My wife handed me the Reno-Sparks section of the Gazette-Journal on Friday, February 18th. She directed my attention to an article about a Civil War reenactor giving a living history presentation to a home school co-op.

I thought it was a good article, except the part where the fellow giving the presentation was misquoted. I happen to be involved in Civil War reenactment and I love history, so when I saw the misquote I had to write a letter to the editor to correct the mistake.

What I wrote I felt was a very thought provoking piece correcting their mis-quote. With my name, address, telephone number and such the letter was over 380 words. After all of this, I received a letter back from the editorial desk: “Thank you for writing. However, your letter exceeds the 200-word limit. If you could reduce it to that length, we would be happy to consider it for publication.”

Personally, I felt this to be a bit of an insult so I shot off a reply to the editorial desk. I don’t like to mix my words up when I get nasty with someone, yet I fear that the person sitting on the desk reading the letters hasn’t the understanding of a common house fly.

Anyway this is the letter I returned, “It is a sad state of affairs when the voice of the common person is limited to a standard of two-hundred words. Obviously your editorial review board maintains a liberal bias that is akin to a wolf hiding in sheep’s skin. So much for redressing an error, especially one that reflects as it does during Black History Month. Shame on you.”

Surprisingly, I received a response. Whoever wrote this letter attempted to explain to me that “one size fits all” so everything is fair and equal.

“The rule is in place to simply allow more writers an opportunity to have their voices heard, not to stifle anyone. Space is limited, unfortunately, and your 400-word letter would knock someone else’s letter out. Since all writers are subject to the same limitations, it is difficult to understand how that constitutes bias, either liberal or conservative.”

Now I am not one to buy into the “one size fits all” theory. If the theory worked properly then I should be able to go to the newspaper right now and not be able to find an opinion written into what should be a hard-news story.

The Reno Gazette-Journal has writers on staff that gets to say whatever they want as long as it fits into the mold that the paper has set forth. The idea smacks of socialism in my mind but I didn’t go that far in my letter to the person on the other end of my terminal.

“It is not that simple. You have an article that clearly states the facts incorrectly during Black History Month. I wrote a nice piece correcting that misquote with facts and I backed them up. Rarely do I see your staff or readers backing their pieces up with historical quotes or facts and documentation that can be easily researched. That in my mind places your paper in the position of being liberally biased. Your paper is willing to accept a piece that appears factual as long as it fits neatly into a set of ‘rules.”

What I have written is of importance to all Americans in my humble opinion. The debate still rages on as to which side was right in the Civil War.

People still stand up and shout at each other because their Great-grand pappy fought for this side or that side. Men died and some never have received credit for their sacrifice.

So my op-ed bumps a letter or two, aren’t the historical facts worth the space? If not, it really is a shame.

“American role was to the Southern army. Still shame on the newspaper for making you stick to these petty rules on such an important issue especially during Black History Month.”

My last letter to the editor’s desk must have done something, because all of a sudden I received an invite to increase my wordage and resubmit for a column. Talk about being surprised.

“You are more than welcome to submit a ‘Your Turn’ column on the subject, if you’d like. To fit our format the length must be approximately 550 words. At 357 words, your original submission is in no-man’s-land, too long for a letter but too short for a column. If you would prefer to do that, you may submit the revised piece directly to me and I will take care of it.”

I wish someone would have offered that to me in the beginning as I hate eating crow, for being so nasty.

So I sat down and rewrote my piece and I came away with exactly the word count asked for. I really don’t expect to see it in the Reno Gazette-Journal after the way I treated this editor. Maybe one day I will learn not to be so arrogant.

Oops, I’ve exceeded my word limit.

A narrow band of sunshine pushed its way between the two curtain halves and into the small one room flat. It was enough to cause James to blink slightly then wake up.

He looked around the room for a moment, puzzled by his surroundings then remembered he was now a civilian, living in the civilian world. He rolled over slightly and picked up the half full pack of Marlboros and his lighter.

As he worked to light one of the cigarettes, he slipped his legs over the edge of his bed and drew in on the cigarette. He blew out the smoke and thought, “I need to quit these things.”

