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It could be beating for sure and I knew it. I could just tell by the way the little black cow stood apart from the rest of the herd.

To try to explain it would be difficult, it’s just something that a former cow-hand could understand. I had seen the animal struggling as I was stopped at the traffic light.

It was instinctive for me to watch the cattle in what remained of the opened fields of the Kiley Ranch off of Sparks Blvd. And as I watched the cow and waited for the red light to change to green I saw the tiny van pull off the side of the road.

It did not look out-of-place at first as often people would do that to talk safely on their cell phones. However as I started to pull forward into traffic I watched as a young woman got out of the van and proceeded to climb through the barbed wire fence.

“She gonna get herself hurt or worse,” I muttered in disgust as I found myself pulling off the road too.

Slowly I started backing up towards the stationary van. I could see that the woman was having no luck wrangling the little black cow who in obvious distress.

And I could see why now. It had swallowed a black plastic bag and it had obviously become caught in the animal’s throat.

“Ma’am,” I said, “Let me get it.”

“Okay,” she replied.

Yet she stayed to see that the job was completed.

Walking beyond where the cow was standing, I wanted to separate it completely from the herd. My idea was to eventually tire it out enough to just yank the black material from its throat and be done with it.

Slowly I moved back and forth, driving it further and further from the other cows and closer to the fence line. I could see its ribs heaving in and out as it struggled to get air.

In the distance I could also see the woman had opened up her van and was sitting on the step talking to her two small children. They were both in-car seats.

Still I continued to circle back and forth using my cowboy hat to fan the little black cow away from the herd and up against the barbed wire fence. Within a matter of minutes I was within five feet of the critter.

Still I continued to work the animal. I worked the cow looking for the right moment.

It came when the brute turned from left to right, his nose within inches of my waist. That’s when I took advantage of the animal’s error.

Like an old cougar, I sprang at the cow clutching its ears. I tried my best to dig my heels into the earth but couldn’t get them set.

The young cow bellowed and spun around sure that he was being attacked by a vicious predator. He choked and coughed, gasped and gagged but it continued to put up a strong fight out of natural instinct.

On the other hand, I was hanging on for my dear life, hoping that the little black cow did not suddenly change directions and try to rub me off on the sharpened ends of the barbed wire fence. I knew if that were to happen I’d have to let go and start the whole process over.

Then without warning the little black cow slowed down, then stopped. The animal did not move except for his sides which heaved heavier than before.

I knew this was the moment I had been waiting for.

Grabbing the exposed end of black bag, I tugged on it. It made an awful slurping noise as it slipped from the animal’s throat.

I held it up, shiny and slick.

It was more than the woman could bear. She discovered she could change a thousand messy diapers, but that black bag — it was more than her tummy could take.

“Your want me to run to the store for you?” I asked Mom as I grabbed my truck keys.

Mom looked at me, “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

Looking out the door, I saw cousin Danny’s little ranch car was parked in the way. They called it the little ranch car because it rarely ever left the ranch.

It could usually be found over loaded with bales of hay and oats circling around the feeder lots. But every once in a while Danny would take it out on the road if it was convenient.

“Hey, Danny, your car’s in the way,” I shouted.

He stepped around the corner from the front room and tossed me the keys, “Take her instead,” Danny said.

Danny disappeared back towards the front room. I hung my keys back up and stepped out onto the porch.

It had been raining all day and the wet weather had just begun to let up. By this time though it was past sunset and would rapidly be dark before I got back from the market.

The market was only ten minutes away.  And all I needed to get was some milk and an extra dozen eggs for breakfast the next day. I hopped in Danny’s ranch wagon, adjusted the seat, turned on the ignition, fastened the seat belt, and away I went.

It was less than half a mile to Rohnerville Road from Mom’s home. I had traveled the dirt by-way several hundred times in the many years she had lived there.

Danny had been listening a sports-station. I looked down at the radio and reached for the tuning knob at the same time as my rear-view mirror reflected the lack of light as the day faded away.

Then I looked up.

In front of me was a large brown and white dappled object. I struck it almost as soon as my headlights shined on it and just a fraction of a second faster than I could process what the object was.

