Photo of Our Free Puppy

Free Dog to Good Home

Open letter to all my friends on Facebook:

Friends, I have this dog that I need to find a nice home for as soon as possible. He is a cute little guy...after a fashion. Well, at least he's sleek and smooth, and his coat sure is pretty. And he has nice ears. Anyway, I bought him about a year ago, and he was okay when he was a puppy, but as he got older my wife started saying he was creeping her out a little bit. I haven't seen this, and I sort of have my doubts (but don't tell my wife I said that!), but she claims that he will sometimes just sit and stare at her. She says he doesn't even blink. And then she's trying to tell me he does it especially if she's getting dressed or is showering. I don't know. Sounds like a pretty wild imagination to me. But whatever... You can't fight the wife, can you? So having said all that, I will let this beautiful five hundred dollar animal go for free. He's had all his shots, he's wormed, and I'll let you have his collar and a bag of dog food too. Oh, and I'm going to post a photo of him on my next blog. You've got to check it out to see how cute he is. Thanks for looking. Oh yeah--He answers to Randy.



Okay, okay, okay. My blog tonight is a copout. Not only is it a copout, but it's an out and out plagiarism. :) Why am I admitting this, you ask? Because as sure as you're born someone out there who reads this will have already seen it on the Internet somewhere, and then I'll be sued and end up broke and making license plates in prison...or whatever they do in prison nowadays!

Anyway, because I had a drastic workout today, or more aptly put I had THREE drastic workouts today and some intense training on pretend fires in the drill tower, and also because I'm in the middle of a chapter of my new book and don't want to stop.... I'm bringing you this plagiarized, fake letter that was just so hilarious I can't help but share it with you tonight. I hope you get as good a laugh out of it as I did.

There's a Monkey Behind You

So it's 1998, and I'm driving down some lonely Texas road in the middle of nowhere. I'm on a book signing tour for 28 days straight, 13 states, 16 stores, and walking into every book store in every mall on the way, not to mention every stand alone store. I had my wife Debbie and our two oldest boys, Jake and Clay, along for the ride. Matthew wasn't born yet. At the time, Jake had just turned five and Clay was three.

So back to that lonely Texas road... I am driving my silver Caddy along, minding my own business, when a pickup goes by with something odd in the back. At least if you consider a loose, full-grown bengal tiger in the back of your pickup to be odd. Now, guys, I don't drink. I promise, I was stone cold sober when that tiger went by. At first I thought maybe I had been staring at road stripes too long, but when I looked in the rearview mirror I thought to myself, "Road stripes don't ride in the back of pickups." But neither do tigers! Well, at least they probably shouldn't.

To satisfy my own curiosity, which is vast, I slammed on the brakes and did a Dukes of Hazzard turn-around in the middle of the highway. My Caddy could go from zero to sixty in five seconds, or so it seemed, so it was no time before we were closing on the pickup. And the tiger. And it was most definitely a tiger. We found ourselves wondering what would happen if the guy had to stop for gas.

So anyway, I needed to head on to my next book signing and had no time to follow our tiger any farther, so we turned back around. But this is only the beginning of my story. I am not--incidentally--making any of this up--all fiction writing aside. This is a true story, and not even the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

As we continue driving down this lonely Texas road, I was needless to say slightly consternated when I look to my left and remark a full-grown giraffe walking leisurely down the fence line. No doubt looking for his tiger. Turns out the giraffe's name was Jake. No kidding.

After snapping a few shots of this giraffe which appeared to be running free in the wilds of Texas, we came upon a sign advertising "WILDLIFE SAFARI." That calmed us down a little, but of course we were intrigued enough that we pulled into this winding dirt lane and stopped at this rickety old building out in the middle of the chaparral. I can't remember what we paid for this safari that was to follow, but whatever it was it was worth it. There was a male ostrich that would eat right out of a bucket in your hands, but only the strongest people on the safari trailer were allowed to hold the bucket, because he could almost take it out of your hands with one peck. There was a huge bull bison that would eat grain right out of the palm of your hand--and leave this terrific green, frothy mush between your fingers in the process. Yeah. Real nice.

But that is as far as I'm going to share of our safari adventures, because the real adventure happened before the actual safari. See, we had to wait twenty minutes or so for the safari trailer to make its way back around to us, and in the meantime we were told there was a little zoo out back that we could peruse while we were waiting. With much excitement but little fanfare, we made our way back on a winding path to a smattering of sturdy cages. They were filled with all kinds of animals, the kind that are too small or too furtive to spot on a safari so are doomed to the fate of being locked up like dangerou felons for happy tourists to gawk at at take pictures of. I can't tell you, to be honest, what any of the animals in those cages were. Except for two of them.

These were spider monkeys.

There was a big black monkey and a smaller brown monkey. Male and female? I don't know. Just a wild guess. But they soon drew our attention, because they kept hanging their arms out the cage, clear up to their shoulders, with their fingers outstretched. They looked for all the world like scrawny little hairy funeral directors. And they truly looked like their feelings would be hurt if we didn't shake their hands. Honest.

Well, a glance around the place told us we were actually alone. Bad scenario. You see, I have always been an animal lover. Or should I say I've always had an interest in being close to animals. So this is a moment I just couldn't pass up. Like any polite person would have done, I extended my hand in greeting. And the spider monkey took it. She was very gentle, too. She gave my hand a little shake and seemed to know all the decorum required of a funeral director. She even gave me a sad little nod and a tilt of her head, as if extending her condolences through this much practiced expression.

Like father like son. Yeah, I know, I'm an idiot. But when Jake started jumping up and down saying he wanted to shake hands too, what could I do? I held him up to the cage, and the little brown monkey shook his hand gently but firmly and told him with his eyes how sorry he was for Jacob and his loss. Yeah, whatever. Now, for the good part. There was no way on this green earth that Debbie was going to shake that monkey's hand. Shoot, who knows where a monkey's hand has been? Well, actually, we probably all knew where that monkey's hand had been, which made Debbie about the only intelligent person in that zoo at the moment. But Clay, now, he just HAD to shake that hand. So like the doting dad, I picked Clay up and held him out....to his doom.

