Jonesy saw only one man and the fellow was walking towards him at a fast clip and this concerned the Marine-turned-criminal.

“Something’s wrong,” Jonesy mumbled, as he watched the lone figure dart into the liquor store ahead of him.

Jonesy slipped the pistol from his waist band and thumbed the hammer back. He knew at the first sound of gun fire, that his plan had gone to hell in a heartbeat.

Suddenly, the door swung open, the little bell attached to door frame above it, ringing violently and Jonesy found himself standing face-to-face with a man pointing a revolver at him. Instinct kicked in and Jonesy leveled his .45 at the guy.

Flames erupted from both weapons simultaneously. He tried to side step the muzzle blast but instead Jonesy found himself falling backward as if in slow motion.

He dropped hard onto the sidewalk, the force seeming as if he’d been struck by a baseball bat. Still in combat-mode, Jonesy raised his pistol and fired three quick rounds into the man who was still holding the gun as if he planned to shoot again.

The bullets smashed into the man’s chest and he stepped back against the brick wall before slowly sliding sideways and down to the sidewalk. He was dead, staring off into the great void that only those passing from the living world would ever know.

A searing pain burned through Jonesy’s entire body as he lay against the cool concrete. He brushed his hand over his stomach, finding a hole jus’ below his navel.

Jonesy knew then that he was going to miss the 9:45 to Frisco. And for only the second time in his adult life he prayed to God, this time for grace.

—

“How long have I been here?” he choked out the words to the nurse as she hovered beside him.

“Four days,” she smiled as she offered him a sip of water.

“Where am I?” Jonesy asked.

The nurse smiled kindly, “You’re in the hospital. You were shot and you lost a lot of blood.”

The memory came to him like a jolt. He looked around the room puzzled, wondering why there were no cops around, but instead the room was filled with floral arrangements.

He waved a hand in a half-circular movement and asked, “What’s all this?”

“Flowers from well-wishers,” she responded.

“I…don’t…I don’t’ understand,” Jonesy replied.

“The man you who shot you,” she explained, “and whom you shot and killed – he was a very bad man – a baby-killer even. You’re a hero, Mr. Jones.”

She quickly fluffed the pillows under his head and shoulders, and stated, “I’ll be back. I need to let someone know that you’re awake.”

Sometime later a man wearing a stained trench-style coat, a weather-beaten fedora and smelling of stale cigars and strong coffee entered the room. Right away, Jonesy knew he was a police detective.

The man identified himself and explained what had happened and how it had been touch-and-go with Jonesy, but the doc’s were able to keep him alive. He also explained how the man that shot him had killed an entire family jus’ over the hill in California.

“You’re a hero, a genuine hero, Mr. Jones,” the cop stated. “We ran your background, a decorated war vet and now this.”

“But…” Jonesy started, “You don’t understand…”

“Ain’t nothing to understand,” the cop interrupted. “You killed a murderer right after he robbed that liquor store and shot Mrs. Pavlovich to death in cold blood.”

Jonesy shook his head, “No – you don’t get it. I was planning to knock that store off myself. I’m a crook!”

The ex-flat-foot didn’t look the least surprised, “Not today, you’re not.”

Jonesy looked up at him, confused and speechless.

The cop chuckled, “Enjoy it while you can,” adding, “You’ve earned it,” as he slipped out of the hospital room.

Senator Harry Reid wants the Federal Election Commission to create an exemption allowing him to spend $600,000 in unspent campaign and PAC funds on personal matters as he retires from office. The FEC deferred action on the request.

Reid also wants to hire a full-time assistant to help in this effort. Part of the assistant’s duties would be to “schedule and organize appearances in which Senator Reid will discuss his tenure in office…”

Democrat commissioner Ann Ravel defended the request during the open meeting, stating the use of the funds in such a way would be the “appropriate mechanism for a person who will continue to be doing a public service as a historic figure in our country, to achieve purposes that are important to the American public.”