Thump! Smash!

The object came crashing through the windshield after the car’s front-end hit it. Then everything grew black.

My years of professional driving came back to me as if by instinct. I stepped solidly on the brake pedal, feeling the rear end swing wide to the right and then to the left, forcing the vehicle to a stop.

I could hardly breathe as the car’s seat was laid back and this object had poured itself into the cab of the car and was resting on top of him.

It was a cow!

My body felt wet and warm. It was blood.

I was bleeding, my hands were trapped and I started to panic, when I suddenly heard a voice say, “Good God, he’s still alive.”

“Hey, help me, get me out,” I tried to yell, but the cow’s weight was slowly crushing me and getting enough air to speak was a labor.

“Help’s on its way, cowboy,” I heard a female voice say.

At the same time I could feel somebody tugging at the lifeless and limp mass of animal flesh resting on my upper body.

After a few more pulls they gave up and someone said, “It no use, the damned things stuck and it’s stuck but good.”

I concentrated on trying to breathe as deeply as I could.

In the distance I heard the fire department siren sound. I knew that fire-rescue would be there within minutes.

I continued to concentrate on my deep breathing.

Anticipation made the minutes go by like hours. Finally the first fire truck pulled up and for the first time since I had hit the cow I could see fractures of light, which came from the headlights of a fire rig.

My head was pinned against the broken car seat. The cows’ backbone was holding it down and to the right.

The cows’ rear end was resting against the passenger seat. I could tell it was the rear end because I could see the tail and smell the fresh manure.

“Gees, this guys full of blood,” I heard a voice say, “But he’s got a pulse.”

Suddenly, I was aware at that moment that a hand had been touching my neck, checking for a heartbeat. And just as suddenly I became aware that I could not feel the rest of my body.

“Can you hear me?” the voice shouted.

“Yeah,” I managed to wheeze.

“We’re going to get you out just as soon as we figure out how to get the cow out of there,” he said, adding, “Okay?”

Again I wheezed out, “Yeah.”

Meanwhile another voice was trying to get information from me, asking  “What’s your name?”

I responded with more wheezing.

Within minutes they had a plan. First they would wrap a couple of chains around the dead carcass and attach it to an auto wrecker that had arrived at the scene.

Next their plan called for the wrecker to pull the animal up. Meanwhile the fire department would take the hydraulic extraction system, called the Jaws of Life, and cut away the posts and roll the roof back as if it were a convertible.

The chains rattled and clanked against the car as they were passed through the area that had been the windshield and were tightly secured around the body of the cow. I could hear the sound of the winch as the slack in the chain was taken up and within seconds the cow’s weight was off of me and I could breath freely again.

That’s when the hydraulic scissors kicked in. In one clean bite the first post above my head was cut away. The second post on the other side popped in two as the Jaws of Life made short work of it.

Then the cow rolled away and could be heard dropping to the earth with a dull thud.

Instantly my body started tingling. It was coming back to life and proving it with the sharp stabbing pain normally inflicted by resting on one’s knees or elbow for too long.

As my body came back to life, the fire fighters quickly strapped a neck brace on me and secured my blood soaked body to a long board. I was gently shoved into a running ambulance and rushed to the waiting emergency room.

For two hours, two nurses and a doctor went over me. I was covered in blood but did not have a scratch, walking out of the hospital with only a sore back.

Later it was discovered that the cow’s juggler vein had been cut upon impact with the ranch car. It bled all over me since he was lying right under the head.

That is probably what saved my life as it stopped the mortally wounded animal from thrashing around. The horns had only been a few inches from my neck and chest.

The other thing that saved my life that evening was the seat. It broke upon impact.

The doctor said if it had not, I would have been crushed to death by the eleven hundred pounds of bovine flesh, as it smashed through the window.

As it turned out, the cow belonged to Danny. Much of his property runs parallel to the road.

How she got out  of the pasture was never discovered.

And as for the little ranch car, it can still be seen toting an over loaded trunk of hay and oats out to the feeder lots. It has also been used three or four times to pull at a birthing calf.

