I’m watching Master Jerry eat his morning breakfast: toast, oatmeal, and coffee. I’m a cat I don’t care for any of that stuff. Why doesn’t he eat what I like? You know chicken flavored kibbles and canned tuna straight out of the can, which is quite tasty, though a bit boring. That’s why I like to hunt mice, flies, birds, and anything else I can pounce on and sink my highly sharpened claws.
Oh, forgive my rudeness, I’m Tommy. The bird isn’t paying me any attention, so I can do this while he’s not looking. I’m now ten months old and something of a young adult, though I still feel more like a kitten than an adult cat. I guess in time I will settle down and act my age, though that doesn’t sound like much fun. I still enjoy taking naps though. I do miss Cato. I learned a lot from him and his hunting prowess.
Speaking of hunting, the other adults that live on our property, the man named Nic, and the female human named Emely came home the other day just as Master Jerry did from his job. I still don’t understand what that word even means but he’s gone most of the day is all I know.
Anyway, back to this story because it is very fascinating to say the least. They came home and opened the garage door. He went inside moving things around and she moved this contraption; he called it a cherry picker. It’s wheeled and on a horizontal stand, with a vertical arm and some mechanism that makes it move up and down. She then moves this cherry picker contraption to the back the pickup truck that I Like to sleep on top of the hood during the heat of day.
Master Jerry busies himself with filling the trailer’s water tank, and doesn’t seem all that interested, but I am. I smell meat! So I decide to watch these two humans. He gets on the back of the truck and removes a tarp and throws it on the ground. The smell is stronger now.
She has gone and brought a hose back, with a nozzle that she attached to the hose, sprays once and appeared satisfied.
“What are you looking at?” Master Jerry asked me while he turns on another water faucet. I ignored his question. I’m now fully engrossed in this activity going on in front of me. I’m smelling fresh meat and he’s asking me a stupid question!
Those two humans have attached a pair of legs to this cherry picker and pulled the whole dead and wonderful smelling creature out the truck’s bed. My mouth salivated when this creature came out in its full, dead glory! What is that? I’m standing nearly vertically on my hind legs as I watch them move this dead creature into the garage.
“That’s a deer,” Master Jerry pointed out to me. A deer? How can they get a deer? And why haven’t you gone out and brought one of those home too? The unfairness of it all! It is big that’s for sure. He’s more than I could handle. I have heard that I have a couple cousins who are big enough to take one like that down.
Maybe Master Jerry is too old to go and get one of those deer. That must be it! That and the fact he doesn’t walk well, and his left hand isn’t working well either probably requires more strength than he can handle.
I’ll just go inside and eat my kibbles and dream of having one of those deer for dinner one day.
As many of you my loyal readers know I have been using all media to market my books to garner interest and sales. Today, another is going to occur in the form of an interview with Zach Feldman.
The interview starts in two hours and I’m a bit nervous about how I come off. Apparently Mr. Feldman likes candid unscripted interviews. Me, I’d like to be prepared. As evidenced by my performance from Logan Crawford, I thought I messed up because I had issues being spontaneous with Mr. Crawford’s questions. I was hoping this interview would be more scripted so that I’d feel in better control.
I supposed that practice makes perfect. We’ll find out in two hours. You will see the result next week when the interview goes live.
As many of you are quite aware, I keep up with the news, and the local news gave me and a majority of others here much comfort.
The news is that the killer I mentioned in the blog I wrote in June had killed his three daughters. The weeks that followed more information became revealed that Travis Decker had serious mental health problems including PTSD from his military service when he toured Iraq. He tried to get the help he felt he needed, but for reasons no one could justify, was denied that help.
Last week, searchers found his remains at a cliff above the site where he killed and disposed of their bodies. Predators had done their job in disposing of his remains making it identifying his remains a challenge. It is as written in the Bible, God is the final arbitrator of justice.
