Tom Frye

He had tears in his eyes the day he snitched on his brother. Two days earlier, his older brother had pulled out a .22 pistol, placed one bullet in the cylinder, spun it, and then pointed it directly at eight-year-old Shawn. 13-year-old Steven then pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber, and so Steven spun the cylinder again and aimed the pistol at ten-year-old brother, Jack. He thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger. And again, the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Relishing the terror he was inspiring in his two younger brothers, Steven pulled the trigger a third time. Fortunately, he flinched when it fired and the bullet passed above Jack’s head and embedded in the wall above him. Steven simply laughed and walked away, leaving his two younger brothers quite shaken.

I was just two years into my truancy program and as a private contractor with the State, I knew I was obligated to report this incident. My job then was to do wake-up calls on some of the most difficult, counter-cultural kids in the city. By the time I saw any of these kids, they had been to countless meetings at school and hearings at court, and had been made wards of the state.

In my line of work, I connected with caseworkers, probation officers, teachers, counselors, administrators, and parents, and the good Judge Nuernberger, who gave these kids chance after chance before he sentenced them to more restrictive placements. My job was to keep these kids in school, and during each work day, I had many highly volatile time-bombs placed in my path. Each one, an accident waiting to happen. Such was the case with the three brothers, Steven, Shawn, and Jack.

As it turned out, my report resulted in Shawn and Jack being removed from their home. They were sent to live with their dad down in small town Crete, Nebraska. The two brothers blamed me then for ruining their lives and for them being stuck in another bad environment. I even got blamed for the machete fight they had on their dad’s farm, and the finger that Shawn lost to Jack’s wild swing of the sharp blade. Yes, they blamed me for the sucky turn their lives took. But despite the blame game, both boys took with them to Crete my manuscript they had been test reading. The work was a tattered, spiral-bound booklet named, Scratchin’ on the Eight Ball.

Shawn and Jack introduced the manuscript to their mentor, Professor Beef Torrey, and a year later, when 8-Ball was published by an educational publisher, the boys carried their own autographed copies into class and shared them with Beef.

Two years later, while shopping at Nebraska bookstore, I noticed a long-haired David Crosby look-alike staring at me from down the aisle. While conscious of his close scrutiny, I continued to check out books. Suddenly, the guy excitedly declared, “Far out, man, you’re Tom Frye!”

Jarred by such usage of hippy jargon, I turned as the hairy fellow approached me. He was beaming and amused that he’d finally met the author of the book he had come to love due to my two former state wards who had ended up in his classroom in small town Crete. “My name is Beef!” he said. “Professor Beef Torrey of Crete! And I read the manuscript of 8-Ball long before it was published! Congratulations! You’ve written one helluva book, Tom!”

Beef then explained his connection to Shawn and Jack, and I stood there amazed to think how two little kids from Havelock had carried that manuscript with them to Crete and placed it in Beef’s hands. Over the years, Beef has passed my books on to countless students he crosses paths with. This past summer, 30 years after that fateful meeting with that “far out” dude, Beef and a colleague had a biography of Hunter S. Thompson published.

I was talking about that very book with a mother who had bought all 3 of my Havelock series books in early June, and this mother stood there open-mouthed as I mentioned Beef. She said, “That is who first introduced me to your books when I was in elementary school in Crete! Beef Torrey! And now I am reading them to my own kids!”

I recently received an email from her son, who told me he was sharing the books with a friend at Norris High school, and shortly thereafter, this same kid sent me a Friend request on Facebook.

So that is what this book-writing has been all about: Connections.

One boy who had grown up on the mean streets of Havelock ended up serving in the Gulf War. While stationed over there in the desert sands, one of his fellow soldiers asked him where he’d been born and raised. When the kid told him he came from Havelock, the amazed  solider ran to his backpack and pulled out a copy of Scratchin’ on the Eight Ball. Later, after the Havelock boy made it safely home, he told me he’d never read 8-Ball while growing up, but said he read it over there during the Gulf War, and he bawled his eyes out because it reminded him of home.