Danny hosed out the interior to get rid of the dried blood, then he set himself to working the roof down and into place. It took nearly an entire Saturday afternoon but he finally managed to weld the posts back into place.

To this day I’m constantly the source of family fun. Someone inevitably says something like, “Don’t send him to the store, he can’t tell the difference between a gallon of milk and a side of beef.”

From there, the laughing gets a little too loud for me.

It was pleasant autumn day for a Civil War reenactment as I pulled my truck up under the “Hanging Tree.” The small town had once been called Mormon Station and was the oldest known settlement in northern Nevada.

My unit, consisting of both Confederate and Union forces, had established a small encampment in front of the towns museum. It had a beautiful sloping hill with a nice shade of trees and place ready-made for recruiting new members to the organization and that’s what I set about doing.

It wasn’t until after late afternoon that I was relieved by another member so that I might be able to take in some of the sights and sounds of the festival. I was tickled to discover that I also had the privilege of escorting Miss Kathrine Marie and her South Georgia friend Miss Christine Louise through the event grounds.

Together we headed along the rows of venders displaying the many crafts and arts of the day. Miss Katherine Marie shined in her purple evening gown, while Miss Christine Louise flashed wildly in her red satin dress. I stood out like a sore thumb between the two in my dark blue wool uniform.

It was me who saw trouble approaching in the form of a group of gunslingers. I recognized them as Southern sympathizers who would not let us pass due to the fact that I was wearing Union blue.

“I see we have ourselves a Blue Belly,” said the leader of the band as he stepped into my path, barring my ability to continue escorting the two women.

I paused, smiled and said, “Excuse me, sir you are in the way of these two ladies.”

The leader looked around and then said, “No, I’m in your way Billy Yank. Are you prepared to die or make music?”

I said nothing.

“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said the leader. He paused, and then proceeded to tell, though no one had inquired, “I’m Doc Holliday and I come from Georgia.”

With that he threw back the right bottom of his jacket, exposing an ivory-handled six-shooter.

“As you can see Doc Holliday of Georgia, I have come unarmed,” I calmly replied, “as being prepared to die or make music, I am a believer in Jesus Christ, so I am forever ready for death.”

Slowly I reached into his sack coat and with drew a silver harmonica, “I am also prepared to make music.”

Blowing into the little device I sounded out, “Dixie.” The group laughed and wished each other well then continued down the street in opposite directions.

Such are actors, actresses and acting.

The streets had long since closed up, the vendors packing away their goods, and the festivities had moved themselves to the dance. It was after nine when the three of us decided that fifteen hours was enough for one day.

We decided to head back to where our vehicles were parked. It was a large and mostly vacant field now, filled with fresh-cut hay, bordered by rows of cottonwood trees including the infamous “Hanging Tree.”

Once we got to the car Kay and Christy’s were driving, the two women decided they had enough of the hoops under their skirts. Kay’s came off without any problem.

However, Christy’s hoop had developed a knot and refused to be undone. It was decided that I needed to get a flashlight out of my truck so the situation could be better seen.

Minutes later, I found himself standing in the middle of an open field hold a flashlight on Christy’s hips as Kay worked to get the knot undone. The knot was proving to be more difficult to get out than it was to get in.

“I told you not to tie it in a knot,” Christy scolded Kay.

“I know,” she answered.

I added my two-cents worth, “We can always cut it.”

“No!” was the resounding reply from both ladies.

A few more minutes of picking at the knot produced no more success than when the two first started. Kay was getting annoyed and Christy was exasperated.

“Here, hold my hat,” I said to Kay.

I kneeled and grasped the knot between my teeth and rolled it over a couple of times.

Christy asked laughingly, “What in the world are you doing?”

Suddenly the knot loosened and the cotton sash that held the hoop skirt up slipped away. At that same moment there was a heavy sound from the right of the trio.

It was some one walking through the hay-field.

“Why you Yankee Bast…” it was Doc’s voice.

It was heavier and sounded sluggish. It occurred to me that the man I knew as Doc was perhaps intoxicated.

Doc never finished the sentence, or if he had, the sound of his voice was interrupted by the report of his black powder pistol discharging towards me. I had seen him as he walked towards us, fumbling with his six-shooter.