I honestly believed that he more than likely committed suicide probably within hours of killing his three daughters. The pain and hopelessness he had to have experienced was probably compounded by his realization of what he had done.
No word on the individual who killed a horse in Deer Park, but I’m sure eventually his time will come too. I hope so because as I mentioned in that blog I wrote in June, that’s how serial killers get started by killing animals first.
Joe Buck went to the local market where his buddies of like mindedness hung out at a pair of tables where paying customers ate deli meals like Jo-Jos and the store’s famous monster tacos.
Rob Roy laughed to an off-colored joke about Barack Obama when he came in. “Joe, you heard the news?”
“If it ain’t on Fox, It ain’t news, Rob.”
“Well it seems President Trump done designated Antifa a terrorist organization and he’s gonna round them rascals up and get them arrested.”
“Well, don’t that beat all. You know what an antifa looks like?” Joe asked the group. They all shook their heads no. “Me neither. I couldn’t begin to tell what one looks like from the other.”
“Well, maybe the President knows what they look like,” Rob volunteered. “He keeps telling us they’re vermin and a disgrace to us true American patriots.”
“He tells us all sorts of things, Roy,” Billy Joe snickered and laughed. “How about those gasoline prices going way down? Or price of eggs for that matter.”
“Billy, you are looking more and more like an antifa the more you talk bad about our president,” Joe exclaimed.
“Well excuse me for having an opinion,” Billy Joe rebutted. “He might be better than Biden, but not by much. They’re both old as dirt and dumb as rocks. What we need is someone who gets the job done but keeps his mouth shut when it ain’t his concern.”
“You got a point there, Billy,” Rob Roy told him. “Maybe—wait what does antifa mean?”
“Back during World War Two it meant anti-fascist,” Jerry, the quiet one chimed in from a back table sitting in the back chair near the window.
“Oh how I hate you know-it-all college boys,” Joe Buck exclaimed. “I supposed we best get our antifa tags down at the sporting goods store. I wonder how much the state charges for that tag.”
“Yeah, and whether there’s a bag limit,” Rob Roy exclaimed with a hearty laugh.
“Meow, I’m Tommy the kitten abandoned by an evil human family and now living with this wonderful human named Master Jerry. He’s really old and don’t walk very well, and his left arm and hand can’t pet me like the other one can.”
“But, enough about him. It is after all about me.”
“Will you stop,” Elsa exclaimed in frustration.
“What? I am the star of this story after all.”
“Yeah, and I’m Cleopatra’s African Gray.”
“Who? What? You confused me. I don’t like that. Plus we’re getting away from the story, you mangy bird you!”
“Fine, you tell your version and next week I’ll tell mine.”
“Wait, you did when I first got here. You told them about Master Jerry getting me and how you thought he’d lost his mind, and that it wasn’t funny. I remember, but obviously you don’t.”
“I’ll tell another version, then,” Elsa declared as she scratched an itch behind her neck.
“Anyway, back to the story. My name is Tommy, but before that these evil humans, as a form of a sick joke, named me Ducky. I’m a cat! K-A-T. cat and maybe they were already punishing me just by naming me that ridiculous name. But that was just the beginning.
“I was just a wee kitten when they got me and introduced me to their human child. I noticed by the broken toys and mutilated stuffed animals; I was in for a nightmare existence here.”
‘Kitty,’ “it exclaimed as the toy it had was discarded to the floor and he or she grabbed me and tried twisting my head off my body. I immediately used my kitten powers by clawing and scratching the demon child until it let go and went crying at his parents.
“After that, I was put in a box like container, placed in a dark room and left there. How long? I have no idea. But then the woman fed me, and I was given a litter box and ignored for another long time.
“The man parent came in and played roughly with me, which I didn’t care for, but also didn’t mind because at least I was given some attention. Finally he too tired of me and left me in that cold dark room for all eternity as far as I was concerned.
