The Story Behind Random Stone

The Random Stone concept came about in early 2005. I was working on the North Slope and I was feeling different. I was losing my balance, getting very dizzy while tying my shoes. I was worried about the situation and made an appointment to see my Doctor when I arrive back in my home town of Libby, Montana.
The Prudhoe Bay Oil Field is a vast complex covering about two hundred square miles. Just outside the controlled access to the field is an area called Deadhorse. It houses a large number of companies that support the oil field operations. You cannot call it a town as there is no permanent residence. Everyone who works on the slope lives elsewhere and commutes to and from the oil field either by one of two private charter jets, or an Alaska Airlines jet. Like me a number of workers live in the lower forty-eight and travel back and forth while working a two on and two off schedule. We pay for our own tickets to Anchorage but the charter flights to the Deadhorse airport is covered by BP or Conoco Phillips. The planes are co-owned by these two companies.
On this particular day I was standing at the counter in the airport awaiting the boarding process. I suddenly found myself watching an internal movie. The title was “Random Stone.” Now when I say an internal movie I am not talking about a projector or video. I am talking a hallucination if you will, being played out in my head. I was unable to stop it. I was conscious of what was going on and acknowledged people walking by and saying hello and yet the story still played. The colors and characters flashed before my eyes were so real and included such detail including names and even a particularly interesting automobile driven by the main character. I really thought to myself that I had an active brain tumor playing havoc in my head. I was convinced that that is what was going on.
The event stopped as fast as it had started. I was left bewildered and stunned, and planning my own funeral.
When I arrived home in Libby I wasted no time getting to my doctors office. He performed some simple test and determined that I had nothing more than an internal ear infection. Wow, I was so relieved and yet still without an answer as to what had caused the event at the airport. Could the infection had triggered some crazy thespian tricks within the sanctum of cranium?
The event never left my memory. I have two very close friends in Troy, Montana that I visit on a regular basis. Dave and Sandy, and they have provided me with numerous glimpses of what it is like to work with the Hollywood types. They have worked with some of the best, Robert Redford, Steven Spielberg, Ron Howard, and that is just the directors. They are also the people mentioned in my story about John Stamos. While visiting my friends, I told them of the unusual events that took place in Deadhorse. They liked the story that came from nowhere and told me to write it down as a story treatment. A story treatment is a synopsis of a complete story. Dave and Sandy then presented it to a dear friend of theirs by the name of Marie Cantin. Marie is a movie producer with some impressive credentials. Marie gave me some good input on the story and not much has been done with it since except Dave did have a chance to talk to a VP of development at FOX studios about the concept and she liked it. I have taken a number of avenues on this story, but I have yet to complete any of them.
I would really like to write a novel and have started that process. I would also like to continue to pursue getting into the hands of someone interested in making it into a movie. Not an easy task. What I do know for sure is that the concept is different and I am supposed to pursue it. The universe gave it to me as a gift and I need to follow-up on it before I die. It is important to me. The above poem is one of the by products of the event. I made a trip to the very Tahoma, Washington National Cemetery where my story took place. The flag is the one that covered my father’s coffin during his military honors burial in Libby Montana. It was very odd because the cemetery was much like the one that I had seen and to be honest, I had never heard of Tahoma National Cemetery until I saw it in my daydream like state. I was shocked to find out it really existed. I won’t disclose much about the story but I will tell you that this happened long before I had the chance to meet John Stamos, and he was the one that popped into my head as the lead. The story is about a very successful photographer, Jack Dillon, in the L.A. scene who gets involved in an amazing situation with his actress girl friend, Holly. We will just have to see what happens with the project. Many of the things I do including my vehicle license, RANDOM 1 include the name. And now you know the story behind Random Stone.

My Boys and the Sergeant

In one of my earliest post I told you about a trip that I took my two sons on in December of 2005. It is hard to believe that so much time has past since that trip. One of the things that stands out in my memory, is our time at Arlington National Cemetery. I am so glad that I was able to take them to see so many things that so many will never get the chance to see. While walking the paths that lead to so much history and emotion, we heard the sound of Taps being played in the distance. My youngest asked what the tune was and I explained it to them the best I could. Some distance from the visitor center we could make out the horse drawn caisson carrying the coffin of a soldier. It was a bit surrealistic and for me somewhat emotional. The family and loved ones were out of my view but not out of my mind. I do not know the circumstances surrounding this person’s death, only the grief. We continued on to the areas I felt the boys needed to see and when we completed the tour we entered the visitation area. We were in the gift shop when I looked up and saw a young sergeant of the Army’s Old Guard burial detail. Tall and professional with a trace of mud clinging to his boots. As he past by I said, “Sergeant,” and he paused. “Yes sir,” he responded. I asked him if he would be kind enough to pose with my sons for a photo. He said he would be proud. He snapped to attention and my boys fell into place like little soldiers, they too standing at attention. The difference was the smile on my boy’s faces. The sergeant, who had just buried someone’s son or daughter, or maybe someone’s father or mother, looked straight ahead and professional. I wish I could have had the chance to visit with him but I did not want to take up anymore of his time. As we parted I shook his hand and told him that my boys and I were proud of his service. My sons shook his hand as well and the young sergeant turned to me and said, “thank you, we need your support now more than ever!” The military has my support, I served in the U.S. Air Force for four years and the Army National Guard in Washington State for two years. If my children serve, may they be as professional as the young Sgt. at Arlington, and may they never have to be laid to rest from the wounds of war.