I like to write junk…

My Grandma Hankins was an everyday housewife, as was Mama Haynes. Neither worked jobs outside of the home that I know of, although Mama Haynes, living on a farm with Papa Haynes, did her fair share of chores like gathering eggs, churning butter, picking cotton, tending to her garden, along with many other farm related tasks. Mom and her sisters helped their mother do the same.

Nowadays, the word “housewife” seems to make some women, along with a few thin-skinned men, melt upon hearing it. It’s actually considered demeaning by many libber types. I have to chuckle wondering what Mama Haynes would think of these people. I’m sure she held strong to the adage, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me!”

What brought this subject to my mind was a recent commencement speech by NFL Kansas City football player, Harrison Butker, at Benedictine College, a private Catholic institution in Atchison, Kansas. I’ll only touch on a part of it. A couple of lines from his presentation evoked outrage from female woke members all over the country. Refer back to the second paragraph of my composition regarding thin-skinned people.

Harrison Butker said, “Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world.”

CNN said that this speech was the worst mistake Harrison Butker ever made in his life, although I highly doubt he feels that way, and rightly so. Unless things have changed, a mere opinion isn’t against the law, although some Taylor Swift followers, or Swifties, would disagree. If folks don’t believe the same as these lefties it immediately becomes a cardinal sin.

After hearing that part of Harrison’s spiel, I came to the following conclusion. Butker was simply telling female graduates that it’s okay to be stay-at-home moms. That of course, goes against the grain of the secular world. What impressed me most is that this guy had courage enough to speak his mind unlike so many sissy, politically correct, emotionally challenged men these days.

Whether you agree with Harrison or not, he didn’t hold back where his opinions are concerned, much like a late friend of mine, William Lowe. William didn’t care if people agreed with him or not and wasn’t afraid of hurting someone’s delicate feelings. Like a bull in a China cabinet, he’d bluntly get his point across and then move on. There was no debating his ideology afterwards. That’s one trait him and I share alike.

Besides Mama Haynes and Grandma Hankins, fictional television character, June Cleaver, was the consummate everyday housewife. Some might remember her as Ward Cleaver’s wife on the “Leave it to Beaver” sitcom from the 1960s. The series in syndicated form is still shown on certain channels.

June Cleaver was portrayed as a good and faithful wife, along with being a loving and caring mother to her boys, Wally and Theodore “Beaver” Cleaver. She knew her place in the home and rarely complained. There were a few times when she became upset with things, yet you never heard her scream obscenities or throw tantrums when voicing disapproval. If I didn’t have a mother while growing up, I’d choose June Cleaver in a heartbeat.

The summer of 1968, country music artist, Glen Campbell, released a song titled, “Dreams Of The Everyday Housewife.” That song was very popular back then and is still heard today. I’m sure each time it plays, a snowflake melts upon hearing that housewife word alone. For that reason—I believe it should be played at least five times a day.

I’ll be watching what Swifties attempt to do with Harrison Butker. I’m sure they’ll be calling for his resignation or termination as they always do when someone lights their fire. Television gadflies, Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg, are probably frothing at the mouth thinking up devilish ways to pay him back.

Should Kansas City, let him go (he’s one of the best kickers out there), there are several teams searching for a new kicker. The New England Patriots need one desperately. I doubt Chief’s coach, Andy Reid, would sack #7 over the man’s personal opinion. Reid doesn’t come across to me as being one of those sissy, politically correct, emotionally challenged type of guys. Amen.

Each year, at the Iditarod Sled Dog Race finish line in Nome, Alaska, a red lantern award is given to the last musher in. Their name is added to the trophy via an engraved brass tag. Rookie, Jeff Reid, won it in 2024.

Just to finish this grueling race is worthy of praise, as so many have tried and come up short. Getting lost, encounters with enraged moose, wolves, scrapes and bruises, including broken bones and delirium are remnants of past events.

I’ve never entered the Iditarod nor do I have plans to at 70, although much older men did and were successful. The late Colonel Norman Vaughan comes to mind. He participated 13 times and was 84 when he raced for the last time. I’d still attempt to make the journey on snowmachine as long as I had a couple of my pals along for the ride.

Although I’ll never be privileged to have my name added to that red lantern, I do have an Iditarod lamp of my own, an original one. It’s a kerosene version that sat either in a cabin or business in Iditarod at one time when the town was alive. The place is now a ghost town.