“The demon child came into the room one day and tried kicking and hitting at me, but I was too quick for his moves that were slow and clumsy. The mother came in and smacked his bottom so hard the child screamed in pain and ran from the room. She looked at me with contempt, as though I was to blame for that child’s bad behavior.
“Finally, one day a man came into the room. He was a stranger. I was placed inside a cage and there were many other people milling about too. They were all strangers, and I felt a deep fear and foreboding that something awful happened here. To this day I don’t know what it was. I smelled things that a young kitten probably shouldn’t smell, yet it permeated the house as I was taken away and later brought to another place.
“I stayed at this place where other kittens, cats, puppies, and dogs lived. We all discussed current affairs, the weather and who would be lucky enough to get adopted first on this day or that.
“On the day I was adopted by Master Jerry, I just knew he liked me by how he looked at me with his kind eyes, his smile and the smooth voice that assured me he was a gentle soul. I experienced none of that at that other house with those evil people.
“So, there you have it to this point anyway.”
“Yeah well, my version is how you constantly pick on me, and I have to stand my ground against you, you nasty old cat you,” Elsa exclaimed in ill-humor.
“You’re just jealous because Master Jerry lets me out in the morning and you’re stuck inside that cage.”
“There are, as he warned you and me, more dangerous creatures out there. He’s just taking better care of me, that’s all.”
My first reaction was I wasn’t even aware of who this person was. Then come to find out Charlie Kirk was a conservative activist and influencer that apparently helped Trump retake the presidency last year.
As all my readers know, I’m not a conservative. But that being said, I also abhors political violence in any guise. It smacks of anarchy and doesn’t promote civil governance, discourse, or debate. It sends a message to everyone around the world that this country is still backward living in the wild west, and we aren’t civilized or intelligent enough to lead this planet.
I have no problem debating the issues that matter most to me and expect whoever opposes me will do so civilly and not threaten violence or insult. Unfortunately, this country has never been famous for civil discourse or debate. Too many times, violence rules the day regardless of time.
I grew up learning as a child about John Kennedy’s assassination, and to this day, no one knows for certain why Lee Harvey Oswald shot him. Jack Ruby silenced that query when he shot Oswald.
At least the assassination of Robert Kennedy was more clear-cut, mostly because Sirhan Sirhan lived to be tried and convicted, telling the world he hated Kennedy because he supported Israel and Sirhan was Palestinian.
There were others too that be it madness or some other issue, such as David Chapman killing John Lennon because he believed he was John Lennon.
Now, it seems school shootings have grabbed the headlines, and until today, political assassinations took a back seat. I have hoped and prayed this kind of mass violence would end in the near future. But unfortunately, that is a pipe dream.
This is my personal holiday, a moment for introspection, celebration, and connection. Every year, as my birthday approaches, I find myself swept up in the gentle tide of anticipation—not just for gifts, which have come fewer and fewer over the years, and well-wishes, but for the opportunity to pause, reflect, and cherish the journey I have traveled and the path that lies ahead.
Anticipating the Day: Childlike Excitement That Never Fades
There is a certain magic that accompanies the arrival of my birthday. Even as the years add up, the thrill remains unchanged; like Christmas there’s a flutter in my chest the night before, a smile that appears with the sunrise. The day feels different, touched by an aura of possibility. I wake up to messages from friends and family, each one a thread in the tapestry of my life, weaving together memories, laughter, and love.
From my earliest birthdays, when balloons and cake were the highlights, to more recent celebrations filled with meaningful conversations and small gestures that creates a cherished tradition. It is a reminder not only of how far I’ve come, but of all the people who have walked beside me along the way.
Connecting with Loved Ones: Birthdays draw people together. Whether it’s a surprise visit, a phone call from afar, or a simple text, these connections anchor me, reminding me that I am part of something larger than myself.
The Cake and Candles: No matter my age, I never tire of making a wish and blowing out the candles. Each flame represents a dream, and each wish is a promise to pursue joy in the coming year.