I once read on the Internet where a used copy of 8-Ball was selling in Afghanistan for $38. The oddest thing is, it had been signed by me! I could only wonder, “How in the hell did my book get over there to that country? And signed by me, no less!”

Over the years, I have received letters from kids confined to institutions and kids going through treatment. The most profound letter came from a 15-year-old kid living in a group home. He wrote to tell me he’d had just finished reading 8-Ball, and he claimed the book made him cry. He went onto say, “I haven’t cried like that since me and my girlfriend lost our baby a year ago. If you haven’t reached a million kids with your books by now, you definitely will one day! Just imagine, a million kids touched by the words you write. I just wanted to thank you for writing a book that changed my life.”

Shortly thereafter, I met a kid down at Havelock Park. He said, “Man, with all those books you sold, how come you still live in the sticks of Havelock? I saw on the Internet that 2.8 million copies of 8-Ball have been sold over the years!”

I simply laughed and figured he must have made the mistake of reading the caption above Amazon.com when doing a search for my books, because if 2.8 million copies of my book had been sold, I think I would certainly know about it. No, in reality, I figured 12,000 copies of 8-Ball have been printed. Someone once estimated that for every one book printed at least 5 people have read it. So if that is true, perhaps as many as 60,000 people have read my one book. But that does not a rich author make. Of all those books, I have probably given away over half of them. That’s just the way I roll.

Most recently, I finished writing a screenplay based on 8-Ball. Only 15 copies had been floating around out there for less than 3 weeks before I received an email from a movie producer out of New York. I promptly sent him a copy of the book per his request and I am now waiting to see what the outcome of this contact will result in.

Two days after firing off a book/script packet to this producer, I got an email from a reporter at 10/11 News. He claimed he was doing a piece on the unsolved murder of Patricia Webb, which my book is loosely based on. He also claimed my book is listed on the Internet along with other facts about Patty Webb the young female police informant who was shot and killed outside of Lincoln.

I thought it quiet strange that this reporter chose now of all times to look into this unsolved murder after 35 years. At his request to speak with me to get my take on her murder, I said, “Have you heard the old saying, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie?’ Well, right now my dog is sleeping peacefully.” I then added, “Unless you have something to say that piques my interest, I guess I remain skeptical and shall remain silent about Patty’s murder.”

So once again, connections that lead to connections.

But lest I get too heady about my accomplishments with my books, I will end this piece with a story that keeps me in my place and helps me to remain grounded and humble.

Denny Ladue, owner of the Used Bike Shop in Bethany, recently portrayed Detective Shepherd in my play based on 8-Ball. Talk about connections. One day, while reading over his lines about a private investigator named Quinn, who put a hit on an informant named Kelly, Denny received a phone call from a lady named Quinn Kelly!

After sharing this particular story he then told me two stories regarding my 8-Ball book. In the first one, he said, “My daughter first read your book when she was just a little girl enrolled at Saint Catherine’s school in Riverside, California.”

This amazed me to think that my book had found it’s way into a fourth grader’s hands at a Catholic school all the way in Callie. But Denny then shared his last story with me in regards to my book.

“And I came across another copy of your book when I first moved back here from California,” Denny said, smirking. “Do you know where I found it? At East High in a dumpster!”

Last year, after helping 14-year-old Kody Connick publish his book, Wild Hearts, I received 2,676 hits on my website in one day. The Dogmen, who actually fight dogs, wanted to ban the book and burn my site as they were angry that a kid put them in their place. Animal Control Officers and Rescue Workers wrote in to support the book. The story revolved around a young delinquent named Charlie, who befriends a Pitbull named King. The book about anti-dogfighting traveled as far as South Korea and Japan, and we sold copies in 19 different states. Kody’s book struck a nerve.

Shortly thereafter, I read a tragic story about 500,000 dogs who were shot and killed over in Iraq. They were feral dogs and the military leaders from the US determined they were a nuisance and had to be put down. Two days after reading this story I had a dream where I saw the ghostly souls of all 500,000 dogs seated on a shoreline, gazing out to sea. When I followed their steady gazes, I saw a large ship sailing toward them to pick them. Once all the dogs were aboard, the ship sailed away on a river of stars. The next day, I began work on a sequel to Wild Hearts, entitled, Do Dogs have Souls?