Reid has been in trouble with the commission over the personal use of campaign funds in the past. In 2006, Reid used campaign funds to pay $3,300 in bonuses to the doorman and other support workers at his residence at the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C.

In March 2014 he agreed to reimburse $16,787 his campaign gave to his granddaughter Ryan Elisabeth Reid in 2013 for what was described as payments for “holiday gifts.” At the time, the federal disclosures showed the campaign paid another $14,481 to Reid’s granddaughter in 2012, bringing to $31,268 the total paid to her in 2012 and 2013 to purchase gifts for Reid’s support staff.

It was the only time that Judge Hopper called me by name. It surprised me as I didn’t even know the stogie-chewing old man knew who I was at the time.

“Tommy,” he shouted.

Shocked or not, I knew to answer him right away with a quick, “Yes, sir,” as I didn’t want it to get back to Mom that I was being rude.

“Come here, son,” he growled, “I got something here for you.”

Up the driveway I ran to the entrance of his garage. It was one of the few times I recall seeing it open.

He came shuffling out with a small red and white rectangular object in his hand and held it out for me to take. He frightened me, so I hesitated.

“You want it or not?’ he asked.

“Yes, sir – I do,” I respond though I still had no idea what it was he was giving me.

Taking it from him, he turned and shuffled back inside his garage, disappearing into its darkness.

“Thank you,” I called out to him as the garage door started down and he disappeared into his house.

Looking down, I quickly realized it was a transistor radio that he had given me; one of those people got for smoking cigarettes. This one read, “Marlboro,” and I was as pleased as punch as I turned it on and it worked.

Mom had an ear-plug for jus’ such a radio, but I had to get it on the Q.T., as I was more than certain that if she saw what it read, I would have to give it back. (Odd, since Mom had been smoking unfiltered Pall-Mall’s in the red pack since she was 12.)

Back then an ear-plug was what is now known as a ‘monaural earpiece,’ that fit inside the ear and came with a plastic-shrouded piece of wire that fit over the backside of the ear. Today, it’s known as an ear-bud and they are a thousand-times more comfortable.

So being sneaky, I took it to my room and tucked it under my pillow. Next, I rummaged through what we called the ‘junk drawer,’ until I found the ear-plug – and returned with it to my room.

That night I began my life-long ‘love affair’ with radio as I listened to one of the only two AM radio stations I could get on the little transistor radio. From then on throughout the rest of winter, every chance I got, I had the radio on and my ear-plug in.

Summer was no different, only I would take the little radio outside and listen to it without the ear-plug. Life was grand and I knew it.

Then it happened, I left it sitting on the back bumper of Dad’s truck and it disappeared, never to be seen again. But by then, the broadcasting-bug had hit me and I knew that I wanted to give it a try.

It’s also the only time I’ve owned anything that advertises a tobacco product.

New beginnings, fresh starts, reaffirmation of love and promises for a brighter future all come to mind as we ring in a New Year. There are the superficial, yet purposeful, promises we make to ourselves.

We resolve to get in shape, lose weight, improve career paths, and the like. Then, there are the heartfelt promises we make to others, whether aloud or in our minds.

Driving up the hill, I could see the Animal Control Officer standing by the ice shrouded pond. About 20 feet away was another lady, jus’ standing there.

They were both focused on something splashing around in the water; that something was a dog. So I pulled over to see if I could lend a hand.

She was rushing around the far end of the pond, using her looped-pole to try snagging the floundering animal. However it wasn’t long enough to reach and it was obvious she didn’t want to step into the freezing ice-water.

“Here,” I called to her, “Let me try.”

She briskly shook her head, “You’re not trained to use it.”

By this time the dog was using only one paw to stay afloat. I watched as its head slipped below the ice-encrusted surface several times, each time taking longer to resurface.

I knew it was now or never.

Removing my wallet from my pant pocket, I stuffed it in my jacket and handed them to the female bystander. Then I ran to the far side of the pond and jumped in.