This lamp was buried under tundra and I came upon it by chance. The base was broken off from the kerosene reservoir, resulting in two pieces when there should’ve been one. Ample amounts of J-B Weld epoxy helped bind them back together.

Fragile glass chimney and decorative shade were shattered into pieces and there was no restoring them. Chrome plating is somewhat dull with tinges of rust where it peeled loose. This is well-earned-patina having survived a good amount of time lying under that damp grassy tundra.

On a portion of the wick mechanism is marked: IMPROVED BRISTOL – MADE IN USA – B.B. & C. CO. – MADE IN USA. This was known as the Bristol Brass & Clock Company. I’d estimate the date of manufacture was circa 1900 or before. This company started business in 1850.

The fuel reservoir was slightly dented but otherwise in useable shape. One of the hardest things for me to find was an original glass shade. It took close to 20 years of searching before coming across an identical lamp on eBay. I merely swapped shades from this one to mine. Lavender colored flowers adorn the majority of the globe with a peach hued top. Overall, it’s very elegant.

I can envision this sitting on a desk or table in Iditarod, during cold winter nights, with just a wisp of smoke coming through the cylindrical chimney. A resident or business person sitting in front of it, would’ve used the light to write a letter or perhaps read the local newspaper. There were two newspapers during the towns heyday before one quickly folded. An old printing press still remains, rusting away in wet swampy ground. It’s beyond restoration. Another larger press was taken to Anchorage, where it too was destroyed in a hotel fire.

I’ve yet to light the lamp not wanting to stain delicate glass. Perhaps someday I will, as there are fuels now available that are said to be sootless. This old lamp doesn’t have a name attached to the base like the Iditarod red lantern, yet tucked underneath it, out of sight, is my name on a sheet of paper along with this story. For that reason alone, it’ll always be remembered as an as Iditarod survivor.

Undoubtedly, this is one of the only surviving sources of artificial light from a once bright and populous—Alaska goldrush town.

I see statement after statement on social media, where undoubtedly, the people making them are uninformed. On one such occasion, I asked a man where he got his information and he replied, “On the news.” I had to assume that he tuned in to CNN or the New York Times, judging by his extreme leftist opinion.

My first experience watching CNN was with my family, perhaps 40 years ago, while sitting at an airport gate waiting for a flight. Having nothing else to do, I watched and listened to a young CNN reporter, quickly sensing that what she was reporting regarding a certain incident wasn’t the total truth. I believe this was a police shooting in Phoenix, but it could’ve been another city.

The reporter, very subtle like became judge and jury, questioning the actions of the police officer as perhaps being discriminatory. That point was brought up by her in an emotional tone of voice. She said that further investigation was warranted. The police always investigate these shootings involving officers, and her personal opinion was unneeded. Keeping personal opinions out of reporting is taught in Journalism 101, or at least it was. CNN seems to thrive on biased reporter opinion.

From that time on, I noticed that televisions in all airports were tuned in to this same extreme leftist channel. I can only imagine how many passengers like me were slowly being “brainwashed” while waiting for flights. Thankfully, I was aware of such, having encountered the same attempted mind-swaying during my high school years, with it having little or no affect. I can’t say that about other students. Unfortunately, some were born gullible and couldn’t break free of the bonds.

The only area where CNN news didn’t seem to direct their liberal opinion was the weather. While stuck in airports, I still listen to that part of their program with open ears. It always helps to know what you’re about to encounter before getting to a destination where clothes are concerned. Anything else on CNN regarding their news is carefully scrutinized.

The other day on Facebook, someone posted a piece about not allowing school vouchers to be used for fancy private schools. I’m not sure what fancy private schools are, unless it’s those schools the Clinton and Obama children were privy to.

CNN has been a big advocate of not allowing school vouchers for private schools, especially Christian ones. They evidently get their marching orders from the National Education Association (NEA) and select Democratic leaders and donors. These folks desire a socialistic approach to education along with everything else.

My children went to private Christian schools. We paid the full tuition out of pocket, which meant I worked two jobs at one time to help fund it. On the flip side of things, my wife and I still had taxes taken out of our paychecks for public education facilities. We didn’t complain although we should have.