I guess it begs the question, do they? Think of all the dogs who have passed through your life, and perhaps the dog in your life currently, and you decide.

My first dog, Sandy, was a Shepherd/Collie, and she and I landed on the front page of the Journal and Star when I was five years old with Sandy pulling me across the snow-covered front lawn in my snow boat. She was a part of my life until I turned 14.  I was not there to see her off as I had run away from home and was soon to be locked up in the detention center. But all through those troubled times, I thought of her and how much she was going to be missed. It was a crossroads for both Sandy and I, for I went on to climb my way up out of the juvenile justice system while she went on to the beyond.

Two years later, I ended up with a St. Bernard puppy named Angel, who became notorious for   boxing the neighbor’s German shepherd and sending him rolling with each strike. But for all her rough and tumble ways, she was a gentle dog who readily adopted the small, black and white terrier I brought home one day from my work as a teacher’s assistant at Havelock Elementary school.

I had spotted the small, furry-faced terrier seated on the edge of the playground watching my students play with his one good eye. His other eye was matted shut, and although he looked like a forlorn little guy, there was not much I could do for him. When I went to leave school that day, I discovered that three of my students had scooped up the ratty little terrier and placed him inside my 59 Step-van. When I opened the sliding door, there sat the one-eyed dog, peering up at me and wagging his tail.

I took him home, and Angel immediately adopted him. I named him Christian. Those two dogs, one big and massive, the other small and scrawny, were inseparable. In the winter time, Christian would climb up on Angel’s broad back when she was laying in the snow. There, he would curl up, staying warm until I let them both inside. Once inside, Christian would resume his place when Angel planted herself at her favorite location near the front door.

Then came Misty, a sleek, fox-like Collie/Terrier. She was a beautiful rich brown dog with pointed ears. Misty, unlike the big moose Angel and the short-legged Christian, went along with me on camping trips. She was more rugged than the pampered and spoiled Angel and Christian, and she loved romping in the woods.

My most memorable time with Misty was the time my foster son, Chad, and I skied deep into Indian Caves in the middle of the winter. We pulled a sled with our gear stashed on it, and Misty rode on this most of the trip into the park. We camped in an Adirondack shelter, nailing blankets over the opening in the front, and warmed the shelter with a propane space heater. Misty kept me warm that night by curling up inside my sleeping bag. She was a great dog.

Those three dogs were inseparable up until Angel passed at 14, Misty at 15, and Christian lived until he was 17. A long time for most dogs.

My parents then adopted, Brandy, a wet-mouth St. Bernard. Brandy would latch onto the cuff of your pants and drag you anywhere she wanted you to go. The night that the drug-crazed Terry Reynold’s broke into my parents’ motel, Brandy high-tailed it to the back room, while my dad used a gun to scare the crazed psycho out of their kitchen window. When the cops showed up to investigate the mess that Reynold’s had made, only then did Brandy come out of the bedroom to give the officers a friendly greeting as if to say, “Gosh, sure glad you guys showed up.”

I was there at my parents’ place when Brandy breathed her last breath, and I remember it was a peaceful passing, no vets involved, no needles, just a sprawl on her side and some labored breathing, and then she was gone.

By then, I had discovered the Pet Cemetery out east of town and I began burying my dogs there. I made trade-offs with Patricia, the owner, as I wrote two universal poems regarding both dogs and cats, where the poem could be printed with the name of the animal at the top and therefore apply to anyone’s pet. You can read it at the end of this post.

At 26, a year after my first book, Scratchin’ on the Eight Ball, was published, I bought a house in Havelock and started my work in foster care. Over the next few years I took in nine different troubled kids and five different affectionate dogs.