Then with the butt-end my folding lock blade knife, I smashed through the layer of ice. While the pond wasn’t that deep, there was a lot of mud and while slowing me, I didn’t let it stop me as I pushed aside the broken ice fragments to get to the dying animal.

That’s when I realized it wasn’t a dog at all – but rather a coyote. The beast must have sensed I was there to help as it ceased struggling and allowed me to scruff it by the neck and tail, yank it from the water and toss it to the nearby snowy bank.

It laid there, panting heavily as I made my way over to it. As I crawled up on the bank next the coyote, I briskly rubbed its body and pushed down on its skinny chest a few of times to help get its circulation going faster.

With in 20 seconds it jumped to its feet, shook its self vigorously and sprang off towards the hillside. I pulled myself to my feet and walked briskly to my truck, where I knew the warmth of the heater would help stave off the onset of hypothermia.

Somewhere behind me I heard the Officer yell, “Are you fucking crazy?!”

Ignoring her question, I climbed in the cab, turned the ignition on and cranked the heater up. As I sat there enjoying the warmth, the female bystander came over to return my coat, which I quickly pulled on.

The lady then explained that it was her dogs that had chased the coyote into the ice and that the Officer was waiting for the Department of Wildlife to arrive.

Finally she said, “Thank you,” as she asked, “Are you okay?”

As I began to pull back onto the road, I smiled through my chattering teeth, “Y-e-e-s-s-s a-n-n-d-d-d y-y-o-o-u-r-r wel-wel-co-co-co-come.”

And to answer the Officer’s question: I suppose I am crazy.

While at the veterinarian’s office with one of our dogs, I asked for cup of coffee. It is something they offer to the ‘parent’s of their patients,’ and anytime I can get a fresh brewed cup o’ Joe, I’m all over it.

As the coffee finished gurgling through the maker, the young lady who was making it warned, “It’s not full, that way you can add sugar and cream to it if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” I returned, “But I like my coffee undiluted.”

The 30-something woman seated at the computer screen and answering phones, laughed and added, “He likes his coffee like he likes his women — hot and…”

She paused, catching herself before she completed the thought. She finally saved herself by finally saying, “…Strong,” to which the three of us laughed.

By this time her face was as red as if freshly sunburned. So not wishing to be outdone in the ‘not politically correct department,’ I put my hands backward on my hips and in my best-Robin-Williams- from-The –Bird-Cage impression, lisped, “Don’t tell my boyfriend that!”

The young woman who made my coffee for me pee’d herself from laughter, which caused a stir in the reception area with the other two women working on the cat-side of the counter. So I took that as a sign that I better get back to the examination room with my coffee before I caused anymore trouble.

The three of us could hardly look at one another as I slinked out the front door. I think we were afraid that by making direct eye-contact we’d start laughing again.

Harlem Globetrotter “Meadowlark” Lemon passed away at the age of 83. He played 24 seasons and by his own estimate more than 16,000 games with the Globetrotter organization.

It was the early 70’s and I remember watching his on court antics as a kid, and enjoying Saturday morning cartoons with his team mates solving some sort of problem by playing a friendly game of basketball. And if I remember correctly, they also appeared in a few “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!” cartoons as well.

But the greatest ‘Globetrotter experience’ I had, was getting to run up and down the basketball court against him and his fellow Trotters in late 1979. Ironic thing is — I’ve never been very good at basketball, but I was the only person to sign up from the 90th Hospital Squadron, so I was an automatic pick.

Anyway, Meadowlark and crew were at Warren AFB, in Cheyenne, Wyoming for a charity basketball game against the Warren Airmen (or whatever we called ourselves.)  While we knew we would lose – we ran ourselves ragged trying to get our hands on the basketball and it wasn’t the least bit helpful when the Globetrotter’s did something that made everyone, including us, crack up with laughter.

I had so much fun that night, playing for whatever charity, that I never knew what the score was in the end.