I was the activity bus driver for the kids at our school, while other parents volunteered in various needed positions. Fundraisers were constantly going on to help defray the costs for sports and extracurricular activities. There was nothing fancy about any of this that I could see.

Those folks totally supporting public education and deplore private schools are ‘grossly uninformed’ regarding this subject. These days, if private school was unobtainable, I’d home school my children before sending them to a public institution. Wokeness has now perverted the basic education curriculum from first grade to graduation. It’s been getting worse and worse every year.

Another topic that so many seem to be ‘misinformed’ about involves our former president. It seems he did some things in the past, like other people, that I’m sure he’s not proud of. Humans have been making mistakes since the beginning of time.  Everyone’s worthy of being forgiven, including Donald Trump, yet judgmental folks sometimes possess an unforgiving nature.

CNN, along with the New York Times, and some politically motivated public officials, seem to be the leaders in condemning this man for his supposed fling with another woman. He’s been taken to court on such, evidently in an effort to embarrass the man and keep him out of office. John Fitzgerald Kennedy had marital affairs as did William Jefferson Clinton, yet I never heard mention of them over the years on the same level.

All in all, it doesn’t matter if me, you, or the mainstream media, refuses to forgive our former president, or anyone for that matter. Ultimately, what counts most is that Jesus Christ will. Those people having sincerely asked for forgiveness will receive it (1 John 1:9).

From what I’ve heard, Donald Trump has publicly done so, and if that’s the case, he’s forgiven. Case closed. For those believing differently, it’s best to read and see what the Bible says about such, and not seek CNN, or other leftist venues for the absolute truth here.

To not do so, a person will continually live their life in an uninformed manner.

* The following story was composed strictly so that the history of my musket is never lost. A copy of this manuscript will be attached to the weapon.

As a small boy I dreamed of one day owning a “Brown Bess” musket. I’d read of the legendary gun in stories regarding George Washington, The Revolutionary War, and Daniel Boone. Wikipedia offers a simplistic explanation of what a Brown Bess is:

“Brown Bess” is a nickname of uncertain origin for the British Army’s muzzle-loading, smooth bore, flintlock Land Pattern Musket and its derivatives. This musket was used in the era of the expansion of the British Empire, in battles during the American Revolution, and acquired symbolic importance at least as significant as its physical importance.

It’s believed that Brown Bess is slang for, Queen Elizabeth I, although there’s no definite proof of such. Once again, Wikipedia provides a plausible explanation:

“Brown” came from an anti-rusting agent put on the metal that turned it a brown color. “Bess” came from either the word “Blunderbuss” or “arquebus,” both early types of rifles. “Bess” came from the nickname for Elizabeth I. The “Brown Bess” is just a counterpart to an earlier rifle that was called “Brown Bill.”

I’ve never heard of a “Brown Bill.” There’s something about this name that doesn’t turn me on historically speaking. It sounds more like a nickname for some fellow that easily tans.

To me, a Brown Bess musket is a symbol of this country’s heritage and freedom. A good many of these guns were captured from the British by Continental Army forces, and used against them during the American Revolution.

A Brown Bess that I’m in possession of, is a rare US surcharged Type 3 India Pattern version, with 39 inch barrel and original bayonet. It was purchased from a dealer in Old Scottsdale, Arizona in the early 1980s. This businessman acquired it from the late gun expert, Norm Flayderman. The story behind the musket is quite interesting.

According to Norm, a high ranking Army officer owned it up until he passed away. Part of the estate sale stipulated that this person’s name remain anonymous. The family didn’t want to be bothered. Somewhere along the way, an inheritor of the collection lightly inscribed a social security number on all of the antique arms. The number is so light that I had a hard time using a powerful magnifying glass to read it.

Someone having a little pull with government officials should be able to decipher things and figure out exactly who this person is. That might tie it in to the original owner. I tried but incurred too much red tape and failed.

The social security number (578-60-xxxx) is on a portion of the brass trigger guard. The first three numbers (578) signify that he was living in the District of Columbia at the time of SS issue. When I show this to people they shake their heads. It could easily be removed but I personally find it adds uniqueness to the Brown Bess’s overall 200-year plus history. I don’t show the complete number here for obvious reasons.

