Perhaps the most distressing feature of Old West medicine was its inability, outside of surgical anesthesia, to alleviate pain. Even minor afflictions often meant weeks of suffering that a modern society, accustomed to instant relief, would not have the fortitude to endure. I would have been one of those that could not have endured. I need to be anesthetized to get an eye exam. If it were up to me I’d never step into another doctor’s office again – no matter how advanced medicine gets. Some physicians make one feel as though nothing has changed since the Old West. The one I saw this past week falls into that category. She was like a blindfolded auto mechanic poking around under the hood with a giant “We’re number #1” foam finger. I didn’t hate that as much as the list of ridiculous questions I was asked which ranged from “Are you exercising and drinking enough water?” to “Do you eat right and get enough sunlight?” She ended the examination with a phrase I absolutely loathe, “It’s hell getting old, isn’t it?” I should have stayed home and treated whatever was wrong the same way I try to fix my computer when it’s not acting right by banging on the back of the terminal. “Hey, Doc. I’m only 50,” I finally worked up the courage to say before I left the office. “Yes, that’s about the age,” the anorexic, silicone implanted, thirty-something woman replied. On the way back to my office my mind settled on the thousands of pioneers heading West more than one hundred and sixty years ago. They all had the illusion that no matter how tough it turned out, frontier life would at least be healthful and free of the epidemics that plagued the East. However, they also took along the germs to destroy that illusion. Smallpox traveled with them to break out in towns and even on the thinly settled prairies. The trails West were studded with crosses warning of “cholera,” which infested waterholes and salty streams. I found comfort in these facts. Just knowing neither myself or the surgically enhanced doctor would probably never have survived a trip West in 1850 made me feel better. I wouldn’t have made it because of my age and she wouldn’t have made it because…well, let’s just say infested waterholes and leave it at that.

The date on the small rock tombstone atop of Bob Ford’s grave in Richmond, Missouri is incorrect. Ford was born in 1861, but the tombstone has 1841 as his birthday. A reader who picked up a copy of Tales Behind the Tombstones pointed that out yesterday. The book was released in 2007 and I never noticed the discrepancy. I guess the tombstone has been left that way because Ford was not a well liked character then and he’s still not a well liked character to the folks in and around Ray County today. When I visited the gravesite for the first time there were still flags around the tombstone that read “The Dirty Coward who Shot Mr. Howard.” Howard was one of Jesse James’s alias. I’m not sure who oversees such matters, I’ll find out when I’m in Missouri in a couple of weeks. I’ll point out the error but I suspect they already know and don’t care. Since this matter was brought to my attention I’ve thought a lot about the “we don’t care” attitude from those in positions to make changes and set policy. Pulling from my most recent memory I note that an attorney working for the Missouri District Attorney’s office possessed such an mindset with regards to my brother and family more than seven years ago. My brother’s arrest was one of the most traumatic experiences I’d ever gone through in my life. As soon as they allowed him to make calls he phoned me crying. He was terrified about what could happen to him. All his worse fears were indeed met. During one particular conversation he asked me to go into the camper where he was living and remove some of his most precious possessions. He didn’t want his soon to be ex-wife to lay claim to the few things he left their home with. The camper where my brother lived was situated behind my parent’s home. At this point the mock investigation was over and the camper was NOT, NOR EVER WAS PART OF A CRIME SCENE. My brother was petrified and cried all the time. He begged me to help him in any way I could. “I’m innocent and don’t belong here,” he sobbed. I told him I would do what I could and that I would never leave him behind. I never went into his camper to remove anything, but I told him I did to calm his anxious heart. I would have told him anything to calm his anxious heart. I’d never experienced anything like that and I was in pieces. I promised that I’d get him out, buy him a house, get him a new car, I promise to restore his life and replace those things his ex-wife refused to return to him. The District Attorney’s office recorded the conversations I had with my brother promising him that I would take care of his requests and for reasons I still cannot fathom, told my nieces and nephew that I had removed evidence from Rick’s camper. I received a veiled threat from the District Attorney’s office shortly after that. I was told that if I return to be with Rick at court I would be arrested for “obstruction of justice.” Having no experience with the law that threat scared me. I knew then the Feds could come in an arrest you for no reason and I was frightened. Incidentally, I still believe they can arrest a citizen for no reason and keep them locked up indefinitely. Due process is only for the very rich. Looking back on the incident now I should have stood up to them and told them to do what they felt they needed to do. The D-A was selective about what they told my nieces and nephew. They weren’t interested in protecting them in the long run they only wanted to use them to get what they wanted right then. They succeeded. I just wanted to set the record straight in my small way and mention that I do have copies of the entire conversations I had with my brother in jail – should anyone be interested in the truth. TRUTH IS ESSENTIAL. Einstein once said, “Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important matters.” That advise goes for D-A’s, anyone who makes false, life altering allegations against another and the inscription on an outlaw’s tombstone.

I like clean slates. The idea of blank canvas before me gives me some hope. The possibilities are endless. The first work day of the New Year…that clean slate promises to be filled by the day’s end. Looking forward I have three new books that are going to be released – two in the summer and one in the fall. I have three books to complete for release in 2013, a few speaking engagements, a book launch, and hopefully a Broadway musical and the development of the book Thunder Over the Prairie into a film. I am anxious to start work on the new fiction western based on the life of Laura Reno, sister of the famed Reno Gang and the completion of the mystery I’ve been picking at for eight years entitled Frogs in Paradise. There are several Bible studies I’m excited to be a part of and a full Easter production I’ll be writing and directing. Looking forward almost makes me happy…almost. It’s the looking back I still have to do that threatens to slow any real forward movement. The fight for my brother’s life continues. There will be results this year, most unpleasant results. I read a story entitled Matilda, Who Told Lies, and Was Burned to Death. It serves as an example of the results that happen when a person lies and ruins lives. I believe those who lied about my brother will be forced to deal with the consequences of their actions this year. Not in the literal way Matilda did, but certainly they will burn with the knowledge that their deceit was costly. And now, the story of Matilda. Matilda told such dreadful lies, it made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes; Her aunt, who, from her earliest youth, had kept a strict regard for truth. Attempted to believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her, and would have done so, had not she discovered this infirmity. For once, toward the close of day, Matilda, growing tired of play, and finding she was left alone went tiptoe to the telephone and summoned the immediate aid of London’s noble fire brigade. Within an hour the gallant band were pouring in on every hand, from Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow, with courage high and hearts aglow. They galloped, roaring through the town, “Matilda’s house is burning down!” Inspired by British cheers and loud, proceeding from the frenzied crowd, they ran their ladders through a score of windows on the ballroom floor; and took peculiar pains to souse the pictures up and down the house. Until Matilda’s aunt succeeded in showing them they were not needed and even then she had to pay to get the men to go away. It happened that a few weeks later her aunt was off to the theater. She refused to take her niece to hear this entertaining piece: A deprivation just and wise to punish her for telling lies. That night a fire did break out – you should have heard Matilda shout! You should have heard her scream and bawl, and throw the window up and call to people passing in the street. But all in vain! For every time she shouted “Fire!” They only answered “Little liar!” And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda, and the house, were burned.