Perhaps you’ve heard the old saw: “Things happen for a reason.” Well, it seems that Star Wars is running through my son’s and my life, over 32-years after I found myself involved in “Return of the Jedi.”

This thought came to me as we sat watching the new movie over the weekend. Hopefully, I can explain myself well enough not be considered ‘too far’ out there.

Kyle works for an electronics company, where they create, box up and ship electronic parts all around the world. One of the many thousands and thousands of orders he’s helped work on these past few months has been parts for a new droid character in this latest Star War’s film, “The Force Awakens,” known as BB-8.

Made of two spheres, BB-8 includes a large ball for the body and a smaller one for the head. Disney licensed the BB-8 character to Sphero in July 2014, which in turn hired Kyle’s employer to produce, package and distribute the electronic pieces.

Having worked as Mark Hamill’s stand-in and stunt-double when I was 23-years-old, the Star War’s saga has managed to cross-sect 23-year-old Kyle’s life and mine more than three-decades later. I know – the link is very thin – but there it is.

So schools in the Reno/Sparks area are out for winter break — or Christmas break as we used to say in the old days. Despite that, the school zone light’s near my home continue to flash meaning (in Nevada) you’re supposed to slow down to 15 miles per hour.

So the question becomes: Do I drop down to the required speed limit or drive on as if the flashing lights mean absolutely nothing? Yeah — fool me once…

So I slow down to 15 miles per hour. In no time I have three vehicles stacked up behind me and I can tell they’re feeling less than Christmassy towards me.

Without warning, and from where the cruiser came, I don’t know. But he jumped right in behind me and flipped on his siren and flashing lights.

“Oh, crap,” I shouted at the dashboard, “Now what did I do?!”

Wasting no time, I pulled out my driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, which the man-behind-the-badge didn’t fail to ask for. He looked them over to make certain they were all up to date.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“You were going only 15 miles an hour when the speed limit is 35,” he politely explained.

“Yes. I know I was, but…” I started to reply.

“You must not have children,” he interrupted.

“Not school aged, no,” I agreed.

“Well, schools out and there’s no reason to do anything other than the posted speed limit, even with the lights flashing,” he continued.

“Oh, good — then you saw them too,” I returned.

He furrowed his brow in a puzzled expression, but before he could say anything, I told him that I’d been ticketed a few years ago for speeding through a school zone in spite of school being out for the summer. I also explained that I didn’t want to get another ticket and waste my time or the courts time jus’ to get it dismissed.

“Gotch’ya,” he stated as he handed me my paperwork adding, “Have yourself a Merry Christmas.”

“You, too,” I called back as he walked to his cruiser, adding, “Stay safe and Happy New Year as well.”

While working as Irving Middle School in Pocatello, Idaho, Dalene Bowden was caught giving a lunch to a girl who supposedly didn’t have the money to pay for it. Pocatello/Chubbuck School District 25 immediately terminated her employment because of her theft of school district property.

Yes – school district property — which is paid for through both federal and state taxes and isn’t hers to give away as she sees fit.

The ex-lunch lady claims she’s never been written up or reprimanded on the job, though she did receive a verbal warning once for giving a student a cookie. And since she has a history such activity – it goes to show that she has a personal agenda.

Bowden should have paid for the $1.70 lunch if she truly wanted to help the child before stealing it in order to give it away. So simply put, she’s a thief – so why the hell is she being portrayed as some sort of hero by the press and social media?

Because no one has taken the time to look beyond the ‘bleeding heart story-line,’ of some poor wayward child being starved by the fascistic government bureaucracy, which is all bogus in the first place. After all, the girl Bowden gave the lunch had money enough pay for the lunch herself, but ain’t anyone talking about that.

And now the district is bowing to public pressure and in ‘the spirit of the holiday,’ is offering to reinstate the woman. Meanwhile a gofundme.com account has been set up help Bowden fund action against the district.

As my grandpa used to say, “A fool and his money are soon parted.”