A New Tradition—Acts of Kindness: Recently, I have found joy in giving back on my birthday: donating, volunteering, or simply offering a smile to strangers. It turns the day into an opportunity to spread happiness beyond myself.
Lessons Learned: Growth, Gratitude, and Hope
Each birthday is both an ending and a beginning. As the candles are lit and the birthday song echoes, I find myself reflecting on the lessons the past year has offered. There have been moments of joy and sorrow, challenge, and triumph, each one a steppingstone along my path.
Growth often comes disguised as adversity, which in turn becomes an opportunity and a challenge to overcome. The setbacks I have faced have shaped me, teaching resilience and patience.
Gratitude transforms even the simplest moments into treasures. By appreciating the present, I find peace and happiness, regardless of what the future holds.
Hope is the engine of possibility. As I make a wish and look ahead, I am reminded that each year is a new canvas, waiting for my dreams and efforts to bring it to life.
The Role of Community: Sharing Joy and Building Connection
My birthday is not only about me; it is also a celebration of the people who enrich my life. Family, friends, colleagues, and even acquaintances come together, their presence infusing the day with warmth and meaning. The laughter and camaraderie shared during birthday gatherings foster a sense of belonging—not just for me, but for all who participate.
Sometimes, I use my birthday as a reason to reunite with those I haven’t seen in a while, rekindling relationships, and renewing bonds. The joy of reconnecting, of weaving together new stories, is as valuable as any gift.
Looking Forward: Setting Intentions for the Year Ahead
As my birthday draws to a close, I like to set intentions for the year to come. Rather than resolutions dictated by obligation, I choose aspirations that inspire and motivate me. These intentions may be simple—practicing kindness, pursuing curiosity, embracing change—or ambitions, such as embarking on a new project or learning a new skill.
Writing these intentions in my blog, I feel a sense of purpose and excitement. My birthday becomes a launching pad, propelling me into the next chapter with courage and hope.
A Day That Belongs to Me
What makes my birthday truly special is its intimacy day that is uniquely mine, shaped by my choices, my memories, and my dreams. No matter how I choose to celebrate, the day always holds a quiet magic, a reminder of the beauty of being alive and the privilege of growing older.
On an August day six years ago Bob Awoke late in the afternoon. He felt like crap as his mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and his hands shook from the burnout and the morning after the night before when he last got high with friends.
He knew they really weren’t his friends. He had the dope, and they came to him to share. He needed them, at least he liked telling himself that he needed them. They appeared decent enough though on occasion he lose his dope. They’d offer to help find it, but when they couldn’t, he just found his dealer and bought some more heroin because it was expected. They were his friends after all.
This day maybe would be different, he thought to himself as he dragged himself off the concrete sidewalk. Was he still in Spokane or back in Seattle? He couldn’t remember and both places in this part of downtown seemed alike in so many ways. The same down and out transients, druggies and gang bangers appeared and disappeared, only to reappear.
Sometimes they came back clean and promised themselves they had changed and were turning a new leaf. That lasted maybe a month at the most, only to see them relapse, then disappear.
Bob wasn’t going to let that happen. He had become sick and tired of being sick and tired every single day. He walked along the sidewalk and for some reason found himself walking inside a church. He didn’t know why. He sat at the nearest pew and looked up at the cross behind the altar.
Bob for some reason felt at peace here. It was quiet inside. The coolness from the overhead fans was in stark contrast to the blazing heat outside from where he came. A bible was set on a shelf behind the pew facing him. He remembered going to Sunday School when he was very young, but then the divorce and the blame and he never went back and never looked back. He had no regrets then.
Now on this day though, as he opened the Holy Bible and read various passages, he came upon Psalms 119 and read, “Psalm 119[a]
א Aleph
1 Blessed are those whose ways are blameless,
who walk according to the law of the Lord.
2 Blessed are those who keep his statutes
and seek him with all their heart—
3 they do no wrong
but follow his ways.
4 You have laid down precepts
that are to be fully obeyed.