Bummer, my Dobie/Shepherd, was the biggest baby of all of my dogs. Doberman’s have poor circulation, and in the winter time when Bummer wasn’t curled up beside either of my two woodstoves, she was burrowed beneath the covers in someone’s bed. And when she went outside, she looked like a damned chimpanzee as my one kid used to dress her up in a sweatshirt  and a pair of colored underwear with Bummer’s stubby tail sticking up through the pee hole.

Bummer once swallowed a baby possum, and while I was outside cutting wood, she vomited the dead thing up in front of Henry, my very startled new foster placement. Henry came running outside of the house, screaming, “Your damned dog just had a baby out of her damned mouth!”

Sam, my Keeshond, was by far the most intelligent dog I’d ever had. She was one dog that I didn’t even have to leash as she would walk twenty feet in front of me, glance back to make sure I was coming, then trot back if I patted my side. She was magically bonded, and I took Sam out to Wilderness Park quite often to walk her. Sam also was great in a canoe and would remain perfectly still while cruising down through Wilderness or the Platte River.

Smoky, my German shepherd, was a misfit, and although I had a six foot high stockade fence around my backyard, she could leap it like a frog. She was an escape artist. So I used to chain her up to a concrete block in the middle of the yard. Fortunately for Smoky, my foster son and I returned home to pick up something we’d forgotten one day, only to find that Smoky had drug her block across the backyard and leaped over the fence, where she was dangling by the chain around her neck and her back feet barely touching the ground. I released her and put her inside the house, relieved that she hadn’t died of strangulation.

Tragedy struck Bummer at five years of age, for my neighbor man, a guard at the city jail, had this thing about standing on my front walk and getting Sam to bark at him. He antagonized her, and therefore thought he was justified in throwing a piece of poisoned meat in my yard. Sam did not get to it, but Bummer did.

My foster son, Trent, and I watched her die right there in front of us. I later had an autopsy performed and my vet determined it was strychnine that had passed through her system. I called the police and animal control, but they could do nothing without proof. I then went over and confronted the neighbor moron, but he simply cussed me out and slammed the door in my face.

That was the closest I had ever come to going to prison. But I kept my pistol in my drawer, and buried Bummer out at the Pet Cemetery beside Angel and Christian.

A month later, I adopted a Husky pup, Crystal. She was a pure white, blue-eyed beautiful dog. Unfortunately, she only lived for four months as she had a brain tumor and after spending $2,000 on trying to keep her alive, I finally had to put her to sleep. She was buried next to Bummer.

And then new neighbors moved into the moron’s house, and they had a black Chow/Husky mix named Sheera. One day while coming home with my kid, we witnessed the big, burly biker neighbor beating on the poor dog. I ran over and immediately confronted the surly bear of a man, and in response, he picked up the dog and heaved her over the fence at me, saying, “If you think you can take care of her any better than I did, you can have the damned bitch!”

I caught her and carried her home, without even glancing back at the moron. I kept her for 14 years after that. She was probably the closest dog to me I ever had, bonding with me and empathetic to my every mood. She would come and stand in front of me whenever I was angry or sad. She would curl up beside, placing her head on my chest whenever I laid down in bed.

The bad thing was, Sheera and Sam were both dominant females, and for nearly eight years I had to keep them separated or they would fight to the death. The worst fight they ever had took place one night in the middle of my livingroom. I made the mistake of getting in front of them instead of taking one dog from behind. Sam lunged forward and bit me deeply on my forearm.

Later, once I had both dogs separated in different rooms, I walked into the bathroom to examine my dog bite. It was so deep it appeared there was a white tooth embedded in my arm. I fainted and fell on the bathroom floor.

When I came to, my foster son, Ricky, was leaning over me, concern on his face. He had been outside on his skateboard ramp when the dog fight took place, so he knew nothing of the whirlwind I had waded into earlier. I had just clambered from the floor to the toilet seat, when Ricky took a long look at my bloody wound and gasped, “Oh my God, it’s a tooth!”

I fainted again. When I woke up, Ricky was showing three of his skater buddies my bloody wound and all of them were marveling that I had a dog tooth embedded in my arm. Come to find out, it was a bone in my arm that was visible beneath the three layers Sam had bitten through and not her tooth after all, but it was still totally gross.