James recalled that he started smoking as a response to the stress he felt out in the arid desert of Iraq. He needed something to do with his hands after that first fire-fight and one of his buddies offered him a smoke.

“That’s been a long time ago,” he thought. James realized that he’d no longer need them as he wasn’t in a place where 10 to a 100 people got killed everyday by snipers or car bombs.

He smiled, knowing he had survived all that. ”Today’s a perfect day,” he James thought.

Now that James realized that he was back in the World, he relaxed a little and snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers. He resolved that this cigarette would be his last one.

He looked around his room and reached for his jeans.

After getting dressed, James walked to the window and peered outside. He still felt a small reservation about standing directly in front of the large piece of glass. His combat instinct always came on strong as he approached the window.

“After three weeks,” he thought, “You’d think I’d shake that whole idea.”

The street was busy; cars, truck and buses driving by. He could see the corner market from his place and a he decided to go over and buy a cup of coffee.

James had come to enjoy the sweet taste of a French-vanilla cappuccino. He had drunk the stuff the Army tries to pass off as coffee for much too long. The cappuccino was a benefit of being a civilian once again.

He grabbed up his camera, draped it over his shoulder and stepped out of his room and into the hallway.

Down stairs he stood on the sidewalk watching as people walked by completely unconcerned with the activities going on around them. It was something he had never paid much attention to when he was younger.

He was just 18 years old when he joined and after three tours in Iraq, he was the old man of the outfitted when he mustered out four years later. He saw that a number of things in the World had changed since he had been away or perhaps it was he who had changed.

Either way James was now a free man to pursue his dream of being a photographer. That’s why he was living in New York City rather than returning home to the farm in Nebraska.

The decision had been met as a scandal by his folks and friends back home. However James knew that he couldn’t return directly to a quiet life of farming after the three and a half years he had spent in the Middle East. He needed the excitement of a large city like New York, besides that is where his school was located.

He waited for the little green man to appear on the crosswalk light across the street. When it did, he moved with the mob of humanity from one corner to the next. He repeated the action again to get to the market.

James poured his coffee and paid the clerk for the hot brew. He stepped outside and wondered what he would do with the remainder of his day.

“I think I’ll just walk around and snap some photos for the hell of it,” James thought.

It was about that time that a young white man walked up to him and asked, “Hey buddy, you got a light?

James placed his cup of coffee on a yellow pole that was employed by the market to prevent vehicles from driving through the large glass doors and windows and reached into his shirt pocket, searching for the book of matches only to realize he had left them on his nightstand in his room.

Then he awful realization came to him; he was about to be mugged by the white man asking for a match. This realization was too late.

Without warning, he was facing a pistol and the man was yanking his camera from his shoulder. James grabbed the strap, hoping to hold onto his prized-possession.

James saw the flash of the gun barrel but never heard the report. He felt a heavy punch to his chest and that the punch had knocked him down. James was surprised by the lack of pain.

When he awoke, he was looking down on an ashen-colored black man. It was his body, laying flat across the sidewalk as a small crowd had formed around him.

James recognized himself. He was confused by the sight of his lifeless body. He saw a small wisp of steam rising from his cup of coffee as it was still resting on the top of the yellow pole. In the distance was the sound of sirens.

James felt a warm sensation envelope him as he floated ever higher. Then suddenly his view went dark and knew he was dead.

It was the ending of a perfect day.

A friend of mine let me know that a former employer of ours died a couple of days ago. His name is Bill Stamps.

He worked at radio station KPOD in Crescent City, California. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead but his dying has opened a nasty wound in me that I need to let heal now.

Here’s the back story…

In 1984, I was in between gigs and hoping that Stamps was going to hire me back. He had sold KPOD and when the guy who bought it went bankrupt Bill got it back.

Cathy was hired right away. In the meantime I did whatever BS jobs came around for KPOD like setting up remote equipment and announcing parades over PA systems, etc.

Anyway, I had also worked as a stunt double and stand in on the movie “Return of the Jedi” in the Smith River location and I got to know a guy by the name of Toomey. It would later turn out that Toomey would end up working at KCRE the cross town rival to KPOD.