In Debbie's defense, she was running a video camera at the time, and she couldn't very well fly to Clay's rescue as we all know she would have. In the moments that followed, all monkey heck broke loose. Clay's hand was taken in greeting, but unfortunately, Clay being more the size of the monkeys, they decided they would either adopt him or have him for dinner. We never found out which. The monkey's other hand shot out of the cage, and it grabbed Clay by his upper arm and started pulling him into the cage. I had to grab it's hand and jerk it loose and shoved it back into the cage, pulling Clay away with my other hand while he screamed in horror. But not as much horror as the monkey, robbed of its new toy. That monkey raised the demons from below, I swear. It started screaming in the most blood curdling cry you've ever heard, and needless to say we slunk away from there in horror, hoping we could vanish from the zoo before the owners showed up to see what the ruckus was about.

But the story doesn't end here. After leaving the maniac funeral director monkey and Jake the giraffe, we headed out to finish the rest of our tour. By this point, the boys were really tired of book stores and malls, and it took a lot of work to get them to walk fast so we could move on to the next store. So, because Clay was so afraid of monkeys now, if he was dallying, all we had to do was say, "Come on, Clay, there's a monkey behind you." Usually without even looking back he would come running to us. Even when he did look back and saw no monkey, he still kept running each time the ploy was used.

As all good ploys, however, this one was overused, and in the end it was almost my demise. We had been using the "monkey behind you" scare tactic to hurry Clay up for three days when we stopped in a Dallas mall and hit up Waldenbooks with our usual spiel about buying my books. We had an appointment for a book signing after that, so we were in a big hurry to get out and get to the next mall. But Clay was dragging his feet like nobody's business. He was tired, hungry, and hot, and he was fed up with malls. But he was still afraid of monkeys.

If I had looked back at Clay the next moments would not have been so traumatic. But I hadn't. I just glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, realized he was dallying, and uttered the same by now brainless comment, "Look out, Clay, there's a monkey behind you."

As I finished speaking, to check on the effect my statement had on my three-year-old, I turned and looked at him. There, directly behind my son, was a black man. He appeared to be about 6' 6" and three hundred fifty pounds. To say my heart leaped into my throat was putting it mildly. Clay run to me, thinking this time a monkey really was behind him, and I stood there in shock, thinking I was about to be pounded into the ground. To end the story abruptly, it turned out this guy was engrossed in some other thought and haven't even heard me. But I learned that day to look before I leaped, and I also stopped telling Clay there were monkeys behind him.

Incidentally, there were crowded malls along our route where not one white person was in sight. But we quickly became very relaxed, particularly in Texas, where what appeared to be entire gangs of black men would stop to chat with us and see where we were from, just as friendly as can be. Other than the spider monkey, everyone we met in Texas was pretty friendly. Well, and maybe she was too. A little TOO friendly for Clay's liking.

So if you ever get a chance to shake hands with a monkey, just think where that monkey's hand has been and pass on that opportunity. And whatever you do, if anyone says there's a monkey behind you--RUN!!!!

Is It Creek or Is It Crick?

Thanks to my friend Stephanie, the majority of this blog is going to be one thing: a poem. Folks, I love Idaho, but I'm originally from Montana. I have also lived in Virginia. In both places I was too young to pay much attention to how the locals talked. Most of my manner of speaking, including the words I use, came from my own family. My father was basically an eight year college student by the time I was born. He was forty-five years old and set in his ways. He was also set in the way he spoke, and for the most part it was in very correct, although not "stilted," English. Perhaps it is for that reason that when little Steph asked me if I was a "real Idaho boy," the test consisting of whether I pronounce a stream of water "creek" or "crick," I was able to firmly say, "CREEK!!!!!"

When I first met my wife in 1986 we went for an 18 mile hike with my dogs. Of course, it was only supposed to be an 8 mile walk, before I got lost. The fact that she never complained was the biggest reason we kept dating. I figured if she was tougher than I was she was definitely one to hang on to. That fact has been proven time and again throughout our lives. Unfortunately, we started on slightly rocky ground at the beginning of our hike when Debbie made the mistake of mentioning the "crick" we were walking past. I started into a teasing stretch that went on and on, and eventually led to the poem that follows. After I read this poem to Debbie, she stopped being an Idaho girl, at least in the sense of passing Stephanie's test. I have never once heard her say crick again. See? Some folks really can learn new things at the advanced age of 22!

So, with no further ado, here is the poem inspired by my Debbie and thrown into this blog because of Stephanie's "Idaho test." I hope you enjoy.

Down on the Crick

There’s a little word I’ve heard around that needs an explanation;
I have a feeling there’s no place for it in grand oration.
Now listen to me very close and see if you agree;
By the way it’s spelled, it’s not quite said the way it ought to be.
If you’ll sit there for a while, I’ll teach to you a lesson;
And if you’re guilty of this crime, I hope you’ll be confessin’:
The simple word I’m speaking of I think is pronounced crick;
But it’s not spelled that way, and I’d like to know the trick.
This word should have a long E sound, like bee or tree or beagle;
Can pronouncing such a word as "crick" somehow be illegal?
I guess if it’s tradition, to call a "creek" a "crick,"
I’ll go become a vagabond, living on Pike’s Pick.
Or I’ll become a shipherder, herding ship along the hill;
Or sick my fortune in the mines, like a wick man never will.
And if someday I’m lucky, a pretty girl I’ll mit,
And she’ll fold up my underwear so very nice and nit.
And we’ll buy us a great big farm, if they’ll give us a good dill;
Then I’ll have all I ever want without the need to still.
I’ll plant my whit out in the field, and what I sow I’ll rip;
So I can go and buy another couple thousand ship.
We’ll take those ship, so soft and fat, and also very mick,
And shave the wool right off their backs, forgetting how they rick.
’Cause smell don’t bother me at all, when my fortune I am sicking;
I’ll have chickens with their bicks plumb full, and my luck will still be picking.
My best friend’s named Ezekial, but we just call him Zick;
The other day I caught him in the john, about to take a lick.
I was so embarrassed, I ran right to my bed,
I jumped right in and pulled the dirty shi— whoops! blankets over my head.
And this morning I was standing here, frying some eggs in griss,
When my wife comes in, tired of fighting, wanting to make pi— uh, make a truce.
Then we decided to shear our ship, and go into town with their fliss,
And sell it off, then go to the bank, so we could pay our liss.
Well, there’s not much more to say I s’pose, you’ve got my drift by now;
I nid to get back to the barn and milk that bawling cow.
Now go and think on this a mite—take six days, or a wick—
Then tell me how you say it—is it creek or is it crick?

—Kirby Jonas June 1, 1995

What Is a Bad Day, Really?