A New England gunsmith familiar with antique weapons carefully removed the rust, and restored things back to firing condition. All identification marks and numbers would’ve been virtually unreadable had he not done so. Military soldiers are taught that a gun should always be spotless and in proper working order, and the original owner made sure this one was up to that task. Thankfully, it wasn’t converted to percussion like so many were. Weapon is missing the sling swivels as so many are.

Some original markings were brought back to life in the restoration and I believe some were unable to be salvaged. Most noteworthy: is a somewhat hard to see number 65 on the barrel. I believe this designates it was used by the 65th British Regiment. The renown 65th regiment saw duty at Bunker Hill during the beginning of the American Revolution. If true, this makes the musket exceedingly rare.

According to what Norm told the dealer, this firearm was in poor shape having much surface rust after years of neglect. It was brought back by the military man from England after WWII ended. This indicates to me that it was a re-captured weapon by the British. This is purely assumption on my part based upon logic.

Visible is the maker, Wilson. The initials RW (Richard Wilson) is faintly readable, along with what appears to be other marks that I’m not familiar with. Evidently, the area where the year was located was heavily pitted as nothing remains. A swan type cock shows it to be early manufacture.

This weapon was one of several in the late gentleman’s collection. A brass identification tag attached to the trigger guard has 001 stamped on it. According to the person I purchased it from, all of the estate guns had these ID tags.

Sometime in its early life, after first being captured, the gun became property of the fledgling United States Colonial Army, as two distinctive US surcharge markings are visible. When weapons were confiscated from the British this US mark was stamped on either wood stock or metal components.

The following information on Type 3 Brown Bess muskets came to light during my research:

“Noted historian and collector Dale Anderson states that the Smithsonian Institute is now certain that Third models like this one appeared about 1777, and that the National Park Service has a complete Third model confiscated from the British at Yorktown. There is also some evidence to show that captured Third models might have been stored in Federal armories after the war. It’s known that simplified India pattern type furniture was used on privately made British firearms before and during the Revolution.”

The Third Model Brown Bess served, to a degree in the 1777-1784 conflict but most certainly did so in the War of 1812, when the British tried to burn down the White House. However, its most famous success was as the ‘British Line Musket’ that defeated Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

I’ve had my Brown Bess for close to 40 years. It was a significant purchase and only through an understanding wife was I able to procure it. Early on, she knew that I had a list of certain old things that I wished to acquire, and this was the foremost item. That list is now complete.

Finding out who the military former owner was would put icing on the cake. Unfortunately, that won’t happen for me. This historical artifact is already on its way to Rock Island Auction Company in Rock Island, Illinois, where a new owner can hopefully complete the mission!

Certain things that I own will someday need to be passed on to family and friends.  The statement, “You can’t take it with you!,” spoken by many people along the way, has been etched into my brain going back to the earliest years.

I don’t know how many preachers I’ve heard claim they never saw a hearse pulling a U-Haul trailer. Those ministers making this statement should’ve been with me in 2012, near Grinnell, Kansas, on Interstate 70. My wife and I observed just that.

It’s doubtful the people inside were driving to Heaven, Texas, because that place no longer exists as a populated community. It’s now a ghost town. There is a Hell, Michigan. The hearse was headed west so maybe these folks left Hell for Purgatory, Colorado?

I’ve got a few of my grandparent’s things that they didn’t take with them, and as far as I know didn’t try. I’ve been told some folks weren’t as smart, asking in their last will and testament for certain items to be tossed into the coffin before covered. I found the following story about one such man, printed within an online funeral-home directory. It might seem a bit farfetched, but in this day and age of greed and the love of cash, anything’s possible.

***************

There was a man who had worked all of his life and saved every dime he made. He was a real cheapskate when it came to letting go of his funds. He loved money more than anything, and before passing away, told his wife this.

“Now listen, when I die I want you to take all of my cash and shove it into my coffin. Who knows, I may need it on the other side.” Shaking her head in disbelief, the old woman reluctantly promised to do so. A year later – her husband died.

Stretched out all nice and neat in his casket, the man’s widow walked forward just before he was to be planted in the ground. She carried a heavy shoebox with both hands. Asking for an an undertaker in a pitch black suit to open the lid, he silently did, and the woman crammed this box in next to her late husband’s feet.

A close friend watched from a distance, knowing fully, the story behind this stingy husband’s unusual last request. Walking up quietly, the concerned woman gently hugged her friend before whispering, “I can’t believe you went through with this!”