5 Oh, that my ways were steadfast
in obeying your decrees!
6 Then I would not be put to shame
when I consider all your commands.
7 I will praise you with an upright heart
as I learn your righteous laws.
8 I will obey your decrees;
do not utterly forsake me.
ב Beth
9 How can a young person stay on the path of purity?
By living according to your word.
10 I seek you with all my heart;
do not let me stray from your commands.
11 I have hidden your word in my heart
that I might not sin against you.
12 Praise be to you, Lord;
teach me your decrees.
13 With my lips I recount
all the laws that come from your mouth.
14 I rejoice in following your statutes
as one rejoices in great riches.
15 I meditate on your precepts
and consider your ways.
16 I delight in your decrees;
I will not neglect your word.”
Bob continued reading this verse and felt a lightness flow into his heart and for the first time in his young life he prayed. “Lord Jesus accept this sinner into your presence so that I may be clean and pure and live by your decrees just as this person did so long ago in this bible verse I just read. I am accepting you into my heart. Please do the same for me because I need awakening and healing and your love. I don’t want to die and not be in your presence dear Lord. Amen.”
He opened his eyes and saw the preacher smiling down at him. “Are you ready to be baptized my son?”
“Yes, yes I think I am, reverend.”
“Come with me and I will help lead you down the proper path. Do you wish to be clean from drugs and alcohol too?”
“Yes, I am and want to be clean.”
“Then come with me, my son and you will be saved as you have chosen.”
Bob arose and followed the preacher to the altar. He felt alive for the first time in his life.
We packed our stuff and Tamera and Sonya helped me with that tent. I explained to them what my grandson Isaac explained: pull the tent closed and tight then fold over into a figure eight and then place it inside the nylon holder to be zipped up.
It was definitely a two-person operation, three if you counted me holding the nylon holder while they placed it inside and I zipped it up. We then gathered the rest of the food and put it all away.
“You are going to take the trash down, aren’t you?” Tamera asked. It came across more as a statement; like a command than a request or question.
“Certainly,” I replied. Then I quipped, “I could just accidentally forget and make the custodian or whatever he calls himself take it down.”
We both laughed but then she sobered, “And I’ll send you the bill that I’m sure he will mail to me for leaving the campsite without taking the trash. It’s just down there by the gate as we’re leaving the campsite.”
We gave each other farewell hugs and then got inside our vehicles and left the park behind. The whole event felt somewhat bittersweet, as all our reunions have. I don’t know if everyone feels this way about seeing relatives, especially siblings in the same light, but I tend to welcome seeing my sisters and their family, then am saddened that I have to leave them. Sometimes tears are shed, and I get emotional as I was on Friday upon seeing them since last year.
Anyway, we had already decided to take another route. They wanted to go as far as Waitsburg, then take US 12 to Walla Walla and south the College Place and Milton Free-water before getting on I-84 and continuing south. I informed them I would go on toward Clarkston and head north on US-195.
I took the left onto SR 124, and she led the way. She kicked in her afterburners, leaving me in her dust. I might have thought of punching it and seeing if I could keep up, except for a deputy sheriff driving his Explorer had just turned onto the highway off another road, and I just let her win that race.
Once I reached Waitsburg I was pleasantly surprised at seeing them at the intersection of Highway 12. East toward Lewiston and right would take them to Walla Walla and beyond. I pulled in behind them while Tamera got out, smiling at me.
“Sonya’s hungry and wants to get something to eat.”
“Ron’s stepdad had a restaurant here some time ago, but he passed, and I think Ron sold what he had in the business. I noticed a hardware store now occupies that building. I don’t think there’s anywhere else to eat here,” I told her.
Ron was a good friend of mine who served in the National Guard for a time before he and his stepdad bought this little restaurant and tried to make something out of it. But that was thirty years ago. I went there twice, once with my former roommate to go on a camping and fishing weekend near Dayton and another weekend that I spent with Ron and his family. They lived in an available apartment on the second floor above the restaurant.