As it is I never had much use for Toomey as a jock or as a person. I had found out early on that he had a thing for ‘younger men’ and was very forceful and direct about it.

Terry and I had words when he made a pass at me. Then while getting a haircut, I spoke of the incident to the sister-in-law of the morning show host of KCRE.

Crescent City is a small town. Word travels fast.

Before I realized it Cathy called me and chewed me a new one. Come to find out she was called on the carpet by Bill Stamps and told, “If Tom doesn’t go over there and apologize, you’re fired!”

Needless to say, I marched my butt over to KCRE and apologized to that man. And I hated Bill Stamps for it ever since.

Now the front story…

In 2002, Toomey was sentenced to prison for having had sex with a 12-year young boy. Bill Stamps forced me to apologize to a pedophile!

Toomey used radio to lure his youthful victims to his side. And he was given a pass to do it.

Meanwhile hard working and decent people like Cathy had to feel fear for their jobs because guys like me couldn’t leave the small town truths alone or keep their big mouths shut. I’m sorry about the hell you had to go through for that Cathy.

Now I hear the town of Crescent City is giving Bill Stamps a parade to honor his passing. They are calling him “a great and caring man.”

I have a much different memory of him.

My wife says “Let it be buried with him.” That means I would have to learn to operate a backhoe.

Perhaps I’m just too hard on Bill Stamps and the fact that he forced me to apologize to a pedophile to save a girlfriends job. But I just am not sure how else I was supposed to feel at the time.

When I look back on that entire time period it was a real confusing time. I was finishing up my military service time and working in radio and not getting along with my family and I had been working as a volunteer in law enforcement until I got in trouble with the law.

Need I go any farther?

My ultimate goal was to get back on the air at one of the two radio stations there in Crescent City or get a job writing for the newspaper. None of these things ever seemed to happen and I found myself for ever frustrated.

I blame it on my stupidity.

Looking back I see that it was small town politics. A game of likes and dislikes and I was on the list of dislikes.

In the long run I can see now that their ‘politics’ benefited me because it forced me to move away, first to Arcata then Reno, Nevada. I have been here in the Silver State for over 20-years and I’ve never regretted it.

In fact I spent eighteen years in radio because of it and that probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed on the Northcoast. Now I’m hoping to parlay my radio career into a writing career.

As of yet that hasn’t happened because I seem to be too conservative for the likes of the publications in our area. But then again I could be reading between the lines.

Sitting at my computer, I find myself mulling over some of the more recent words I have heard preached via the radio. I enjoy listening to the preachers as I drive around town.

It tends to cause me to slow down and think. While I am listening and driving and thinking, I am also examining my inner self and responses to the message as a Christian.

Being a Christian is not easy. Jesus never promised me an easy life.

He did give me the Bible to study and preachers to listen too as I drive. What the preachers say, I sometimes will take or leave.

It depends on how much Biblical truth I find in their words. I realize that this is a judgment call.

We are all prone to judgment calls. This is what I believe is having a discerning spirit.

One broadcast had a speaker who talked about how secular music was filled with satanic messages. I have no doubt that this does exist as I spent a quarter of a century in the music industry.

It is filled with persons trying to live up to that type of life style. One of his statements was that secular music could lead to premarital and extramarital sex, which leads to abortion.

It has long been agreed upon that abortion is not a Christian act. This is something that I do not wish to argue about.

However it has caused me to think about a Biblical truth that I have discovered and wish to explore further. How many times have you heard the standard science question, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

God’s word is the undisputed truth. Then the answer is given to us in Genesis 1:20, which reads in part, “…and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the Sky.”

There is not one mention on an egg.

Here is another Biblical truth. It deals directly with answering when life begins, “The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7)

Fetuses do not breathe air, but rather absorb oxygen through the mother’s placenta. Therefore, I humbly submit to you that life does not start until breath is formed in the nostrils of the baby.

There is not one mention of a fetus.

And no — I am not for abortion. Rather I want to shift the argument to the heart of the matter.