Nothing was said for several seconds, before the widow, fighting back salty tears through muffled sobs, choked out the following choice words “I promised, and being a good Christian wife, I couldn’t renege on my word.”

The friend, shaking her head in disbelief, didn’t hold back thoughts on criticizing the friend any longer. “That box had to hold a lot of money. You’re as crazy as him!”

Somewhat stunned, but use to her friends blunt and open honesty, she quickly set the record straight.

“Henry collected marbles. That cardboard box held his lifelong collection. All of his money was put into my account on the way here and I wrote him a check. That check’s safely tucked inside his vest pocket.”

***************

Thankfully, I’m not as looney as that guy. I’d never put my wife through such an ordeal. My money is hers and vice versa. She can have all of it when I’m gone, along with other worldly goods. I do have one simple request. When no one’s looking, there are a few personal items I’d like tossed in before the lid’s nailed down. Those include a cordless saw, crowbar, shovel, and good flashlight with extra batteries.

It’s been at least 12 years since I last locked my keys in a vehicle. This was a 2006 Dodge Ram truck, left running in back of a Whitehorse – Yukon, Canada, hotel. With it being September, several inches of snow had fallen overnight. I’d fired up the diesel engine beforehand to help defrost heavily encrusted ice on the windshield. Believing an extra set of keys was safely tucked in my pocket, and not finding them when needed, I quickly noticed they were in the back seat.

Having no “Slim Jim” with me, a tool used to open locks on older vehicles, I managed to get inside by using a thick, hotel-room clothes hanger. After straightening it, one end of the hanger was used to push the electronic unlock-button to a door. I can’t remember exactly which door as if that really matters.

Going back to the days of my first car, a 1961 Mercury Comet, I managed to lock the keys inside it several times.  Eventually, a spare key was taped under the bumper. Over the years I incurred the same with numerous automobiles and pickups. I’ve done it with house keys as well. Credit cards always worked good back then on getting inside our little home. During one of those home occurrences, the garage door was unlocked so it was no problem.

In a hurry to leave, I decided to close the garage door by placing fingers of both hands between a hinged section and pulling down. Before realizing my mistake, eight fingers were quickly smashed flat. Thankfully, the heavy door didn’t lock and I was able to painfully raise it using a shoulder. Quickly sticking what now appeared to be flattened sausages under cold water for a lengthy time—the only physical damage was blackened fingernails and no broken bones. Mental flashbacks remain to this day.

When I was very young, like many people, I smashed tiny fingers in a car door. That mistake only happened once with blood squirting everywhere. As our children were in their early growing stages, I constantly reminded them to not do the same as their old man. Miraculously, they never incurred such pain. Years ago, I was in a Walmart parking lot and heard the high-pitched scream of a child incurring this torture. Thankfully, the kid’s mom was there to comfort him.

The last Chevrolet we owned had something called OnStar. We paid a monthly fee solely to use the internal cellphone. With OnStar, if keys are left inside, all a person has to do is dial their toll free number and an operator will remotely unlock doors. I thought of doing this just to see it work, but never did.

Just the other evening, I drove to Albertson’s grocery store, hopped out, while my wife elected to wait in the vehicle. The engine was left running because it was quite warm outside. Little did I know that I took the key fob with me. Detecting no fob in close proximity, some of these newer rigs will continue to run as long as dash controls aren’t messed with. When Joleen turned the AC down the engine quit running.

Returning several minutes later with groceries, my wife informed me she’d managed to get the passenger side window down before things timed out. The driver side wouldn’t open. It was getting hot in there and she was about to abandon ship for comfort of the store. Joleen understood firsthand through this unplanned experience, why dogs and cats should never be left unattended in vehicles with the engine and AC off. We’ve come across this a handful of times in Havasu.

It seems more and more devices are now keyless. A friend owns a home that strictly uses a keypad to open the lock. Lithium batteries keep it going. That might sound high-tech, but I’d imagine somewhere down the road problems will arise—they generally do!

I’m more prepared these days should I ever get locked out of car or home. My wallet is full of plastic “Slim Jim’s” or credit cards as they’re also known. For those believing I’ll use one to gain entry, you’re right, yet not in the same way we did years ago.