Did you ever stop to wonder if your "bad day" might have been some other person's really good day? I don't know if I've ever pondered that, and I have to thank my blog for prying that thought from me now. Today I realized that in spite of how bad my day was, there was one man I came in contact with who would probably give an awful lot to have had my "bad day."

I wish I could say I was going to bring some humor into this blog tonight. But even though firefighters and police officers, the first of which I am and the second of which I was, are known for morbid humor, tonight there will be none of that. For one thing, I wouldn't presume to push that kind of humor off on people who don't deal with death on a frequent basis. Humor is used by emergency response personnel to deal with the stress of watching people get hurt and die . Few people living in the normal workaday world would understand that humor. Besides, in this particular instance there is no humor. Out of the call that took up most of my "eight-hour day" today, I can't find one reason to laugh.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. Here are the details of what I was thinking of as my "bad day." I started out having a bad day when my alarm clock went off at 5:30 and I started hitting reset and pondering the morning's workout, which was dwindling with every push of that button. The workout itself went well, especially because it is quality time I'm able to spend with my wife even on the days I have to work, but after that the day started to go downhill. My daughter delivered me a message wrong this morning, and I ended up in a place I didn't expect to be and running into a person I was neither ready nor willing to see. Bad, uncomfortable moment.

I escaped that situation a little worse for the wear, but then on arriving at my next appointment realized I had forgotten my uniform boots, as I had been dressed in workout clothes for the morning's exercise period--which of course I would have completely missed if I hadn't gone on my own before work. I thought the day was looking up when they told me I didn't have to be in my meeting but could get my workout in instead.

Now let me jump back for half a moment to make an important point. This day wouldn't have seemed so bad but for the fact that it was my 20 year wedding anniversary, and I was having to work it. I had this big, grandiose plan I was going to pull off which I had been planning for quite some time. But first I forgot my wallet, and second, I didn't make the phone calls I needed to make before it became too late.

I started out my workout by taking off my wedding ring so it wouldn't get scratched by the weights. For my workout, I did 35 pullups, 60 dumbbell curls, and jumped on the treadmill to work up a real sweat, which I lived to regret. Ten minutes into the treadmill workout we got a call, one of those calls a firefighter dreads to hear. Trench collapse.

I was understandably keyed up by the nature of the call, so I didn't realize until partway there that my wedding ring was no longer on my radio antenna, and I had no idea where it was. So here it was my 20th wedding anniversary, and I'm living with the fact that I might have lost my wedding ring forever. We think of the oddest things on the way to bad calls, I know.

The day was very hot, and my turnout gear was even hotter. Between this and the fact that I was already sweating from the treadmill, AND I sweat like the Nile River normally, I had sweat running into my eyes from my helmet for the first half hour of that call, which caused my eyes to burn even up till now, 9:52 at night. As we arrived, the scene consisted of a huge track hoe stalled over a ten-foot-deep trench, two workers and a little old man from Search and Rescue doing CPR on a burly man who lay with his legs still trapped by dirt at the bottom of the trench. Not good. To make matters worse, the trench was cracking again and in imminent danger of further collapse.

To say the least, the three men in the bottom of the trench were overjoyed to see us. But they needn't have been. Our rules strictly forbid us from going into a trench that has not been shored up. No matter who is in the trench, we have to stay on top and watch until the necessary equipment arrives for us to do our shoring, which takes a large amount of time. Always too much time.

Ten minutes into the call it had become obvious that we were not performing a rescue. We were recovering a body. At that point, everyone was forced out of the trench, and the task of shoring it up to get the body out began. This call, which had come in sometime between 10:15 and 10:30, did not end for our engine until sometime after 2:00. For other engines it lasted much longer.

By this time I had been in turnout gear for far too long. My feet were aching and sore, I was completely soaked with sweat and very dehydrated and hungry. But because of other calls we were unable to make it back to our station for any refreshment. While everyone else went to these calls in uniform, I continued to respond in turnout gear because I had to.

I won't list all of the little things that I thought were making my day so bad. It was bad enough already that I hadn't been able to bring to fruition the plan I had so long dreamed up for this anniversary day. It was bad enough that I was hot, tired, dehydrated and hungry, and the calls seemed to have no end.

When I finally pulled off my turnout pants and boots, my feet looked like I had been in a hot tub for 40 minutes. There wasn't a part of them that didn't ache, and they were pasty white and wrinkled. But I finally got a long, hot shower, something to eat, and was able to sit and breathe quietly for a while. The day improved. That was my bad day.

But you know something? That young man in the trench would probably have loved to have my bad day. As it turned out, he was 29 years old, with a pregnant wife and three children at home. I didn't want to hear this part, but my driver told someone else, and I overheard it. I can't tell you how it made me feel. All of the things I had been feeling so sorry over seemed to vanish. No, I hadn't been able to surprise my wife like I wanted for our anniversary, but I was able to call and talk to her later. And tomorrow I will be able to hug and kiss her and my kids. I got hot and sweaty and thirsty and hungry. The man in the hole got cold. And he will never be able to feel sweat in his eyes or feel thirst or hunger again. His wife will never get to see him coming up the driveway, and the kids will never get to run to him and throw themselves into his arms.

I am a person of huge faith. I know there is a life after this. No one could begin to convince me any different. I don't feel so sorry for the man in the trench, but I feel very sorry for those left behind who loved him and who will miss him. And I feel sorry for guys like me who can't see past the little things that they feel are making their day so bad when people around them are having far worse days.

This man's death prompts me to remind you all to tell your loved ones how you feel about them while you can. I'm sure this man's family never dreamed he would not be coming home. Don't be afraid of the word "love." The word "regret" is a stronger word if you let someone die without ever having told them.

Incidentally, I found my ring when I picked up my sunglasses. It was on one of the stems. I had taken it off the mic because I was afraid I might lose it. No, my day wasn't that bad after all.

Softly Falling Rain

One of my earliest memories of childhood is of the soft Montana rain falling on our tin roof. Back then our roof seemed silver, but of course it was plain, ordinary tin. Yet when it shimmered in the sun it was indeed silver to me, and when played by the fingers of April rain there never was a sweeter sounding instrument. It rivaled the beautiful music of the band "Celtic Woman," or the moving songs of the Carpenters, which were so popular back then. But unlike Karen Carpenter, "Rainy Days and Mondays" didn't get me down. I always relished the soft sound of that rain tapping on the roof. During the day, or as I lay in bed in the dark of night it was a lulling melody, a melody without music.