Our true responsibility is to be open to the woman whatever her decision maybe, because as Jesus said in Matthew 7:1, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”

Shortly after moving into our new home, I decided to take up the art of leather crafting. It is something that I had been accustomed to doing as a younger man when I worked for my Grandfather-rancher.

Seems as if we were always tearing up a saddle fender or a pair of chaps, so learning to mend these items was of some importance especially when we were miles away from the main house and town.

My first order of business was to go out and search the leather shops around the county for the ‘perfect’ piece of hide. I wanted to cover my personal journal in bull-hide.

Rough, strong, manly.

While I searched I also purchased the needed tools and supplies. This did not take me very long. I opted not to use one of those ‘cookie-cutter’ kits that a person can buy.

Instead I vowed to measure, mark, and cut and stitch my rawhide journal cover from scratch. The entire process took me two evenings after work to complete. I even managed to eat dinner and watch television and still accomplish my goal. I was very proud of myself. I showed it to my wife. She was properly impressed by my skill.

My son liked it so much that he wanted the cover for himself.

Needless to say I would not surrender my craftsmanship to him no matter how much I love him. The true test came when I placed it on my journal. I like to use the composition books that can be purchased for a little bit of nothing come the start of the school year.

It was a snug fit, but I told myself that it would stretch out with a little more time and use. The following morning I sat down at my desk to start my first entry and I discovered a serious flaw in my new cover.

The leather edge inside the journal created a noticeable bump that was difficult to write over. It gradually went away as I filled the pages.

That was at the front of the journal. The same problem made itself known as I came to the end of the journal.

I was dismayed at my lack of planning for such an occurrence.

Within days I had run out of ideas on how to alleviate the situation. I used a piece of discarded leather as a backstop, but lost it to the dog that found it to be a rather enjoyable chew toy.

I used a piece of cardboard stripped from a box. This simply looked cheesy and would not do.

Eventually, I stopped using my leather journal cover. I placed in a box and marked it for storage. Then I simply forgot about it.

Just after the attack on the World Trade Center Towers, I concluded that I should return to church. My faith in life seemed shaken. I watched in horror as those buildings crumbled into dense clouds of dust with the knowledge that very few people would survive the carnage.

My life seemed to parallel this event. I had turned my life into a garbage dump, wreaking havoc with my family and friends. I searched for my long forgotten bible. I discovered that it was gone, lost and I had to purchase a new one.

Every Sunday, I sit in church and listened for new meaning. Slowly I have reemerged and discovered that under the rubble I had created was a brand new man. I started sitting down and reading my bible on a daily basis.

It is enjoyable.

However my new bible’s cover was getting thrashed. So I decided I would see about buying one of those fancy canvass covers. But as life would have it, I did not get around to it as quickly as I could have.

Instead I found my time better used at getting rid of all the junk I have saved up like treasure in my garage. That meant going through box after box of stuff. That’s when I found my old hand-made, good for nothing leather journal cover.

I looked at it and decided to toss it in the ‘too go’ box.

Later that night my son came to me and said he wanted to show me something. I followed him to his room.

There on the computer table was a handsomely bound bible. I open it up and discover that it was my bible.

Curious to where he came up with the cover, I asked him. He told me that it was in one of the many boxes I had set out to be carried away to the Sally Ann Store.

Right then and there I realized that there is always new life even amid the garbage of living. God had to teach me that with an old piece of leather.

It’s time to confess a little about what I think is happening regarding my insomnia. I have bi-polar disorder along with and PTSD. I’ve had it for many years and it was never treated. Now it is being treated with both visits to an VHMC-MHP and medication.

And as I was laying next to my wife thinking about it, the idea occurred to me that my cold and coughing and lack of sleep has triggered an up-cycle in my disorder.

When I was a radio disc jockey this used to happen to me all the time but I usually paid it no mind because I worked the overnight shifts. My actions were always tempered with a lack of sleep due to sleeping in shifts. (That’s where I would sleep for a few hours, get up a few hours, and then sleep another few hours.) I never had a restful sleep.