With these newer vehicle and house doorlocks almost impenetrable, I’ll simply pick up the phone and dial a locksmith or towing company, then ask this basic question, “Do you take Visa, Mastercard, or Discover?”

If I’m in an area where these services aren’t offered, like being out in the desert, or Timbuktu, it’ll be time to make like a caveman and use a sizeable rock or stone!

Years ago, in Anchorage, Alaska, public school teachers were preparing to go on strike for higher wages. The nightly news showed them peacefully demonstrating on various street corners. Back then, a peaceful demonstration didn’t consist of torching cars and garbage cans, nor vandalizing or graffitiing government buildings. My, how times have changed.

At several of these demonstrations, protesting parents had very young children at their side holding professionally made protest signs. I doubt 9 out of 10 kids even knew what the signs meant. Newspaper editorials were full of comments from citizens on both sides, and some teachers even had their classes submit letters, of course, all hand-written opinions in support of faculty members. I supported them as well.

Most of my friends and acquaintances saw this as children and students being used as pawns for the benefit of negotiations. It was a clever ploy to evoke sympathy from the public, on the same level as ‘supposed homeless people’ asking for money along a street or in front of a store, with a dog or puppy on leash in clear sight. I see this type of activity as a means to garner emotional empathy. For me, I do feel sorry for the animals being abused this way.

One morning at work, during break, I read an editorial supposedly written by a third grader from a local elementary school. My co-workers were all chuckling about how well-versed and educated this youngster was, knowing without question the letter wasn’t composed by an 8-year-old student. Her editorial described income levels and raises over the past 10 years—information that only an adult was privy to.

A mechanic friend of mine said that someone should write a rebuttal. I did, calling out the student’s parents and teacher for allowing the girl to send this in under her own name. I mentioned that the child was not to blame. My blunt and to the point response immediately ignited a firestorm of replies.

Friends immediately came to the child’s side, including parents and grandparents. The girl’s grandfather wrote a letter saying that I should be ashamed of myself, because my critique had put his granddaughter in tears. It took a couple of weeks before the flames of discontent finally went out. During that time, I learned that the mother basically admitted she “helped” her daughter write things, seeing no wrong in it.

Some time before that, I composed a newspaper piece about how a group of people were living in a certain town where jobs were scarce, so that they could collect welfare and food stamps on a yearly basis, and do what they wanted to without working for a paycheck. My facts came from a welfare fraud agent that I worked with. The folks made mention to were called hippies at that time.

Needless to say, the residents I wrote about didn’t respond back for obvious reason. The only papers they undoubtedly subscribed to were Zigzag and Bugler. Those folks getting most upset were local business people and politicians, including the mayor of Homer. Evidently, they saw my piece as a slam on everyone living in their community. One incensed gentleman, under a thinly veiled threat, offered to take me fishing.

Since those two events took place I now wisely hold back, yet on rare occasion, can’t help but let the truth out of it’s holding cell. Generally, I keep these type of highly opinionated posts contained within my blog for subscribers to scrutinize and comment on.

The last time this happened was when I wrote a piece, simply stating that another word for marijuana is dope. Even Cheech & Chong called it that back in the late 60s and early 70s. This blog opinion lit one fellow to the point of him making unmentionable statements against me. He was out to change my viewpoint on things.

I keep the truth more at bay these days, not being as bold as I once was, hoping to not end up like the late Don Bolles, an investigative reporter for “The Arizona Republic.” Mr. Bolles was murdered in 1976 for merely doing his job.

The other evening, I watched a western for the umpteenth time, “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” A portion of the storyline, has the publisher of a small town newspaper, “The Shinbone Star”, printing a story about wrongful acts in his community, with immediate retaliation from an outlaw the article was written about.

In this fictional movie, the newspaperman’s office is destroyed and he’s nearly killed by three outlaws for doing the same job as Don Bolles, honestly releasing a factual story without political correctness intervention.

It seems more and more, the truth is being suppressed in both television and newspaper news for one obvious reason. Whereas the truth used to hurt the guilty party, it can now hurt those people exposing it. In my opinion, the days of unfiltered, exposé, investigative-reporting, has gone the way of morality and the Ten Commandments where our government is concerned.