I suppose the rain did make me melancholy at times, but I am the type who enjoys melancholy, who enjoys the memories that melancholy brings to the heart. And the lullaby of that nighttime music can not be rivalled. The only thing that could be sweeter to my ears these years later would be to hear my daddy playing his guitar and singing his cowboy songs to us from the darkness.

Today it rained here in southeast Idaho. It was that sweet, soft, lingering rain, the kind where the sky turns light gray as far as the eye can see. It was the kind of rain that gently soaks into every pore of the earth, watering my trees, my garden, my flowers--free water!!! The City fathers can't charge me a dime for this, as much as I'm sure they'd like to claim responsibility.

The world tonight is wet and wonderful, and it seems as if it could not be more at peace. As a firefighter, there seems to be all too little of that. To all of you out there reading this, I wish you peace and tranquility, and I wish you the magic of closing your eyes and listening to rain dance on your own "silver" roof.

The Fall of the Twin Towers

I tread on sensitive ground when I talk about September 11, 2001. My own sensitive ground, and that of millions of other people as well. There will be no humor in my blog today. There is no place here for humor. When I think of where I was, of what I was doing, of the time of day, it is all so vivid in some ways. Yet in other ways it is a jumbled disarray. I remember the expressions on the faces of certain people. I remember their words as the towers fell, and in my ears I can hear their words ringing to this very day. How vividly I recall the feelings of confusion that washed over me as the radio came on and I started to hear bits and pieces of the turmoil that was unfolding. It took some time to grasp the reality of it.

Before I talk about that day, I have to go back... During the summer of 2001 I became good friends, through email correspondence, with a couple from Mahopac, New York. Most of my correspondence was with Gina, the wife half of the couple, who shared a common interest in collecting 1/6 scale Western memorabilia. That's the fancy way of saying "toys." To make this part of the story short, we talked a lot, and our friendship grew to the point that Gina and her husband Rich decided to spend their fall vacation with my family. I agreed to take them on a tour of my favorite place in the world, Yellowstone National Park.

During our correspondence, I had learned that Gina's father was ailing. So it was natural to think that his condition was going to seriously worsen when around the third week of August I received a message in my heart telling me that Gina, Rich, and their son John would not be coming out to Idaho to go to Yellowstone with us. Something very bad was going to happen. I know it sounds strange to read those words: "I received a message in my heart." But I can't find any other way to describe what happened. All I know is that something came to me very plainly telling me that Gina and Rich would have a bad incident occur that would keep them from coming. I had had this type of thing occur to me before, most recently when something told me on several different occasions that my apparently very healthy wolf dog, Loup was soon going to die. And in the incident with the flat tire when I was seventeen, which you have already learned of if you have followed my blog. So needless to say, although I wanted badly to put this feeling aside, when it persisted I finally had to tell Gina she wasn't going to be able to come. I couldn't tell her why. I didn't know. All I could say, and I hated how stupid it must have come across then, was that something bad was going to happen and they should prepare for it.

Well, I'm sure by now you know what that "something" was. And how can you prepare for it? How can you prepare for an act as monstrous as the attack on the Twin Towers? An assault on the American People themselves? As fate would have it, the tickets Rich and Gina had purchased had them flying out of New York City at 9:00 on September 11, 2001. We were to meet them in Pocatello on the 13th and proceed from there to Yellowstone.

I was driving to work in my pickup when I turned on talk radio. I started to listen, and none of what the DJ's were saying made sense. I thought for a few minutes that they were talking about some past occurrence. And then it began to unfold, and my brain began to grasp the significance of it all. Immediately, my guts became unsettled. I won't go into the details of that, other than to say that for whatever reason my "fight or flight" mechanism took over. I was headed for Fire Station 3 to gather my gear and proceed to Station 2, and I was so sick by the time I reached the station that I headed straight for the bathroom. I remember turning my head and seeing the towers burning on TV as I went through the day room.

I returned to the room to the sheer terror of the attacks unfolding. I'll never forget the shock emanating through the room. The disbelief and dismay. I gathered my gear and sped as fast as I dared across town to Station 2. I arrived to find my good friend Kelly watching the news unfold. He was standing up, pacing the floor, his face filled with shock. When the first tower collapsed his face went white, and over and over he repeated the words, "Oh, my God." He kept putting his hand over his mouth, a classic sign of comforting oneself, and this from a man who is very self-confident and strong in his everyday life. As for me, I didn't speak at all. My voice was gone.

When it was plain that so many hundreds of firefighters and police officers could not have survived the collapse of that first building, the pit of my stomach was empty of all but acid. I could not believe what I had seen, the sight of people jumping from those towers and falling like missiles to their deaths. The footage, shown over and over again, of the planes veering into the buildings and bursting into flame. It was branded like a torch into my mind. It will never leave.

Turning on the computer, I saw the horrified messages from my friend Gina, in New York. You can imagine the sights she was seeing from her home. We both now new that her father was safe. The bad news that had been impending was far greater reaching than just the worsening of her father's condition.

I am a very emotional person. I have to admit that I was one of the weak. My wife and baby were home that day, and I could not stay at work. With my stomach being sick anyway, I took the day off and went to be with my family. I couldn't hold them enough. We watched the carnage on the TV at home, and strangely enough, I couldn't even cry. But the shock and the pain hit later. I went back to work after I got to see all of my kids come home from school and held them all tightly to me. There, back at Station 3, where I had begun my day, I sat down and penned my poem, "A Tear Fell," and as any writer does I released my emotion in those words, brought the morning's events into focus, and into the realm of true life, and then I cried.

I don't know if this blog makes sense at all. I don't know if I can even read back over it, because of the pain it still brings to my heart. But I hope we can all remember that day as strongly as I do. I hope that we all will follow our hearts and make September 11th a national holiday if that becomes our choice, to remember those fallen, the innocent and the heroes who died trying to save them. That event cemented our nation for a time, but how soon we forgot. I hope we can bring back the fear that day put in our hearts, but more importantly the pride in our country. This place, the United States of America, is not perfect. We have done things we can't be proud of. So have all countries. But there is no better country to be a part of than America. We cannot forget that fact. As long as we are free, and strong enough to protect ourselves, this country is worth living in, and fighting for. I hope we will all live by Patrick Henry's words, "Give me liberty... Or give me death!" Truly, life is worth nothing without freedom. Anyone who has traveled as much of the world as I have knows that. As one of my heroes, Chris LeDoux, once sang, "Freedom Ain't Free." And part of guarding our freedom is remembering the times when others tried to take it away, when others tried to bring us down. Never forget. We owe it to those who died on September 11, 2001. Never forget.