The next day I was filming an anti-drug program in combination with kids from Malcolm and kids from Whitehall at NETV. During a lunch break from the interviews these kids were conducting with me, I slipped home to let the dogs out. And Sam and Sheera got into it again. I had to wade into the fray and break them up. While doing so, I tore open the wound that Sam had inflicted the night before, and it bled all over my purple shirt I was wearing. In my haste to get back to the studio to resume filming, I did not notice the blood splatters on my shirt.

Later, while reviewing the taping, one student asked, “What are those bright red spots on your  shirt?”

“Good Lord,” I said, “that is blood from a dog fight I had to break up yesterday!”

The producer jokingly said, “Now we are going to have to give this film an R rating for blood and excessive gore!”

Sam passed at 14, Smoky at 10, and Sheera lived until she was 15. After burying Sheera, I vowed I would never take in another dog again.

But then came Kody’s book, and we needed a Pitbull pup to photograph as a model for the back of the book. We drove out to the Human Society and found a tiny Pit/Lab mix. While snapping off pictures of her, Kody began begging me to adopt the female pup, promising me he would walk her, train her, clean up after her, and she would essentially become his dog. Famous last words, right?

Jade came home with me. Her photo traveled all over the country on the back of the Wild Hearts book and she got to be on the front page of the Journal and Star with Kody in a full-color spread. But since that time, I have had to replace seven pillows, one vacuum sweeper cord, one Nintendo cord, two gloves, a dozen socks, and at least three bath towels. My couch looks like it belongs on the front porch of trailer situated in some backwoods setting as two cushions have been gnawed as well as both arms.

When walking down the bike trail, people ask me, “Oh, what kind of dog is that?”

And I reply, “Part Pitbull and all Meth Lab!”

Most get the joke, but one lady went on her way, saying, “Meth Lab? Never heard of that breed before. How odd.”

So as I contemplate whether or not to finish my story, Do Dogs have Souls, I wonder how many people believe they do.

Heaven will not be as I pictured it, if I get there and find that all of my past dogs are not there to greet me as I step through my cottage door. I have pictured that cottage nestled in a pine forest  over and over in my mind for a long time now. And each time life here gets really hard, I cope by visualizing each of my dogs sprawled beside a fire inside that cottage. So if I open that door at road’s end and discover my dogs are not there, I am going to march right up to God and ask him why he didn’t allow them in.

Presumptuous? Arrogant? Rude? To bring God to task on the matter regarding my dogs? I don’t think so. He will know I am not stepping out of line, for dogs have been the emotional buffer I have needed to help me with each of the troubled kids who have passed through my life, and God will totally understand when I ask, “Just where are my soul companions?”

And I would hope he’d say, “Ah, I was saving the best for last. You didn’t look out in the field behind your back door, did you? For there you will find all of your dogs chasing crystal rabbits through a field of stars. Just call them back, for they will know your voice.”

And then to show God that there are no hard feelings for causing me concern over the souls of my dogs, I will share with him the joke about all the dyslexic people in the world who actually believe in Dog. He will get a good laugh out of that, I am sure.

So as you, my faithful reader, contemplate whether or not your own dogs ever had souls, I will leave you with this poem, and then I think I will get to work on that book once more.

The Lord looked down from heaven,

a puppy in his hand.

He said, “I’m sending you to earth,

an often troubled land.

“Your presence will bring comfort,

to ones I love so dear.

When you snuggle up beside them,

they’ll know that I am near.

“I know it’s quite a mission,

for a tiny pup to do.

But I’ll be in your heart,

my love will flow through you.

“You’ll whine, bark and sniff,

you’ll cuddle and you’ll play.

You’ll be a ray of sunshine,

on dark and dreary days.

“You’ll share that thought-filled stare,

that dogs are noted for.

You’ll wag your tail and smile,

greeting loved ones at the door.

“You’ll be a most welcome sight,

at the end of weary days.