“I know. I think we’ll see if there’s anything in Walla Walla. I thought you were going to try and race me. I was doing over a one hundred when I had to slow it down on that sharp curve near Prescot. Then just as I slowed way down to negotiate that low and behold a deputy comes from the other direction.”
“That would have been a very expensive ticket,” I told her with a laugh. “Well the reason I didn’t take you up was for that very reason too. Some deputy had just pull onto the highway from another road and went past me.”
We both laughed then she went back to her car, and they took the right turn going to Walla Walla and I turned left going toward Clarkston. After eight miles I found myself in Dayton. There was a really nice restaurant called Bernard’s, but the overhead vents were not cleaned regularly and it caught fire and burned to the ground. A vacant lot appeared as the one and only reminder that a restaurant ever existed. I also noticed the old A&W drive-in no longer exists either.
Columbia Fruit Packers replaced the Green Giant packing plant I noticed as I drove passed that heading out of town and back to the highway. As I mentioned earlier my itinerary was to go to Clarkston and then head north to homebase near Cheney. But then I spotted State Route 127 with Central Ferry and Colfax highway markers and immediately decided to take that route instead.
An hour later I was in Colfax buying a cup of coffee at a convenience store that not surprisingly sold WSU Cougar merchandise. I took a break and then realized I was starting to get tired and unless I planned to get a hotel room here, I had better get back on the highway and go home.
I’m home now relishing the trip, being with my sister and niece, and the drive home that ended with no surprises and incidents. Considering past road trips, that in itself is a bargain.
“This is why I like this car!” I told Tamera and Sonya while I passed three John Deere tractors and a pilot vehicle on the Pasco-Kahlotus Road heading toward Levy Park. In no time had I seen my opportunity on the stretch of two-lane paved road cleared and hit the afterburners and was pushing over eighty miles per hour. I saw it was cleared and went back into my lane and lowered the speed to a saner sixty miles per hour.
Tamera went by the Google map that Levi Park, which she and her ex-boyfriend used to fish at was closed but had a boat launch nearby where we could fish from. I had already resigned myself to not go back to the spot we fished from the evening before. I wasn’t certain my left foot could handle another back and forth of navigating over a trail land mined by half buried rocks and boulders.
Plus, I also wanted to show these two my car’s abilities to move at break-neck speed without a whimper. Thus, passing those farm implements was icing on the cake for me. I felt so happy. We then found the road we needed and went down a reasonable steep grade to the bank of the Snake River and the closed park with locked gate and a sign stating as much. We then drove back to the boat launch area and walked down to the water’s edge and then Sonya asked Tamera, “Mom where are the worms?”
As luck would have it, she packed them into a cooler and left the cooler inside her car instead of bringing it to my car. A Dote moment indeed, so we stayed with the tackle we were unsuccessful at last night and of course expected something would change. It was kind of like a crazy man expecting a different outcome from doing the same stupid thing over and over again.
We had the same result I caught nothing, Tamera caught what I’m certain was the same exact fish from last night that Sonya caught and Sonya was skunk too. We packed up and left about an hour later. I let Tamera drive back.
Naturally, she had to see for herself how it felt to drive a Dodge Charger over eighty miles per hour. The difference being that she kept going fast until we nearly reached the freeway, then slowed down and merged into traffic on US 12. We crossed the Snake River Bridge, and I was watching the upcoming exit we needed to take to get back up to the highway that led to Charbonneau Park. She drove and I guess was thinking of other places to go before she slept, paraphrasing Robert Frost, and heading south on the freeway.
“Why is everyone going so slow?” Tamera asked. I looked at the speedometer and it registered sixty miles per hour, the posted speed limit. I shrugged.
“I guess no one is in any kind of hurry,” I replied.
“Jerry, did we miss our turn?”