Just recently, in Marion, Kansas, a local newspaper. “The Marion County Record,” was raided by town police, with computers and other electronic devices illegally confiscated. This was in retaliation for investigative articles written by one of the paper’s reporters, regarding a business owner, mayor, and the police chief. Mayor David Mayfield, in a Facebook remark, said this about the newspaper. “Journalists are the real villains in America.” Mayfield was supportive of the raid.

There are many controversial, untold stories out there, yet finding a brazen reporter to cover them isn’t always easy, and in some cases, newspapers won’t print things after it’s written. I suppose this is out of fear on what happened at “The Marion County Record” and fictitious, “The Shinbone Star.”

There seems to be a concentrated effort by a faction of people these days to keep the truth at bay. Freedom of speech is under attack. Truth will eventually lose the battle if people don’t fight back!

My wife and I were in a local restaurant the other day, and after our meal, I was presented the bill with an added on surcharge for credit card use. No mention of this policy was posted on the business walls nor menu.

When my wife asked our server about it she was told, “Credit card companies now charge us a fee and we pass this on to customers.” The kindly worker was green behind the ears, and undoubtedly thought credit card firms just recently started doing such.

For the record, credit card companies have been charging businesses a usage fee since the inception of credit cards. It’s nothing new. Some businesses have now become so greedy, that they decided to fatten their profit margin by tacking these costs on to us sheep. I call it nothing less than “fleecing the flock.” They can legally do this all day long, but please don’t tell consumers you have to in order to stay in business.

I’ve been thinking of having receipts printed to hand back to these specific firms, with a charge of my own for added cost of patronization. With gas and diesel costing more these days, including vehicle maintenance and insurance, a bill for increased transportation costs seems appropriate in comparison to what they’re doing. Patronization Fee sounds peachy keen.

“What’s this?,” the server would ask. “A user surcharge,” I’d courteously reply. “Just take it off the tab I owe you. That’ll help me absorb some of your credit card surcharge.”

Of course, this hypothetical situation will never take place, although I’d love to go through with it just for kicks. A doable plan is already in the works though. I’ve started my own list of businesses that use this unscrupulous method.

The accumulated information is shared with friends, and perhaps someday, I’ll release it to the masses via Facebook or other social media sites. That’s how Angie Hicks Bowman of ‘Ask Angie’ fame got started. She made a fortune by dealing out free advice.

My wife says I should call my new endeavor, Mikey’s List. Problem is, that name’s already taken. Swindler’s List sounds more appropriate.

From here on out, the credit card fee question will be asked upfront before a water glass is ever set down. If I’m told it exists, I’ll politely excuse myself from the table, knowing that somewhere in our quaint little lakeside town, I’ll find a place that still keeps their shears safely tucked away. “Baa.”

My family lived near Lubbock, Texas, from 1963 to 1967. Dad was a sergeant in the Air Force—owning a Gulf service station at the same time. A young officer by the name of, Lieutenant Snyder, played a key role in this unusual, off-base endeavor. I no longer remember the lieutenant’s first name nor does my brother.

Snyder was a silent partner so to speak. The tall, redheaded lieutenant was single, and during holidays, invited by my parents to eat at our small trailer home, located on Reese A.F.B., next to the flight line. He was like a big brother to Jim and me. I still have an 8mm movie of him tossing a ball in the yard to “Brutus & Ringo,” our little Dachshund and Chihuahua dogs. During summer months, Mr. Snyder took us boys swimming at the base pool.

Monday through Friday, after Dad’s military duty ended at 4:30, my father drove to the gas station and remained there until closing at 10:00. Jim and I sometimes stayed up late waiting for him, and then sorted through his well-worn bank bag looking for old coins. On occasion, a customer was desperate enough to use an actual Morgan or Peace style silver dollar for gas. I still recall that rectangular zipper-bag smelling of fuel and oil.

Lieutenant Snyder was Dad’s immediate supervisor, as well as being a close friend. I’ve never been in the service myself, yet I’m fairly certain officers fraternizing with enlisted men goes against military regulations. It’s surprising to me that some Karen didn’t snitch and turn them both in to the base commander. In later years, Mom told me that Lieutenant Snyder’s parents were wealthy, and they helped bankroll Dad’s operation.

About once a month, Mom, Jim, and I loaded in the car on a Saturday, and stopped by Whataburger on our way to the garage. The hamburgers there were so large that my brother and I split one. Dad was always happy to get his burger, fries, and Coke, considering them a real treat. He was basically working 12-hour-days during those three years in Lubbock.