You’ll grow from pup to dog,

sharing yourself through each phase.

“And when the day draws near,

that I retrieve my precious loan,

you’ll leave the world a better place,

through you, my love will have brightly shone.

“For those who cared so dearly,

and gave you love so free,

will know you were an example,

of the love that comes from Me.”

It was a midsummer’s night and I was seven years old, a barefooted boy romping through patches of wild mint in my Grandma’s meadow. I soon discovered I wasn’t alone.

I stood gape-mouthed and bug-eyed as the sleek, black form of Lightning materialized out of the shadows before me. My heart racing, I faced the black horse as he lowered his head,  sniffing quietly. I reached out and wiggled my fingers in front of his nose. Lightning stood like a king in his moonlit pasture, surrounded by whirling fireflies and their emerald flashes of fairy light.

Everything else faded away, the chirping crickets, the rumbling train on the nearby tracks. For those brief moments, Lightning became the center of my universe. We didn’t touch, yet we connected. It was a magical moment, etched in my memory forever.

Fireflies graced my evening years later during reading time, one of my 11-year-old foster son’s favorite activities. He would shut off the TV and Nintendo, and drag me away from my computer. He would then light candles for me to read by. During one evening’s session, he produced a jar of captured fireflies, releasing them so that they swirled through the den, glowing like gems from a dragon’s hoard. “Cool!” he declared. More than cool, I thought. Magic!

So it is for all of us. Throughout our lives, many such magical gems appear for the gathering. Like shiny jewels stored in our mental treasure vaults, images are often triggered by the silver  moon on a spring night, traces of mist on a summer morning, or gentle snowfall on a winter’s day. Life is made more precious by these moments; we are made rich by this valuable collection. Magic moments become like beacons in a dark night of the soul.

I have many of these magic moments stored inside my head. Some of them come to me in a kaleidoscopic flash. Others simply appear like a slow-swimming fish sluggishly rising through cool water on a hot summer day.

There was the time my foster son, Lance, and I were walking through Fontanel Forest on a cold winter’s day. We had just rounded the bend overlooking the pond, frozen solid in the deeps of the woods, when suddenly, a tall oak tree toppled over right in front of us. It crashed down upon the icy pond and shards of ice and clouds of mist rose up in the air around the fallen giant, leaving a fine layer of sparkling particles drifting through the air. It was a spectacular sight that left us both standing there in amazement.

There was the time when another one of my kids and I were driving out in the country on another winter day. I was letting him drive my Pathfinder, and as he drove down a rather steep stretch of country road, three deer sprang out in front of us. They crossed the snowy road and faded away into the wooded grove to our left. No sooner had this trio of deer vanished in the trees, when off to our right, a red-tailed hawk drifted down and banked no more than ten feet from the Pathfinder. As we both began muttering in amazement, that hawk soared along with us for an entire three blocks before breaking his pattern and drifting off into the skies.

There was a winter’s night when two of my band members and I were driving back from a gig we’d played at a coffee house down in Kansas. It was during the time of a major gas shortage, and all the gas stations in northern Kansas were closed at the late night hour, and we were nearly out of gas. It was nerve-wracking watching the needle on the gas gauge slipping toward E, and Ben and Craig and I prayed that we made it all the way to Marysville before we ran completely out and were left stranded out on the snowy open plains. Despite our fear that we would run out of gas on that deserted stretch of roadway, we passed through one small town and I spotted something of interest.

I turned the car around and Ben and Craig curiously asked me what I was doing. “Stopping to have some fun,” I said as I parked beside an old church. They watched me climb out of the car and make my way through the sleet and snow to an old bell perched there in the middle of the snow-covered lawn. When Ben and Craig realized what I was about to do, they joined me, and we rang the heck out of that bell . . . until the rope broke and the bell got stuck halfway through mid-ring, and stayed frozen on its perch high above us. We laughed all the way out of that town, speculating on what the less-than-amused townsfolk were saying about who had been ringing their bell at 2AM.

