TRIBUTE TO MY FRIEND, PETER BRECK

It is one of those days you foolishly hope will never come. I almost wish I had not come in to work today. But I did. And on one of my discussion groups I read the astonishing news: Peter Breck, a.k.a. Nick Barkley, is dead.

When I was young, I became a huge fan of Peter's in watching The Big Valley reruns. My brother and I would often play the Barkleys when we played what we referred to as "big men," rather than "cowboys." My cousin Cory often joined in as well. Of course, I never got to be Nick, because that was forever my brother, Jamie's part. And if Cory was there, he was always Heath, so strangely the younger brother became the oldest brother, Jarrod.

Time moved on, and in time, in March of 1999, I met and began a friendship with the real man behind Nick, Peter Breck. We met at a "Festival of the West," in Scottsdale, Arizona, where I gave him a copy of my book, Death of an Eagle. Unbeknownst to me, he was a huge fan of eagles, and I guess that explains our instant connection. He immediately told me if I ever put the book on audio he would love to be the man reading it. Of course, that honor eventually went to another great friend, James Drury, "The Virginian," but I would have loved it just as well in Peter's voice.

Later on the day I met Peter, my wife and I seated ourselves to watch a concert, and Debbie pointed to our right, where I found Peter sitting with his ever-present gloves on top of his head. That was Peter. Funny to the end. He sat there with those gloves perched on top of his full head of brown hair, looking as serious as a broken femur.

One of my favorite stories about Peter happened around 2001, when I received a late evening phone call. "Hi, this is Peter Breck." I was stunned, but of course happy. We chatted for a while, after he apparently dropped a stack of papers he had been holding. He sounded like he might have been drinking a little, but that, with Peter, was even endearing. At one time he told me to "give your mother a hug. Give ALL your family a hug. And aim low--they might be crawling."

He called another time to ask for "Jimmy Drury's phone number." I never could stand the name Jimmy, but that's what Peter called him, and to Jim Peter was "Pete." Anyway, I gave him Jim's phone number, and after we chatted briefly he hung up to call him. Debbie was standing there in awe, and she said the words I will never forget: "Would you have ever thought Nick Barkley would be calling you to get the Virginian's phone number?"

Over the past few years I kept meaning to call Peter, but I kept putting it off. As I keep in touch regularly with Jim, it is a shame that I let Peter go, but I did. I just thought he would always be there when I needed him. And then I saw the news. Peter died on Monday, and before that he was suffering from dementia. It brings me back to the sad knowledge that Clint Walker, another hero, is in the early stages of this disease himself, and has suffered it for longer than Peter did. I find myself wondering how long Clint will last, and it is hard to keep tears out of my eyes.

And so our heroes pass before our eyes into the Great Beyond, leaving only their memories behind, and their images on old film. I loved that man, Peter Breck, and I cherish the memories of the times we talked about his days on The Big Valley. I only wish I could have gone to stay with him in Vancouver as he invited me to do so long ago. You always think there will be one more day.