For those of you who may never have read it, here is the link to my poem about the September 11 attacks, written the night of September 11, 2001, at Fire Station Number 3. NEVER FORGET. http://kirbyjonas.com/poetry/atearfell.html

The State Fair...and so-called "Food"

Okay, I'm going to apologize in advance to all of those who happen to be connoisseurs of what people in Idaho call "Fair Food." I am probably going to say a few things in this blog that will highly offend you if you are a true fan. If that is the case, I can only say, "Hey, it's been good knowing you!"

Seriously, I was told yesterday about something at our local state fair that took me aback so hard I almost ended up on my rump on the ground. I was incredulous. I was dumbfounded. I was stupefied. What was it? Stand by, and I'll tell you.

Okay, I've been to the fair, and perhaps five times in my life I have succumbed to some of its "food." I've tried some of the smoothies there, which in spite of their 5.00 price tag, which was extremely hard to swallow, tasted pretty darn good. I've had some of those cinnamon roasted almonds, which if you eat four pounds of you will find you don't care for anymore--even the smell. At least that was my experience! I have had pronto pups, which is just a fancy name for a plain ol' corndog. I've had maybe one burger, and I've had a funnel cake, which was just a harder than normal waffle wrapped into a cone shape and deep fat friend (as most things seem to be at the fair). The most horrible thing I've tried was the infamous "Tiger Ear," which any human can tell you looks more like an elephant ear, particularly an ear on an elephant who is suffering from a case of the "drips," since they seemed to be soaked in warm grease for a couple of hours before they hand them over to the lucky consumer. After spending several minutes wiping off the oil that was dripping from my elbows, I threw the remainder of so-called tiger ear in the trash, hoping to salvage a little bit of my gall bladder.

Now, there are other things at the fair that I haven't tried and which I shudder at the thought of. There is cotton candy, basically flavored sugar, whipped and stuck to a stick. There are the deep fat fried Snickers bars and Twinkies, both of which activate my gag reflex just thinking about putting them in my mouth. And then there is that... "item" I learned about yesterday.

Now, I have to say that I am not the healthiest eater in the world. I put stuff in my body that I shouldn't. But deep fat fried food is not generally one of my weaknesses. I do like butter on bread. I like butter on pancakes. I like butter on waffles, corn, potatoes. Butter is good. And current research, as happens with most natural food if you wait around long enough, is saying that butter isn't even all that bad for you. This in from Mother Earth News! (And I am NOT making that up.)

But... And this is a BIG but, even bigger than the butt on the above-mentioned elephant... There is a line with butter that even the most ridiculous of eaters should not cross, and that brings me back to that mystery food I mentioned at the beginning of this blog. Here it is. Are you ready for this? No, I mean are you REALLY ready for this? You might want to have a garbage can handy, unless you have access to an emesis bag (fancy name for barf bag).

The latest craze, obviously invented by those at the fair who seem to be in a contest to come up with the most bizarre, unhealthy foods on the face of the planet, is.... (drum roll, please) .... deep fat fried.... BUTTER. Did you read that correctly? Uh... If you read "DEEP FAT FRIED BUTTER," then yes. You read that correctly. I am told, although I have yet to see this with my own eyes, that they take a cube of frozen butter, wrap it in some healthy dough made of white flour, and probably heaping tablespoons full of sugar, and deep fat fry it.

Can I truly say anything more about this? I mean seriously. How do you go any farther in derogatory commentary about deep fat fried butter then just to say they sell it. Period. DEEP FAT FRIED BUTTER. I sat and tried to think of something to top this one, and I just can't. Next year, on the last day of the fair, they will be selling used deep fat frying oil for 6.00 a cup, and all those lovers of "fair food," which is anything but "fair," with be walking around the fairgrounds swilling it like the most exotic of smoothies.

Hmm... Just give me a mountain to run up and a glass of spring water, thanks. Or even a glass of mud would be fine. Healthier than deep fat fried butter, anyway.

Deep fat fried butter....the breakfast of champions.

Of Flat tires and Faith

Flat tires have always seemed to be mysteriously attracted to me. Plain black ones, white-walled ones, heavy duty ones, truck ones, car ones--even replacement doughnut ones. But usually they're retread ones and bald ones. Gee... I think there's a correlation there somewhere. Unfortunately, for many years brain cells were NOT attracted to me, and it took a long time to figure that out.

Okay, to be fair to myself, I haven't personally had very many flat tires. Not on my own vehicles, anyway. I've just been lucky enough that when I've been riding with other people--mostly those who had an affinity for bald tires or retreads--my mere presence, like a cutting comment from the boss does to the uncertain employee, seemed to deflate every tire in sight. And I was left with the fallout.

I'm not making this up. On two separate occasions I am firmly convinced that my being in the vehicle made most of the tires on that vehicle go flat, along with at least one spare--and I'm not all that heavy! Once we were coming back from hunting, and it had turned into a cold, snowy day. We were about as far from the so-called civilized world of Big O's and Les Schwabses as we could get, tired and thirsty and hungry, when one of our spare tires went flat. That in itself would not have been a problem, of course. Spares being flat don't bother me. I mean, as long as there's no call to use them, if a spare is just sitting in the back of the truck and it's flat, big deal. Everyone needs to let off some steam now and then, I always say. No, the problem arose because the spares had already been put on my brother in law's pickup to replace the REGULAR tires--retreads--that had already mysteriously gone flat. Now that--THAT, my friends--IS a problem.

Luckily, at that point the flat tire was on the right side, and my brother in law was able to drive along on the shoulder and keep his nearly unprotected rim in the dirt until we got to the home of a friendly farmer and were saved.

But my story is about the first time I was in a car with those lovely retread tires. This is a story about faith in God, and in miracles. You might find humor somewhere in the rest of this tale. At the time, I didn't.

I was seventeen, and I had gone to stay with my sister Kandy in Salt Lake City, Utah. That was my first mistake. We lived in Shelley, Idaho, which is some two hundred miles or so away. Nothing big--as long as you're driving. Walking is another story. Kandy had three spare tires in the back of the blue 1972 Ford station wagon she had gotten from our daddy. A Ford. That was my second mistake--getting into a Ford. But I digress.