We did not laugh long, however, as the gas was nearly gone in the car, and Marysville was still ten more miles down the road. And then, we saw a green flash of a falling star right in front of us.

“Whoa!” Ben said. “An omen! That had to be an omen! We’re going to make it!”

Another star fell, and then another. All three had been bright, green flashes, a spectacular display in the winter night sky. However, when we got to Marysville, omen or not, we did not find one gas station open. We drove on then, heading down the road to Wymore.

As we drove, another star whizzed through the sky above us, and even Craig began to say, “That had to be an omen! That was four shooting stars in a row! That has to be a sign!”

Sign or not, I then shared with my two friends why I now drove on to Wymore with less enthusiasm about omens than they were obviously experiencing. Two years earlier, my Granddad had walked out of a nursing home there in small town Wymore–in the middle of a snow storm, much like the one raging outside the car as we drove. My Granddad, always the adventurous sort, had his last adventure that night. Dressed as he was in his pajamas and bathrobe, he wandered down a set of railroad tracks and eventually ran into a barbed wire fence, where he collapsed and died.

Despite my depressing, hard-life story, Ben and Craig gasped out loud when yet a fifth falling star blazed through the sky as we entered Wymore. And omen or not, we did not find a gas station open there either.

We had 15 miles to go to reach Beatrice, and as we drove on fumes, Craig fell asleep in the back seat. One more star shot through the sky above as, and Ben seeing this sixth star, was certain we were going to make it to Beatrice. I drove on, skeptical and white-knuckling the steering wheel, and relieved that we had at least passed through Wymore without suffering a fate much like my Granddad did.

We coasted into the truck stop in Beatrice and the car died ten feet from the pump. Ben woke Craig up and while I steered, they pushed the car up to the gas pump. “See,” Ben said, “I told you those falling stars were an omen. God was letting us know we were going to be all right.”

Once we fueled up and started the forty mile trip to Lincoln, Ben told Craig about that last star we had seen. “Six stars in a row?” Craig said. “Wow, that had to mean something. I wish I could have seen that last one.”

No sooner had he said this then a seventh spectacular green flash arced though the sky in front of us.  And even I, the skeptic among us, had to gasp out loud as we watched it slowly vanish into the darkness. (I later wrote a similar story about the oddity of these seven falling stars in my 8-Ball book.)

Another moment, etched in my memory is the winter night I went down to Havelock Park in the middle of a raging blizzard to find a kid there who had planned to commit suicide. He had a pistol and he fully intended to use it. I remember walking through falling torrents of snow as I approached him seated in the middle stone shelter. I remember, too, asking for his permission to sit down at the picnic table, swearing to him that I would not try to take the gun away from him, if only he listened to what I had to say. He cocked his pistol and agreed to let me join him.

I talked. He listened. And twenty minutes later, Travis placed his pistol on the table between us. I remember asking him if I could pick it up and unload it. He allowed that, and before walking him out of the park, I emptied the gun and tossed the six bullets out through the madly falling snow.

So, there you have some of my more vivid magical moments that remain in the treasure vault inside my head. And I bet you readers have many of your own. Keep them. Store them away. Bring them out on a dark, stormy day when you need them the most. Magic moments are what life is made up of.

Though I cherish some more so than others, one of the most spectacular magic moment happened while I performed as a storyteller at a summer camp high in forested hills. At the peak of the story (and using a magic trick) I tossed a large fireball in the air before the campfire. Ooohs and Ahhhs erupted from the campers. Yet the moment the fireball appeared between us, a dove flew above our campfire and passed directly through the last sparkles of light, then winged its way through the dusky woodlands, dazed but unharmed.

Later, when campfire ended and campers had exited the clearing, the Camp Director and I started down the moonlit trail. On either side of us, the forest was illuminated by thousands of fireflies  swirling through the forest air. As we walked, the Director shook his head in amazement, saying, “The fireball effect was great tonight! But, how did you produce that dove?”

I pointed at the fireflies around us. I then rubbed my knuckles on my chest, casually blew on them, and with a dramatic flourish of my hand, I quietly replied, “Magic!”