Before I had to report for duty at Warren AFB, in Cheyenne, Wyoming, I had two weeks of leave. I was at home, doing my best to be a kid once more before I had to pick-up the mantle of adulthood on a permanent basis.

My day had been spent working in the yard with both Mom and Dad. I had mowed both the front and backyards and helped pull weeds from the flower beds as well.

It was late afternoon when we knocked off for the day in order to have dinner. Afterwards all the kids in the neighborhood had planned to gather for a large game of hide-and-go-seek and I was looking forward to the fun.

While I don’t recall who was it at the time, I do remember I took off running towards the northwest corner of the house. I had planned to crawl under the house in order to hide.

However, I never made it that far. Instead I found a nasty surprise laying in the yard jus’ a couple feet from the corner of the house.

It was a hoe, and I had stepped on its upright blade. The handle shot upward and slammed into the right-side of my face.

This caused a chain-reaction as I found myself angling at a full-sprint into the corner of the building with the left-side of my face. From there I careened headlong into one of the redwood fence posts that ran along the side of our home.

While I don’t fully remember hitting the post face first, I do recall waking up with a jolt after laying in the fresh-cut grass for about a minute. By this time, everyone was standing around me wondering if I was dead or a live.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel much like playing anymore. Instead, Mom spent the next hour and a half pulling redwood slivers from my forehead and by the next morning, both my eyes were blackened.

It’s what I get for leaving the hoe laying in the grass.

Last night, sleep was punctuated by several unusual dreams. In one, Mom was giving me advice on my current writing project.

“Tommy,” she said to me, “You’re not a novelist — you’re a storyteller.”

Whoa!

Mary and I were on the outskirts of the Mojave National Preserve. It was after midnight and we were the only vehicle that we could see along the long, flat stretch of Interstate 15.

We were on our way back to Ramona, where the bride’s family lives. I was planning to stay the night and make the return trip to Las Vegas the following morning.

At the time I was driving my 1972 VW Beetle. While it didn’t look like much, it had proved to be a very trustworthy vehicle having made several road trips up and down the coast of California and then across the deserts into southern Nevada.

The moon wasn’t full, but full enough to show the outline of the desert as it stretched out before us. The bride was half-sleeping as I drove on into the early morning.

Without warning, a large object flew out of the darkness from our right and slammed into the car. The object seemed to engulf us in its thousands of tentacle like branches as I fought it for control of the wheel.

The bride screamed as I jammed on the brakes. Our car jerked to the left than shot back to the right and then off the roadway.

Jus’ as the vehicle slid to a stop in the loose dirt and sand, the object that had been clinging to it, slipped away into the night. We sat there for a couple of minutes asking each other, “What the hell was that?!”

That early morning we pulled into her parents driveway  jus’  as the sun was coming up. As she went inside, I stopped to inspect my car.

Trapped in the frame, on the mirrors, in the bonnet,and the hood were fragments of a dried brush-like material. After examining it for a minute, it dawned on me, we had been the victim of a huge random car-swallowing tumble weed.

It was a regular overcast day when the one hundred or so scouts gathered on the newly constructed Tsunami Landing. Each scout, whether a Boy Scout or Cub Scout, was given an 3-foot by five-foot American flag on a standard to hold during the upcoming ceremony.

We were gathered for the dedication of the landing to the lives that were lost when a tsunami swept through the tiny seaside city. Before officials took to the podium, we were all given a brief lesson in how to maintain our ranks and how to hold the standards.

Our instructions were simple: when the American and California state flags were presented to the crowd, we were to come to attention. After the flags were placed in their respective holders on either side of the podium, we were to go to parade rest, meaning our feet shoulder width apart, our left hand behind our back and the flag we were each holding, dipped forward the full length of our arm.

While there were several speakers that day, the one who stands out the most was Congressman Don Clausen. Not only was he the event’s main speaker, he was also the catalyst behind getting federal funding to creat a high wave break to protect both the harbor and dock, but also the town.

Congressman Clausen was also the driving power to secure monies to help rebuild the nearly 70 city blocks affected by the tsunami. He was eventually voted out of office in the early 1980s.

Every time I return to the north coast, I try to visit Tsunami Landing. I also toss a couple of coins in the multi-concrete seagull festooned fountain that adorns the center of the plaza, thankful I was a part of that historical day so long ago.

Where Mom found the special glass, I will never know. What I do know is that every time I had a friend over for dinner for the first, time she’d drag it from the cupboard for them to use.

The special glass was modified with four tiny slits about half an inch from the rim and set inside a recess that hid them from quick identification. The slightest tip of the glass inevitably caused whatever was being drank from the glass to dribble down the chin of the unsuspecting victim.

One such victim was Diana Webster.

She was given the glass one night, filled with milk and try as she might, she couldn’t keep from dripping milk all over her hand, her chin, her dinner plate and eventually her shirt. Mom finally offered to get her another glass, but Diana told her no as she continued to try to overcome her sudden “leak at the lips.”

We would all stop eating every time she picked up the glass, knowing the outcome would be the same. She’d dribble, and we’d all laugh, including her.

It continued like this until the glass was empty. That’s when Mom got her a new glass and let her in on the secret.

Diana laughed, and then responded, “Thank goodness, I thought I was gonna have to go back to a baby bottle and start over!”

It was standing room only at Summit Christian Church as family and friends came to remember U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant Frank Zaehringer, who died in Afghanistan on October 11th.  Zaehringer was killed by an improvised explosive device while leading a combat patrol in Helmand province.

“He was a soldier,” memorial speaker Rick Revigilo said, “an American war hero.”

Between those who spoke in Zaehringer’s memory, images from his life were played on three large screens at the front of the church. Mourners saw him grow in those pictures from a young boy on Santa’s lap, to his high school graduation, to wearing the uniform of a United States Marine.

During the service, those close to him spoke of his love for his family, his active lifestyle, and his sense of humor. Zaehringer grew up in Reno and graduated from Wooster High School in 2005, where he was on the baseball team.

“Frank showed himself to be a rare individual, endowed with intelligence, warmth, common sense, and an intense desire to give of himself for others,” Wooster High Baseball Coach Ron Malcolm said.

In his honor, the school has renamed the Wooster baseball team’s “Hustle Award” the “Frank Zaehringer Award.”

Sergeant Zaehringer was remembered as a dedicated family man, to his wife, Cassie, her two children, his parents, Frank Jr. and Sharon, and sister, Nicole Scott, her husband Jason, and his niece and nephew. His parents were presented with a Gold Star Banner, followed by the presentation of colors, a 21-gun salute, and the playing of “Taps.”

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.