Anyway, I specifically remember those three spare tires, because I made such a big joke about them at the time. Ha, ha, ha. Why would anyone carry THREE spare times? Hardy har har. Kandy's answer? Well, you just never know what might happen. Better to be safe than sorry. Uh-um... Well, I'm here to tell you something, folkds. "Safe" with retreads does not mean three spare tires. Maybe four, five, six or seven. But not three.

To make a long story a tad shorter, in the next hour or two I got really good at changing tires. So good, in fact, that we were soon down to zer0--I said ZERO--spares. Now I was thankful Kandy had been smart enough to buy three spares. But my thankfulness didn't hold up--and flat tires' affinity for me did.

To those who are unfamiliar with this route, there is a pass called "Malad Pass" between Salt Lake and Shelley. For those of you who don't speak French, "Malad," spelled with an e on the end of it, means "sick." I'm not kidding. I soon learned there was a reason for that name. I was soon to become very sick.

We had started up this pass when I heard the strange thump-thump noise on the right front side of the car that I had grown way too used to by this time. The odd thing was, something told me to ignore it. I was sure what it was, and I was equally sure that if we didn't stop before long it was going to ruin not only whatever was left of that tire, but probably the rim of the wheel as well. But something just made me keep my mouth shut. I admit that I didn't have any big revelation from God telling me that He would protect me or anything sappy like that. I remember simply thinking, Hey, let's get over this huge mountain and on to the downhill side before I say anything stupid like, "Stop, Kandy, you're going to ruin your wheel!" So I didn't say anything. And oddly enough it was as if Kandy were deafened at the same time. I kept looking out the corner of my eye at her to see if she was hearing the same thump-thump that I was, but she had this blissful look of calm on her face like nothing in the world could upset her. Nothing like MY gut-wrenching feeling. I should note that as it turned out the tire was only going flat, not completely flat, so we did indeed have a few miles left on it.

Well, we went up and over Malad Pass, and the tire was still holding up. The thump was getting louder, but we were still moving. And Kandy still hadn't noticed anything was wrong. But even now, at the top of the pass, I couldn't speak. Or I wouldn't speak. Looking back, it literally seems that something was telling me very loudly and emphatically, but inside my own head, "Kirby, I'm warning you--SHUT UP! Smile and shut your stupid mouth--for once in your life." So I did.

And then it happened. We had made it all the way down the pass, at which point the tire was thumping so loudly that if we had been in an old Western movie I would have known Indian attack was imminent. Kandy was still blissfully unaware, a point which baffles me to this day. As we were driving past an on-ramp to the freeway, the first one we had passed in miles, something said, "Okay, NOW STOP." And again, I am not kidding. This something was very loud, and very adamant. "YOU HAVE TO STOP."

So with a sinking heart I turned to my sister, knowing we were about to walk the last ninety miles home, and told her we had another flat tire. She immediately hit the brakes and started pulling over. Now, by my calculations later, as if I could really do any "calculations"--maybe I should say by my estimate--we must have traveled three hundred feet before she brought the car to a halt in the emergency lane of the freeway and total silence descended on that station wagon. Ironically, I've been told that Ford--F-O-R-D--stands for "Found On Road Dead." But Ford doesn't make tires, as far as I know, so I can't even blame Ford for this incident--darn it.

Anyway, the silence inside the car did not match the noises inside my head, because for a church-going young man who shouldn't have known any curse words, there were so many of them flying about inside my thick skull that they must have been breaking in half in mid-stream, making all kinds of new words unknown to man until that day. I could not believe we had flattened three tires--and now four. And we were, almost literally, in the middle of nowhere. Yes, there was an on-ramp a hundred yards back, but this was rural Idaho. There was nothing of any significance near that on-ramp, and in particular there were no Big O's or Les Schwabses. (I like saying that--Schwabses.) I would have even settled for a Walmart Service Center at that point--except back then I had no idea what Walmart was and would have thought it was a wallpaper and Sheetrock shop.

My first thought was to try and cross the Federal Government fence along the freeway and head across this freshly plowed half mile of farm field to a lonely looking house I could see in the distance. But there were two major obstacles here: a Federal Government fence along the freeway and a freshly plowed half mile of farm field. Neither is a pretty sight. Those fences have no big, stout wooden posts to grab onto for climbing. They are made with metal posts--the kind that, if you slip and fall on them, tend to skewer you like a frankfurter. And if you try to cross between the posts, the nasty barbed wire, stretched tight as a drum, will make short work of you. As we say in the West, these fences are hog tight, bull-strong and horse high. You can't straddle them, even if you're Andre the Giant, and you can't bend them over. Obstacle number two, even if I somehow managed to fall over this fence, probably ripping my pants off and shredding my flesh in the process, and landed on the other side, I would still have to slog through the freshly plowed field, sinking with every step up past my hightops. And I would be naked! And besides, what if no one were home at the farm house, or worse yet, what if some crazed gang of serial killers had taken the residents hostage and were waiting for a couple of unsuspecting young people like us to wander into their well-planned trap? The possibilities seemed dismal.

So it was that when I reached that government fence and freshly plowed field and looked at that lonely, besieged farm house, I made the command decision without consulting with my driver to head instead for the on-ramp of the freeway. Heck, we didn't have any major appointments anyway.

Once I had made my decision I headed out with long strides. I was too mad to wait for Kandy. After all, she had said a prayer for us to be watched over before we left Salt Lake. Why hadn't it worked?!?! What kind of faith was she made of, anyway?!?! I think this was around the time my daddy died of cancer, or was in the process of dying, and optimism for me was in short supply, while pessimism was a boy's best friend.

So I was walking, through yellow grass that was probably a foot and a half or two feet tall. The reason I mention that particular fact is because it hid everything on the ground from me until I was almost on top of it, and this has some significance here. At this point I think I was fifty feet ahead of Kandy, and as near as I can figure it I was near the same point on the freeway where the voice in my head had finally told me to mention the flat tire problem.

Suddenly, something appeared there in the grass directly in front of me. Had I gone ten feet to either direction I might have missed it, but I was walking directly in line with it. It was a tire. I hope you believe me when I tell you once again, that I am not making this up. Granted, I am normally a fiction writer, but this story is true. I should stop the tongue in cheek now and get completely serious, because I was at the time. My heart nearly stopped, and goose bumps rose all over my skin. Not only was there a tire lying there in that tall grass, fifteen feet off the freeway and hidden enough that passersby would probably not see it or would take little notice of it, but this tire was mounted on a rim. Unfortunately, this rim was green, and our station wagon was baby blue--but I couldn't really demand a color match, could I? But it was a tire, and it was mounted on a rim. And then I made the real test--I leaned over and shoved on that tire with both hands, and it was about as full of air as it could be and had good tread as well.