I found myself temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash of the pistol.

Quickly Kay and Christy raced to get into the awaiting car. They drove out of the field like old-time moonshiners with the revenue man hot on their heels.

I ran for my truck too, high tailing it out of the field right behind the women.

It wouldn’t be until I was half way through Carson City that I’d come to realize I had bloodied my knuckles. I then wondered aloud, “Will Doc remember shooting at me or that I broke his nose?”

So much for actors, actresses and acting.

From an old joke Dad told me:

At one time the entire body was in complete chaos. It had no one or anything in charge of it’s activities. Recognizing this, the brain decided it should be boss.

“After all,” the brain said, “without me nothing would get done.”

The feet immediately disagreed, claiming “Without us, you couldn’t walk anywhere.”

Their argument was met with disagreement from the legs, who told the rest of the body the feet were useless with out them. Soon the arms and hands were vying for the position, as was the heart and lungs along with the stomach and eyes.

Suddenly, the butt chimed in saying it should be in charge of the body. It’s claim was met with laughter and ridicule.

The butt responded, saying, “I show you!”

And it stopped functioning. Soon the legs were weak, the stomach sick, the feet were swollen, the heart had palpitations, the lungs wheezed, the hands became stiff, the eyes were blurry and the brain grew foggy.

Before long they were pleading with the butt to start functioning once again.

The butt replied, “Only if I can be boss.”

All the other body parts agreed and made the butt the boss over them all, proving you only need be an ass to be in charge.

Handling money has always terrified me because I have “dyscalculia.” It’s the numerical equivalent of dyslexia.

During high school, each sport or discipline had to take turns in the ticket-gate for home football and basketball games. It was during the basketball season that I was placed in the ticket window.

By the end of the night I had all the receipts screwed up and I would be suspected of stealing at least a hundred-bucks, if not more, from the lock-box. And while I hadn’t, I couldn’t prove I had not and that left room for a lot of suspicion.

It fell to Coach Brian Ferguson to ask me if I had taken the money. I can still remember him finding me as I sat in the bleachers next to Candy Lehto, watching the game.

I thought for sure that he was going to call the police and have me arrested.

Worse yet, I felt bad for Candy. Her only crime — guilt-by-association.

Perhaps I should have left the moment Deirdre called me, but instead I waited about six-hours and now, it was too late. I had already stopped at Eureka General and now I was pulling up into the driveway at Mom and Del’s home.

However it was no longer Del’s home either. He had passed away while I drove from Reno to the hospital.

Del Middleton and Mom had been married since 1989. It was a second marriage for both and I was happy to call him my step-dad.

Del was the only family member to express his sorrow for my real dad’s passing nearly two-years earlier. That meant an awful lot to me and I told him so, time and again.

The house was locked up tight and I couldn’t get Mom to answer the phone. I was certain that after the last 24-hours she was finally getting some much-needed sleep, so I decided to go to the local Chinese restaurant and get myself something to eat.

Later in the evening I called again and Mom answered. She apologized for not answering earlier, telling me that the door was unlocked and to come in and that she’d be back in bed.

Since I was staying with Mom, I became her gate-keeper, meaning no one saw her unless it was okay with her, this included the numerous telephone calls.  By the end of the second day, there must have been 30 plates of food and pies, several dozen balloons and nearly as many sympathy cards.

Also on the second day, Mom was able to will herself out of bed and have breakfast with me, though she didn’t eat much. She started talking about how Del’s death had transpired earlier in the week.

It began with Del taking their old dog Freckles to the vet and have the dog euthanized. Freckles was old and crippled up ever since she tangled with a bobcat a year or so earlier.

The next day, Del fell ill. He was having trouble breathing and was complaining of severe chest pains.

Mom said, “Freckles must have known something about Del that we didn’t.”

Delmar had multiple sclerosis, congestive heart failure, emphysema and was HIV positive. He had contracted the virus that causes AIDS through a blood transfusion during open heart surgery.

It took Del three days to succumb to heart failure. In that time, nearly a hundred people came to his bedside to say their goodbyes, including close family.