Now that I am retired from radio and don’t work overnights, I can really see the pattern as my moods start to shift. I just need to remember to be aware of watching for this to happen …especially under stress. I think being sick with a cold and a cough that hurts an already injured back and not getting enough sleep has been a stressor.

It is literally like being on a train that rolls up a hill slowly into happiness, then at the peak it takes off wildly, racing downhill into depression, bottoming out, only to start the long process of chugging up the hill again. Left untreated it can leave a person believing they are insane.

Soon I will slow down and my mind will allow my body to rest. I will be able to sleep then.

I just wish my train came with a sleeper car.

The forward observer signaled that the remainder of the squad could move ahead to the base of the hill. It was from there that they would attempt to stage a surprise attack on the three Soviet T-64 tanks on the other side of the hill.

The squad had been divided up into too two teams, each making their way to the rendezvous point before morning light. According to the squad’s commander, the unit’s goal was to knock out the tanks and free the inhabitants living in the cliffs above the valley.

Doc flopped down and wanted to pull all his gear off, but he knew that they’d be pushing forward in a few minutes time. Instead he refreshed himself with a mouthful of water from his canteen.

It didn’t take long for the order to comedown to move out. As if one body all 24 men stood and started scaling the sandy slope in front of them. Within half an hour both squads squatted just below the ridge which was line with a thick row of trees, only the lieutenant and a sergeant were in among the tree to have a look into the area below.

“We’re closer than I figured,” the lieutenant whispered to the sergeant. “We’ll have to creep in there one at a time.”

The sergeant made no reply.

Without warning one of the T-64’s coughed to life. It was deep rumbling sound that sent an unseen goat herd into a slight panic. There was the unruly bray of a donkey somewhere in the distance as well.

“Crap,” remarked the sergeant as he slipped over onto his back and pulled his field map from his vest. Then he added, “No way can we get in between them and the cliffs now with the camp stirring.”

He studied the map a few more seconds than repositioned himself on the ridgeline. Another tank’s engine chugged to life. It was shortly followed by the third.

“Where do you think they’re heading?” the lieutenant asked.

The sergeant waited a couple seconds before answering, “I don’t know but they’re moving off.”

Within a few minutes all three tanks rumbled off to the south of their original positions, disappearing around the bend of the poorly carved and heavily rutted trail. Soon the sound of the tanks faded away.

Two by two each team member cleared the ridgeline and proceeded towards the cliffs. The foreword teams encounter nothing of a camp as Intel had described. There was a small campfire that looked as if it had been used to cook on and to get warm by, other than that all that remained were some empty gas cans.

The remainder of the squads hurried through the site and soon found themselves at the base of the cliff, huddled under the immense carvings of three Buddha. It was obvious that these three statues, which were carved from the cliff itself, were part of a religious venue, much like a church or synagogue.

It also became clear that the reported village nestled in the cliffs surrounding the Buddha’s were almost uninhabited. There came a slight murmur from members of the two squads that “something didn’t feel right.”

Doc had learned to listen half-heartedly to these whisperings. Sometimes they meant something, other times they were nothing. It all depended on what Doc was feeling at that moment as well.

Currently, he was having a very difficult time hauling himself and the medical gear up the cliff, which seemed to be pock-marked with foot and hand holds. It fatigued him and made him curse under his breath, wishing he didn’t have the extra 70 pounds to lug around.

Doc finally found an open passage and scrambled inside. He flipped on his flashlight, what Marines referred to as a moonbeam, the red light showing an extraordinary amount of religious art work on the walls and ceiling.

After a quick look around, Doc unslung his gear, leaving only his butt-pack on as he knew it contained the most important medical gear. The rest was supplemental to the two squads. His back ached as he headed out the low doorway and into the early morning light.

The men had all found positions that offered both protections from enemy sight and the coming daytime heat. There, they waited to see what the next action would be in what many of them were say was a SNAFU’d operation, which was slang for, “Situation, normal, all fouled up.”

About ten hours later, there came a low rumbling sound that echoed loudly inside the many caves along the cliff. The three Soviet tanks were moving back into their previous night’s position.