“Well yeah, but I figured you knew that and just liked driving my car so much you wanted to extend the drive some more.” “No, jeez Jerry, I was thinking about what I wanted to eat for lunch.” On the next available road that came up she made a left turn and headed back toward the highway we needed to go on. I just chuckled at her expense. “And why didn’t you say anything?” She asked Sonya.
“I thought you knew what you were doing and kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t really paying attention either.”
We parked the car and had lunch. “Can you guess what my most favorite sandwich is Sonya?”
She eyed the half full jars of peanut butter and honey upon the table. “Peanut butter and honey?” It was more in the form of a statement than a question though.
“You got it!” I announced as I proceeded to glob onto my bread a heavy dose of peanut butter followed by honey. I cut the sandwich in half and scarfed it down.
After we finished, Tamera announced, “We’re going tubing. Do you want to come?”
Without hesitation I answered, “Sure.” Then though, I started thinking about it. Even though I have decent amount of number 70 sunscreen on my arms and face and bared thighs already, the fact they brought just two of those floaties with them, leaving me with nothing to go on, and there was more than likely little or no shade, where as now, here was plenty of shade and I could do some writing on my laptop.
While I was contemplating and ruminating they discovered that air-filled floaties don’t fit inside my car very well and they had to resort to deflating them so that they would fit and once at their destination reinflate them.
“Are you ready?” Tamera asked. Deep down she already knew the answer.
“I think I’ll just stay here. Have fun,” I told them.
“Oh, we will,” Tamera replied as they got back in my car and drove away.
I was plenty tired anyway and had in mind to crawl into my tent and try to at least attempt at taking a nap. The heat was palpable though. I’m certain if the ambient temperature in the shade was well above eighty, it was surely ten degrees hotter inside my tent and decided to just sit back, relax, and actually do nothing. I must say, I succeeded quite nicely.
Two hours later they returned with Sonya driving. She had a pretty sizable grin on her face. “Pretty nice ride, huh?” I asked her when she stepped out of the car.
“Yeah,” she replied and proceeded to fix something to eat.
Tamera then told me they went across the river at the Sacajawea State Park where they floated about. It’s where the Columbia and Snake Rivers meet or converge. She and Sonya posted selfies on Facebook.
We sat about discussing all manner of subjects that included Sonya’s first big job on a Montana ranch that she had to help birth calves in the dead of winter this past year. She didn’t last because she became sick and had to come back to Oregon. A job I certainly couldn’t do even in my much younger days. She’s now a veterinary assistant at a veterinary hospital in Bend.
Tamera pulled her sleep mattress out and laid on it. She looked absolutely regal. “What we ought to do is Jerry you get on the bed with me, have Sonya take a picture then photo shot us as though we were in the river.”
I laughed but didn’t get up. I took a picture of her that I later shared.
We saw the sunset, or as I described to my sister, who concurred, the earth rotated away from the sun to prove we aren’t in the center of the universe.
I read some more, played more computer games and soon it became dark enough to go to bed. Naturally, my cot decided it didn’t appreciate my weight on it and promptly folded down and I had to ask my sister and niece to assist in righting the thing back in place.
That done, after using the available rest room I went to bed. I’m sure the noise wasn’t as noticeable as the night before and I fell right to sleep. At least for an hour or so a family, playing rap music came in and began talking boisterously, arguing, and making asses of themselves for a good hour. I so wanted to storm out there and demand they shut their pie holes. But I just let them be idiots instead. Eventually the music stopped, and the cursing, bickering and loud chatting diminished and then I fell back to sleep.
Then a strong gust of wind blew inside my tent, and I had to curse myself for thinking camping out at my age was a good thing. The winds continued throughout the rest of the night, and I got no sleep after that. The train’s horn resounded like the morning before.
I finally gave up, got dressed and went to rest room where I did my business and took a shower. I ate the last of my cereal but with only a smidgen of milk left in that pint-sized container. I then began taking everything down and placing it in the car.
Jerry Schellhammer 