But like I already said, I was too late to say goodbye to Del. Therefore, since I was removed from the directness of his death, I was the one to handle Mom and his business that week.

“Your tardiness,” Mom told me, “is my blessing.”

The entire U.S. Air Force environmental health class was out in the field studying vector control. After a lengthy bus ride, we hiked into the area in which our instructors had pre-selected as our outdoor classroom for the day.

It was an area covered with rocks and small tree-like plants. It was obvious to me that the area was a flood-plain for the nearby river in the winter and during the spring run-off.

One of the warnings we were given was to watch for rattlesnakes, fire-ants, hornets, wasps, bees and scorpions. We were told to watch where we sat, leaned, placed a hand, and stepped.

No one reported seeing any of the things we were warned about. However that all changed when I found a fallen log in the shade to sit down on.

I felt a sharp pain in my right butt cheek and grew immediately ill to my stomach.

The pain was so sharp, that I jumped to my feet and pulled my fatigue pants down. A number of my classmates confirmed I had a large red, swollen welt on my backside.

After an hour or so I finally got over the nausea. It was decided that I had been stung by a Striped Bark Scorpion. Luckily, they aren’t deadly, jus’ painful.

And though I’ve encountered a Striped Bark Scorpion, I’ve never actually seen one.

Shortly before Mom and Dad decided to convert the garage into a rumpus room; it was a plain old place to park the car. However, neither parent ever bothered to bring the car inside.

Instead it was simply a place for Adam and me to play, Dad to do whatever household repairs he was given by Mom, and for Mom to work on her crafts and such. It was also the starting place for at least one strange community-wide shenanigan.

One evening I recall standing around the garage watching Dad and “Uncle Ron” Benedict spray painting a piece of cardboard. I wasn’t old enough at the time to understand that they were making some sort of statement at the time.

I remember them laughing mischievously as they planned to put it up during the early morning hours of the next day.

To this day, I still don’t know what they pair were referencing at the time. But what I do know is that the sign they created, ended up posted somewhere very visible and it caused enough of a stir that a picture of was published in the Del Norte Triplicate.

The black spray paint outline was eventually covered by carpet as the rumpus room took shape. And that same outline was there when the carpet was pulled up during my parent’s divorce in 1980.

I still don’t get it and maybe I never will.

Our 1971 Opel Cadet was in the shop being repairs and Dad had to borrow Pa Sanders’ old Dodge for the day. We were there to shop for my high school graduation suit.

Mom and I got out of the car in front of Daly’s Department store and went inside to start looking. Dad stopped to drop a couple of dimes in the parking meter before joining us.

After finding and purchasing my suit, we headed back out to the car. We had been inside the store for so long that the parking meter had run out of time.

Once there, Dad saw the ticket under the passenger-side windshield wiper and he was mad about it. Later he admitted to Mom and me that saw the meter-maid filling out the ticket, but forgot we were using the car.

Jerry Lane, Esq., passed away after a nearly two year-long battle with cancer. He’s Kyle’s and his sister Kaitlyn’s maternal-grandfather.

I feel badly for their mother, Charissa as she was unable say goodbye in person and I know how desperate that can be.

Jerry never really cottoned to me, after-all I got his only daughter pregnant. And worse yet I was a married man and her pregnancy was out of wedlock.

The first time I met him, rather than give me the third-degree, he stared me down. I can’t recall ever feeling like a pin-cushion for daggers before that night.

Then I really made him mad at me when I decided to take Charissa to court in order to assert my parental rights. I can’t remember how it happened, but somehow I got the blame for calling him an “old fart,” or something during like that, during the proceedings.

He was actually one helluva lawyer, having served as legal counsel to the Nevada State Legislature in Carson City. He also had his own law firm in Las Vegas, before going into semi-retirement and hiring on to represent the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony which includes the Paiute, the Shoshone, and the Washoe tribes.

After being diagnosed with terminal cancer, he and his wife moved to Texas, where he passed away October 10, 2010. Jerry was 83-years-old.

I’m so sorry for both Kyle, Kaitlyn and their mother’s loss.