Everyone laid still and watched as the tanks rolled into their camp and took up defensive positions below the Buddha’s. Two of the tanks turned themselves to face the heavily rutted roadway in either direct. The third faced the hilly slope the two squads had moved down earlier.

They formed a ringing defense and reminded Doc of the American Bison he had seen while stationed in Wyoming. The bison, commonly referred to as buffalo would backup into each other and form a defensive circle to protect their offspring and themselves at night from wildcats and wolves.

It was obvious that taking the tanks would not be hard once the crews slipped out of the heavy fighting machines and joined each other around the light of the fire they had built. It would be easy to creep up on the unsuspecting soldiers and dispatch them and their tanks.

However the order to move failed to arrive that night. Nor did it come the following two nights. Tempers were getting short and so were the c-rations as the 24 men waited to carry out whatever order their higher-ups gave.

It was the middle of the fourth morning when there arose a surprising amount of gun fire from the encamped tankers below. There was very little light and it was next to impossible to see what was occurring inside the encircled machines.

Every man had his weapon at the ready, expecting the fight to suddenly shift from down below to the high points in the cliffs. Then, just as suddenly as the shooting had started, it stopped. And it grew quiet again.

The lieutenant sent two men down from their perches to reconnoiter the area. It was about two hours later that they returned to report that it had been a slaughter and that all the tankers were dead and many were mutilated beyond human form.

The officer called up the radio operator to send a message back to base. He was unsure of what to do next after having waited so long in the heat of the day and the chill of the night.

Doc did his best to watch the officer’s facial expressions, but if the words he was hearing were disturbing or helpful, the lieutenant’s eyes and mouth didn’t betray his feelings. Still Doc could not tell what was happening even after the officer handed the handset back to the operator.

Instead the Lieutenant turned and in a hushed manner spoke to the sergeant. The older man looked at Doc and motioned him to his side. “You and me are going down there, got it? We’re going to assess the scene, got it?”

Doc nodded his head.

The two men scrambled down the cliff side, each groping for the next finger and toe hold. Within minutes they were approaching the tanks with great caution.

Doc could see the outline of two men laying facedown in front the now lowering flames of the fire. He was following the sergeant in between the two tanks facing the opposite ends of the roadway, when the sergeant tripped and nearly fell. Doc grabbed onto the man and pulled him back before he could topple any farther.

The sergeant pulled out his moonbeam and popped on the red glowing light. He shined it at the ground in front of himself. On the sandy soil lay what had been a living, breathing man. His face was missing, peeled off and exposing the bone underneath.

Both the Doc and the sergeant fought back the urge to vomit at the sight. The sergeant held his light up and its red beam fell on the nearly destroyed bodies of several men. Each ad been mutilated in some various way and the sight was sickening to the two men.

Quickly, they retreated back the way they had come. It was obvious that whoever had done this could still be in the area and might mistake the two as Soviet soldiers. Neither man wanted to have the same fate fall on them.

They hurried back to the position in the cliff and reported what they had seen to the Lieutenant. He called up the radio operator again and told his commanders what had happened.

It was a very tense as the two squads hurriedly prepared to make their way down the cliffs. What had happened had made the rounds to every Marine who had been lodged in the cliffs. Many of them speculated about what had gone on in the camp but no one really knew for certain.

The units skirted their ways around the encircled tanks and proceeded out of the long valley by a different route. Two men had been sent back in order to destroy the three T-64’s before the sun came up.

By the time the three reports from the explosion reached the two squads, light was starting to crest the mountains in front of them. It was time to divide and move in separate directions once again.

Doc’s squad remained behind long enough for the two demolition experts to rejoin them. It would be another four hours before the 12 men would stop and bivouac for the night.

By noon of the next day, they were back among the familiar mountains and hills in which their base was located. And though asked about what he had seen that early morning by members of his squad Doc refused to share the gruesome details.

“Its bad enough I’m scared shitless about it,” he would later write in his private journal, “that I don’t think it would be a good thing for anyone else to have to think about it.”

It is hard to believe that the Federal Government can still manage to hire ‘meat-heads’ for key positions in its cabinet positions. On second thought—no it’s not.

