It was another hot Texas summer and I couldn’t believe I had survived this heat with no air conditioning in my car. I missed the cool moist air of Salem, Oregon, the small town where I came from. Salem was a perfect place to live because I was an hour from the ocean, Portland, and the mountains. Tragically, the terrible path of destruction by Mt. Saint Helens ravished the beauty of those mountains.
The economic impact left many people jobless, including me. We packed up all our things and drove to Texas with my mother and son in January of 1984.
After two years, I began to relax and feel at home in this huge metroplex. My son Brad and I had rented a small duplex that had a bus stop right outside my front door. It was the last weekend in June of 1986 and I was returning from my mother’s house where I had left my son so she could visit with him before he left for Arkansas to see my Dad. As I approached my front door it was dark and quiet except for the jingling of Annie’s dog tags approaching.
It was getting late and I had to work the next day so I started my nightly routine. Concerned about some noises I had heard outside my duplex at night, I borrowed a twenty-five caliber gun from a friend at work and kept it on the top shelf of my closet away from Brad.
I pulled a chair over so I could retrieve the gun and put it under my pillow. While adjusting my noisy window air conditioner, a peculiar feeling came over me to put the gun under the mattress. At first, I thought I’d just imagined it. Besides, why would I do that? I’m here alone with Annie. Surprisingly, the same command was louder the second time and louder still the third time. I was tired of hearing it so I said aloud, “Alright, alright, I’ll do it.” As soon as I put the gun under the mattress, it stopped; I thought that was strange. Finishing my routine, I shut the bedroom door, turned out the light, and went to bed.
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