I wish I could truly impress on the reader that this is a true story, from beginning to end. I have made pieces of it humorous, yes, for a little fun and to keep your interest up. But from the humorous to the serious and in-between, there are no parts of this tale that are not true. For this period in time I have become a non-fiction author.

Well, back to the spare tire. I had learned by now enough to know that different wheels have a different number of lugs on them. This particular rim had five holes. I remember the number very clearly. And after changing all those flat tires in the past two hours, I knew that so did the Ford. I knew nothing about tire sizes, of course, but that didn't matter to me then. My strength suddenly left me, and I found myself plopping down on the tire. My knees basically gave out, and I stared in disbelief at Kandy as she finally caught up to me and saw what I was sitting on. I don't remember speaking much at that time. I only remember finally finding my strength, lifting up that tire, and in a very humble posture rolling it back toward the station wagon. Of course, my pessimism had not totally fled me, even then. I have always believed it is better to be pessimistic and wrong then optimistic and wrong. At least if you're pessimistic and right you can say, "See, I told you so." And if you are wrong you could be elated. If you're optimistic and wrong you're just sad and stuck on the side of the freeway picking your nose and staring at a tall fence and a dirt field and a house full of hostage takers.

So my pessimism now was telling me that maybe the holes wouldn't line up. But to be honest with you it was a very weak pessimism at that point. Down deep I knew. I knew those holes would line up with the lugs on the Ford, and I knew we were going home. I just felt sorry for the farm family being held hostage by the crazed serial killers.

I took the spare tire to the car, and very humbly, and very quietly, I took off the flat, put the new tire on, which not surprisingly fit perfectly, and I sat in stunned silence for much of the trip home. There are times, when I think of this story, that I still sit in stunned silence--a fact that would probably surprise most people who know me very well, since I seldom take that long ago advice and shut up.

So, my readers, tell me: If the odds of winning a lottery are so low, what were the odds of stopping on that freeway where we did, walking back and finding that lost spare tire almost exactly where that voice had told me to have Kandy stop the car? What are the odds? I mean, spare tires don't just fall off vehicles every day, do they? I've walked, and run, hundreds of miles of roads. I've driven countless thousands. And never before or since have I seen an inflated, nicely treaded spare tire lying anywhere on the side of any road, not since that evening that my sister and I needed it so desperately. I could have ignored that voice in my head and had my sister stop before starting up the pass. I could have had her stop on top of the pass. I could have taken my chances and let her drive another five or ten miles after the voice told me to stop, just so I wouldn't have so far to walk home. I could have, but I didn't. The voice told me to stop, and I did. And there was that tire, like some destiny had made it fall off another vehicle in preparation for this desperate day.

I must say that in all the times I've shared this story, not one single person, professing to believe in God or not, has ever had the audacity to suggest that this was merely coincidence. Mostly, they just sit in silence much like I did back then. If I had written this as a fiction piece, it would be ludicrous, wouldn't it? No one would give it the slightest bit of credibility, and it would be shrugged off as drivel. But it's true. People can say there is no God, no Supreme Being who watches out for us. If you can read this story and still maintain the truth of that, then I feel sorry for you. I truly do. There is not a doubt in my mind whose voice was in my head that day, nor whose power caused my sister Kandy's ears to not hear. I only wish that part of my story could include how strong my faith was that we would be okay. But no, that part was Kandy's. I can still feel her peaceful serenity, her knowledge that we would be taken care of. And until I put that tire on her Ford, that was not the knowledge inside of me.

We are watched over, folks. I know bad things still happen, and God can't stop them all. If he did he would cease to be God. We came here to suffer and make mistakes and try to pull ourselves back up. Some of us go through extreme challenges, while some of us just spend our time changing flat tires. But whatever your lot in life, God truly is out there, and He truly is watching all of us and loves us and cares deeply what happens to us, even in those times when he can't intercede in a way that we would like him to. This life is only a test--yes, a hundred times more important than your college finals, but still only a test. But this one--Life--determines how you will spend the rest of eternity.

When that voice calls out to you, no matter how loud it sounds, please listen to it. You never know when there is a lost spare tire out there waiting just for you.

The "Other" Good Guy

You hear the wail of sirens. Now and then they are punctuated by the blast of an air horn. People pull to the side (well, sometimes). Then you see it: The big red fire engine. Or in the case of our "Centennial" engine, red, white and blue. Or, in the case of some other strange cities, aqua blue, yellow, or lime green. But either way--it's a fire truck!!!! Children--and grownups--wave. With all five fingers. Or maybe they hold their thumbs up in the air, or do the "okay" sign. The point is, everyone loves a fire truck. And everyone loves a firefighter. Here come the good guys to save the day.

A few days ago I met with Tony, a very dear friend of mine from years ago, for a chat that has been too long put off. Friend to friend, with no one around, no distractions. Tony told me something that didn't surprise me--and hadn't surprised him either. A recent poll showed that the most revered job in our country is that of firefighter. Everyone loves a firefighter.

Who was the friend who passed this on? A cop.

Before I became a fireman, before people started waving at me with all five of their fingers, I too wore the colors of Pocatello PD. I was a patrol officer in this very city for three years. And some very long days. There were a few rewarding moments. Very few. But it is the times when pre-teen children, some as young as six or seven, "saluted" me with their middle finger, or when other young children told me if I touched them they would sue me, those are the times I remember most. Or the time I had to drive myself to the hospital with blood running down my face from an eye I could no longer see out of because the ambulance was treating the man who had done it to me. I was a police officer for one major reason: To help people. What did I get in return? Okay, a perk now and then. Once in a great while a thank you. Mostly, I counted myself lucky to not be sworn at or spit on.

Some people say cops can't complain. They go into that job knowing what it entails. But no one really goes into that job knowing how deep the hatred of many people can go for the police. Or at least the disrespect. It wears you down. Tears you up. You are there to serve, and you become a family of police, because that is the only group of people you often feel understand you or what you are.

