Kyle and I went and saw the new movie: “Toy Story 3.” While its a great 3-D movie, I wouldn’t recommend it for any parent suffering from the saddness brought on by a child becoming an adult and I’m still not over the way its affected me.

Funny thing is — I can’t really recall the movie in total as I was too busy wiping my eyes and nose.

The night before it had rained and the temperature was a wet 46-degrees. That led police to believe they had another case of death by exposure. It had happened twice before in the last three years at the homeless encampment.

At first investigators held what information they had close to their vest. They told reporters to for the local newspaper the homeless woman had been found inside her tent, fully clothed.

Within three days that would change.

Not only would the county medical examiner find an extreme amount of bruising, the doctor also discovered she had been sexually assaulted and this may have contributed to her death. Police would also make an arrest in the case.

Sheryl Sanders-Dickson’s rib-cage showed signs of trauma, leading investigators to conclude she was tortured by way of heavy compression. She also suffered a punctured lung, though authorities have not yet concluded how this puncture happened.

With the new disclosures being made in Sheryl’s death, investigators were forced to release information contradicting what had been reported previously. Her partially clothed body was found hidden under a sleeping bag, and it was evident she had been attacked while unconscious.

Authorities now say that the brutalization of Sheryl was of such a massive nature that no-one would have willingly submitted themselves to such treatment. Toxicology reports are pending, though officials say the outcome doesn’t appear to be a contributing factor to her death, other than leaving her unable to defend herself.

Sheryl lived behind the Safeway Store along with other homeless people, all doing their best to survive. Also living at the same encampment was a transient by the name of Robert Randolph.

Randolph is known to the local law enforcement community. Four years earlier Randolph was found not guilty of second-degree murder.

The 47-year-old man was accused of body-checking John Waid the year before. Waid fell, hit his head and died eight days later.

Randolph has been charged with first-degree burglary, rape, sexual penetration with a foreign object and sodomy with a foreign object. He has not been charged with Sheryl’s murder.

Sheryl was a naturally beautiful woman, who had fallen on hard times. Her friends and family regarded her as good-natured and always happy, willing to help out another person when she had so little herself.

Sheryl was a graduate of Del Norte High School, class of 1978. She was only 50 years old.

Several bunches of flowers now grace the camp site where she died so violently.

Yes, I’m angry. And no, I’m will not apologize for it.

It really ticks me off to find myself cut off from all the major roadways in or out of my neighborhood because of road construction. This isn’t the first time this has happened either.

To make things worse, some guy in a state truck yells at me because I wanted to pull out on to the street, in order to head for town. I went ahead anyway since he didn’t have a uniform on or appear to be wearing a gun on his hip.

Guess he thinks he can get away with it because he’s managed to bluff other, more-compliant drives before he started shouting at me. He’s lucky I didn’t run his a$$ over as he tried to stop me from going.

I’d have hated to damage my truck like that.

Traffic is generally snarled along U.S. 395 around quitting time in Nevada’s capitol city. So I decided to try avoiding the mess by cutting down a couple back streets.

As I sat stopped at a traffic light, I saw this guy come running towards my car. The passenger side door was unlocked for some stupid reason and he climbed in without asking.

More shocked than scared, I asked him, ” What are you doing?!”

“Shut up and drive,” was his response. He added, “I’ve got a gun.”

Then the guy looked over his right shoulder as if expecting to see someone or something. I took the opportunity to pull out my lock-blade knife and open it with a loud click.

“You picked the wrong guy to screw with,” I told him.

He looked at me with surprise. Then he reminded me, “I told you I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it!”

My response was simple: “I already have this knife here and you don’t have your gun ready.” Then I added, “And I’m not afraid to use it either.”

He looked at my right hand, realizing the point of the blade was nearly touching left his rib cage. He blinked twice and jumped from my car.

While he was willing to threaten someone, thankfully he wasn’t willing to die backing up that threat.

What a crazy day. I promised Kyle that I’d pay for a tattoo for his birthday today. I didn’t call to make an appointment as I figured Reno is a 24-hour town.

Guess I should have since most tattoo shops in Reno-town don’t open until noon. Furthermore, none take appointments any earlier than 1 p.m.

Yeah, I know some will ask: How could you let him do that?

My response: He’s eighteen now and old enough to decide, especially since it’s something he’s talked about doing since the age of 12.

Besides, how many of us can truly remember our 18th birthday, let alone what we got as a gift? I don’t recall and I suspect that you might not remember either.

I think Kyle will remember his 18th birthday for years and years to come.

It took the artist nearly two straight hours of inking to complete Kyle’s tattoo. And he sat through the entire thing in one sitting.

It’s a design he copied a couple years ago from one of the members of his favorite Christian rock-band, “Skillet.” It’s a single word, a stong word, a word that has deep meaning for Kyle’s life: Forgiven.

And I approve!

Kyle is 18-years-old today and I couldn’t be happier — I couldn’t be sadder. He’s no longer my little boy — he’s his own man.

His passage into adulthood leaves me proud. His growth leaves me old.

Jus’ last year I held him in my arms for the very first time. Now its all I can do to get my arms half way ’round him.

He’s my pride and I’m so very proud of him.

While I can no longer legally direct his actions, I will be there to advise him if should ask—and sometimes when he doesn’t. He will always have a shoulder to lean on or an ear to bend.

What’s left of his childhood are trinkets, photographs and memories. It’s now up to Kyle to point the way as he matures in his new found adulthood.

As I lay on the floor nursing my back, it occurs to me that I have rules for jus’ about every aspect of my life.  I know where the majority of these rules come from, while others, I have no idea how or why I think them.

When getting dressed, I put on my socks before I put on my skivvies. And I always have to have a belt on when I’m wearing pants.

Meal time mandates I eat in a certain order: salad, veggies, starches then the meat. I also never co-mingle my foods; its one thing at a time. Finally, I drink my milk, juice, coffee or whatever very last and never with a mouthful of food.

Writing even comes with its own set of rules: the two that are most prevalent are the use of the pronoun “I” in starting a sentence when it’s the first sentence in a paragraph. I’ll only use it if it is in the second or third sentence of the paragraph. Rarer still is the fact that I try never to create a paragraph longer than three or four sentences.

Even my bathroom habits have a set of rules. like making certain the toilet paper neatly wrapped around my hand rather than balled-up and defiantly NO pushing. As for showering, I wash top to bottom and after rinsing off, I use one end of the towel for drying my face, the rest for my body.

I know—way too much information.

Finally, I’m adding a new rule to my list: Don’t keep a notepad nearby when on pain medication as I’m liable to write about cr@p like this.

My back is killing me again today. I’m so tired of the pain and the lack of sleep and inability to exercise, including the simple act of walking. Yet I refuse to give up!

I will fight through this.

Jimmy Dean was not only a business man, he was also a very fine country musician and at one time he even hosted a variety television program. It was a pleasure to talk with him during a radio interview I had with him while working at KHIT.

He was a great guy and made my job of talking about the current direction of country music easy. Jimmy was worried that county-western music was heading towards a pop and rock genre, leaving its traditions behind.

We had a great time talking, music history, family, a touch of politics and a life time of experiences. A few weeks after our on-air visit, Jimmy sent me a thank-you note and an autographed picture.

Thanks for music and the memory, Jimmy.

It’s hard to understand what makes some people tick, but what I do know is that if I put my faith in a person, I’m bound to be disappointed since people are fallible. This applies to friends and family.

The hardest thing is to “let go and let God…”