Whataburger’s were a real treat to us as well. Unlike today, when restaurant food replaces meal-fixing, perhaps two or three times a week, we ate out at the most once a month back then, if even that much. With some food establishments around town starting to rob folks by charging extra credit card fees, Joleen and I may be forced to limit our dining out to once a month, much like my folks did in the 1960s. I’ve heard other seniors echo the same.

Mosquitoes were bad during Lubbock summers, with Air Force personnel using a fogging truck to spray insecticide throughout the base. Parents were told beforehand to keep their children indoors, yet sometimes that warning went unheeded. We didn’t find out until later that the pesticide they used was DDT. This chemical was deemed detrimental to birds and wildlife, but my brother and I seemed to escape breathing it without any genetic or physical disorders. Friends might disagree.

Near the Reese flight line was a large field, home to a prairie dog town. We played baseball there and quite often the ball rolled into a burrow. That was always the scary part—reaching in a hole to retrieve it.

One thing that living in Lubbock has in common with Lake Havasu City, is the wind and dust. Red dust covered furniture after a windstorm and it was us boy’s job to wipe it off. Amble mounts of Pledge helped glue the residue to a cleaning rag. Nothing has changed here for me.

After leaving Lubbock, I’m not sure what happened to the good lieutenant. I remember Dad and Mom getting a few Christmas cards from him. Eventually, all correspondence stopped. Undoubtedly, he married and had children of his own, hopefully, rising above the rank of lieutenant before retiring. Our old friend would be in his early 80s at this point.

I often think back to Lubbock, Lieutenant Snyder, DDT, Whataburger, and “what a life” my family experienced living on a now shuttered Air Force base, near a dusty, Texas, town, dodging baseball-sized-hail, lightning storms, and sudden tornadoes quite regularly. Without question, that exact experience for me or anyone else will never be duplicated.

If numbers aren’t important—God wouldn’t have created them. There are some folks out there who’ll argue this point. Atheists aren’t known to have a rock solid basis for their reasoning here, so I let them have their say without verbal challenge. Trying to engage closedminded people in a serious debate is next to impossible.

Numbers take on special significance about the time we hit grade school. Up until then, each increasing number for age generally signifies presents, ice cream, and cake—nothing else—at least for me it did. Birthday years still don’t get tons of hoopla until a kid turns 13. Teenager is the magic word at this point in time.

I’ve always been a numbers guy, more so interested in the age of material things over that of people. A coin collector from early on, I was most intrigued by any coin starting with 18. My first 1800s coin was an 1890 silver dollar given to me by Papa Haynes. It took a couple of decades to take possession of one beginning with 17. I’ve never owned a coin starting with the number 0 for obvious reason.

Numbers are highly important in all work areas, from the clerk at a fast food restaurant, to the CEO of a large company. For mechanics, numbers are most essential. The low compression numbers of cylinders on an internal combustion engine gives an indication on what’s causing a loss of power.

Each year, my doctor orders a slew of blood tests. Much like a diagnostic test on a Chevrolet engine, the return numbers associated with these medical tests gives him an indication on how my body’s faring. This year, more numbers seem to be ascending while they should’ve been climbing, while others were higher when they should’ve been lower.

Doc will have me doing a regimen of things I’m sure to get them in the acceptable range. It seems the older a person gets the harder it is to correct these abnormalities. High or low numbers in a blood test can mean a variety of ailments, some of them serious, with new pills seemingly the most called for cure.

Prayer is at the forefront of my plan of attack, with everything else following suit. I’ll try to keep the hour meter running for as long as I can using this method. The second my numbers hit 0 is the point of no return. That doesn’t mean my existence totally ends. Far from it. Things are merely reset to 0 at that juncture for eternity sake.

In 1983, a song by rock group, The Fixx, came out. Initially, I liked the beat more than anything. To this day, one particular line in “Saved by Zero” remains firmly implanted in my brain.

“Holding onto words that teach me.”

I’m not sure what the intended meaning of this song is, but those six words have real significance, as I can relate them to a special Bible verse,

Matthew 28:20. “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

An important thing to remember here, is that there’s no number representing the end of the age in that verse, because eternity never stops. Zero is simply the reset point when this new life begins!