Jus’ yesterday I was watching the news and I actually heard the Surgeon General of the United States say that he would support a law making the use of tobacco products illegal. Mr. Surgeon General, give us a break!

There are two major flaws with the idea of outlawing tobacco, aside from the knowledge that then only outlaws would have tobacco. The first one is that the Federal and State governments rely on the taxes generated by those tobacco products.

What happens to all the school programs when those coffers dry up? The inner city children will suffer from this ban.

Secondly, if tobacco is outlawed and only outlaws have it, then where will the Federal and State governments house these outlaws turned inmates? Not in my back yard, I hope!

That has already happened to me once in this lifetime.

Can we the people afford to have our already clogged court system clogged up any further with people suffering from nicotine fits? I don’t think so.

This is making an already dangerous situation even more dangerous. My wife suggested that if the craving for nicotine is that bad then people will have to use the patch.

My response was less than intelligent. I told her that was like putting a bandage over her mother’s pie-hole.

Tonight, I sleep on the couch.

While lying here in the most uncomfortably prone position imaginable, it occurred to me that this might all be a larger scheme. It could be that the Federal Government has a plan up its illusionary sleeve?

They may have the market cornered on the patch and therefore my worrying about the inner-city children is all for not. Silly me.

Finally, while I do not smoke and as a child I detested having to go down to the corner market to get my parents cigarettes, it is the free right of every-of-age U.S. Citizen to decided for themselves what legal substance they put into their body. It is not up to my government to restrict that when they do not have the power to do so.

Please take a look at the so-called ‘War on Drugs’ and tell me if the government has the power to enforce any new laws regarding ‘substance abuse’ and that is what a ban on tobacco would be. And you and I will have to pay for it somehow.

While visiting the Veteran Administrations Hospital for my annual physical, I got off on the wrong floor. I promptly got lost. I must admit that I have never been very good at finding my way around in government buildings.

It was the third floor where the door to the elevators opened and I instinctively stepped off without looking at what floor I was on. I was supposed to go one more floor up.

However it would be fifteen to twenty minutes before I would discover this.

Wandering up and down the corridors of this building, I searched for the set of offices that I needed to visit. I had been to them before, one year ago, so I knew they existed; however I could not remember what they looked like.

And to me all governmental offices look the same anyway.

As I searched for the office numbers, I came to the Chapel. Every VA Hospital has one.

It was here I also discovered the only telephone on the floor. I lifted the receiver and started to dial the number to the clinic that I was by now already late for, when I notice a man seated in the chairs of the Chapel.

I could hear him crying.

Gently I hung up the phone and quietly I walked into the seating area and sat down beside him. He had both hands over his face and was softly weeping. I leaned over and whispered, “Brother, are you okay?”

He looked at me and said, “Yeah, I am.”

He paused to catch his breath. He obviously had a breathing problem.

He explained that as a baby he had an accident that had broken his nose and had caused him pain throughout his life. Several times he had lost jobs because he could not catch his breath and now at 70 years old the doctors had discovered the problem and were going to be able to fix it for him.

“I cry because I’m happy,” he said.

It was hard for me to stop crying as I lay my hand on his should and asked if we could pray together for a successful operation, quick recovery, joyful life and a gracious God. He thanked me and said, “God bless you,” as I left to make my appointment.

Those words made me feel heroic.

After my doctor’s appointment, I dropped back down to the third floor and the Chapel. The man was gone and I had expected him to be.

So I rushed off to speak to the Chaplain. I wanted to tell him what I had done. I followed the signs that had arrows pointing to his office. I searched for nearly half an hour and could not find his office. I had to get back to work, so I left.

It was later the next day that it occurred to me what had happened. I was relating the tale to friend when this thought crossed my mind: I wanted to tell the Chaplain what I had done, when in truth, I had done nothing at all.

It was the Holy Spirit that had done it. And it was also the Holy Spirit that had blinded me from seeing the Chaplains office so that I did not go barging in, make a fool of myself claiming to have done something that I had no right to claim.