So let me talk about my friends--our friends--the police. Did you get harassed when you were driving 39 mph in a school zone, and some jerk wrote you a ticket when all you were doing was trying to get to work on time? Did some jerk in uniform give you a parking ticket only because your car was parked two and a half feet away from the curb and cars were having to drive around you? Did they have the audacity to break up your party because some neighbors were intolerant, and all you were doing was making a little noise--at two in the morning? And worst of all, did they throw you in a drunk tank because they claimed your two beers made you unsafe on the road? Well, be glad you didn't take out some child in that school zone, or some unwary driver didn't smash into your badly parked car and kill himself. Be happy that the same cops who let your neighbors go to sleep that night would be there for you when his party got too loud. And if you went to jail for being drunk and driving, just be thankful and think--it's possible he saved your life. And who knows how many others.

But there is an ultimate sacrifice that police officers are sworn ready to make. That is the giving of their own lives to protect the innocent. Not unlike firefighters. But for the police, there are times that the protecting of the innocent can also call for something else. The unthinkable. The nightmare of taking the life of another human being.

My friend Tony, the very one who told me about that study where firefighters are so revered, was called on, exactly three years and four days ago, to protect five people. To possibly save the lives of all of them. He did that. He did it by putting himself in a position where his own life was in jeopardy. I won't go into the details. If you ever want to know all of them, you'll have to ask in a private note. They are too horrible. Too much for the normal person who doesn't witness frequent death and mayhem to digest. For now, I'll only give a brief account.

Two probation and parole officers in our city went to a house to serve a warrant. A parolee had violated his terms of parole. He was going to go back to prison. It was the last thing he wanted. Because of that, he had a huge hatred inside for one of the parole officers. When they came for him, fortunately with uniformed officers in tow, his girlfriend warned him they were there. He was able to get to a gun. He loaded it, a .357 magnum revolver, and prepared to take two lives. But the first parole officer in his sights was the wrong one, another good friend of mine by the name of Wally. The parolee wanted to kill Wally, and he made his try a few minutes later, but he wanted the other one worse. At gun point, he backed Wally into the main room, where he laid eyes on the officer he wanted to kill. As he turned his gun on this man, Wally grabbed his revolver, and the fight was on. Wally ended up shot in the torso, but his bullet proof vest saved his life. Another officer was shot in the leg. It ended up that Wally, who was positioned behind the now-wounded parolee, had a gun barrel at his throat, and the parolee was clicking the trigger over and over. Because Wally had a death grip on the cylinder it wouldn't turn, and the hammer would not descend. But it was a matter of time. Wally was weakened by the blow of the bullet to his chest, and the parolee was determined.

From the front doorway, Tony heard Wally's call for help. Wally yelled, "Do something." Tony told him to move his head, and he did. Tony fired. I won't tell you the exact details of what followed, but death was instant. The parolee went limp instantly and fell to the floor.

Tony was left in a state that any Christian would be in. At first, he did his job. He did the job he had feared but expected and trained for during many training sessions over many years at that job. He helped his wounded friends. He prayed with the officer who had been shot in the thigh, prayed with him because the officer was screaming that he was going to die. Tony calmed him and promised him he wasn't going to die. He cleared the scene and did what he had to for the investigation, which was done by the Idaho State Police. It wasn't until days went by that he fell apart. He began feeling like he was having heart attacks. He had no idea what was happening.

Tony had PTSD: post traumatic stress disorder. Or did he? After being made to go see a psychiatrist, to the tune of over 2000 dollars from his own pocket, he was told it wasn't really PTSD, for to have this you must be wounded. Since all he did was shoot another human being in the back of the head at close range and take his life, but he wasn't physically hurt himself, they told him he could not possibly have PTSD. Workman's comp wouldn't pay a dime for his treatment. And it gets worse, but I won't go on.

My friend Tony possibly saved the lives of five people--or more, for who knows what might have happened had this parolee escaped and gone on a rampage of destruction? For that, he was punished. He was punished with his own sense of guilt and uncertainty. He was made to feel less than he was, which was a savior to his friends, and to the innocent. My friend Tony is a hero. He deserves our respect. Like any other group of people in any other job, of course there are police officers who don't earn respect. So we respect their badges, if nothing else. But remember, you can never tell what may have made an officer bitter, what may have made him come across as hard and uncaring. There is little thanks in the profession of a police officer, folks. But he is out there to help you. And sometimes he is the only thin shield between the normal people--what might be called the sheep of the world--and the wolves who prey on them.

So next time you see a police officer drive by, I hope you will understand their lives a little better, and maybe, just maybe, you can raise your hand and give him a wave--with all five fingers.

Incidentally, the least revered job in our country is that of accountant. Go figure.

The Missing Music

My friend Stephanie made the comment, "I agree there is no better smell than the sagebrush and fir. That, along with the serenade of the Wyoming meadowlark...heaven!" Stephanie is so right, but until she said that I had not realized something.

There is something wrong out in the sagebrush grasslands. I discovered it yesterday, mostly because Stephanie's words were ringing in my ears. I made an eight mile mountain run up City Creek, which is right behind my house. I was thinking about one of my favorite birds, the western meadowlark--Wyoming meadowlark, as Stephanie referred to it. Anyone who grew up when I did or before, and who grew up in the same beautifully open country I did, grew up to the song of the meadowlark. I listened to them so often, in fact, that coupled with my proclivity to imitate animal noises (a habit that used to highly annoy my sister) I became very good at getting the meadowlark to call back to me.

But it was on yesterday's run that I realized...my friend the meadowlark is gone. I think I heard one early this spring. One lonely meadowlark, trilling out his song from somewhere out in the sage. I enjoyed it, but thinking they would be around all summer I took it a little bit for granted. I haven't heard one since.

Unfortunately, it's not just the meadowlarks that have vanished. It's the native finches, the tanagers, the warblers, the song sparrows. So many beautiful songbirds that used to fill the forest and prairies seem to be vanishing. They have been replaced by starlings, house sparrows, house finches and pigeons, at least in our neck of the woods.

And I guess somewhat poetically they have also been replaced by another bird: the turkey vulture, otherwise known as buzzard. When I was a kid the vulture was pretty rare. I still stop to watch them because they are so big and graceful and interesting. But now you can watch flocks of them soaring the heights. Ironically, most of ours live in the huge trees in the local cemetery.

So is the boom in the vulture population a sad comment on the death of our songbirds? I don't know. I don't know if anyone knows. All I know is that on my eight mile run, with Stephanie Wray's words so fresh in my mind, I was a lonelier man without the song of the meadowlark.