Now, I am left wondering if I met a Vet on the third floor or an Angel in the Chapel and if it really matters anyway.

The buzzer sounded but the rider did not get off. The pick-up men rushed over to assist him off the back of the bull. But still he stayed on the beast.

Suddenly the cowboy came off the back of the bull. His hand still caught up in the strap.

The bull shook him like a rag doll. Still the ride could not get loose.

The pick up men tried to get him undone. The bull fighters ran back and forth attempting to get close enough to undue the limp form attached to the spinning bulls back.

The bull raced across the open arena and smashed his left side and the cowboy into the railing. Then he dashed back and smashed the rider into the other side of the arena fence.

The medical crews were all along this fence. They had stood and watched in agony as this helpless cowboy continued to be thrashed about by this ton and a half monster.

As he passed by the medics he blew snot their way and raked the slats with his razor sharp horns.

Still the pick-up men and rodeo clowns could not get the man untied from the bull. The animal charged off to the other side of the rodeo grounds.

Then he changed directions. He spun back and forth and still the cowboy remained secured to the animal back.

On his third pass at blowing snot and raking the fence post, I decided to do something. Rodeo rules prohibit the involvement of anyone not hired to do what I was about to do.

Pulling out my boot knife, I flung myself over the fence and side ways over the bulls back. The bull spun to his right, the side I was on.

I felt his black and white horn touch him in the back, however I was too far in for the brute to hook me.

The rag doll cowboy was hanging from the bulls left side. I started cutting away at the rawhide that held him.

Suddenly the bull was spinning to his left. He shook his head as he leaped into the air on each successive spin.

His skin slipped underneath Doc as he struggled to hold on. Then he spun to his right again.

His horn struck me in the right lower back just above my hip. It felt like a two-by-four had just been broken over my body.

At that moment the cowboy fell away and I found myself pitching backward with a handful of leather in my hand. I heard a dull thud as I felt my body drop into the soft loam.

My instincts took control of my mind and body and I immediately started to crab-crawl backwards and out of the way.

The bull dug at the earth where I had lain. The bull-fighting clowns moved in as they now had two victims to save from the raging beast.

The bull was spinning to his right, digging at the air and then the ground with his horns. I continued to roll away and crawl to escape him.

At first I thought I was closer to the fence and safety than I really was. I had been nearly in the center of the arena and still had six more feet to go before I could roll under the fence and out of the arena.

One of the bull-fighters raced in front of me. He passed with in inches of the bull and those razor sharp horns.

The bull tracked on him. He followed this with a leaping spin to his left which carried him away from me.

Looking over my left shoulder to see how far from the fence I was, I rolled to my left and started to get up when I heard more than felt, a terrifying pop come from my left leg. The bull was standing on my Wranglers.

The bull was looking at the clown. In less than a second he was off and charging the clown and I was free to move towards the fence and safety again.

The searing pain that followed was so intense that I could no longer hear the crowd any more. Time slowed down to a crawl as I laid there and looked at my left leg seemingly growing longer as I dragged myself to the fence.

On my belly now, I had a hand on the lowest fence rail when the other medics yanked me under the fence. The bull was being head by a pick up man and they came tearing down the line right where I had been lying.

My head was swimming in pain. My left leg hurt even worse and my lower back throbbed.

The medical crew immediately cut my dirt-filled Wranglers off as well as my snap button shirt.

Slowly, I rose up to look at my leg, which looked to be half a foot longer than his right. I could see my knee cap appeared to be missing.

There was a large lump in the middle of my thigh and I concluded the thigh bone must be broken. I wiped my brow and discovered fresh blood matted over with the rich brown dirt of the arena.

My hands were skinned as was my right elbow. A traction splint was put on the battered leg and I was taken to the hospital, where I was given a shot of morphine to help with the pain.

“You’re pretty lucky,” said the Doctor when I finally came too. “No broken bones and only a bruised kidney and displaced knee cap.”

It took me three-days to recover from my battering. As for the rag-doll cowboy, he was treated for unconsciousness and ended up riding again the following day.

“If only they had a pain reliever for injured pride,” I repeatedly told myself.