michaeldexterhankins

ALASKA KEMOSABE

“No humor in a book is akin to dinner without dessert, cake minus ice cream, or a marriage with no love.”

It’s been two years in the making, and I’m finally able to check the completion of Alaska Kemosabe off my list of writing projects. This 362-page book contains 50 never-before-published stories of Alaska and 51 pictures. The official release date is July 1, 2025.

My publisher, Palmetto Publishing, asked for a sequel, and I’ve already begun the lengthy writing process. The name of it will be: Alaska Kemosabe – Another Twisted Trail Of Lost Legends and Tales. I’m giving myself additional time for this second manuscript because constantly burning the midnight oil is taking a serious toll on my eyes.

More fun was garnered by putting Alaska Kemosabe to paper than any other book. Sometimes I laughed so hard sitting at the keyboard that a break was needed to regain my train of thought. Working with “Miss Purdy” on the AI-generated pictures was a hoot. Miss Purdy is what I named my artificial intelligence helpmate.

I’ve been asked what authors I try to emulate, with one person suggesting it’s Garrison Keillor. The truth is, I’ve never read any of Mr. Keillor’s works or known anything about him until just recently.

If I were to choose anyone, it would be an Alaskan writer named Edward Marvin Boyd. The late Ed Boyd’s take on humor and history is pretty much the same as mine. Mr. Boyd wrote two excellent novels, Alaska Broker and Wolf Trail Lodge, and I have a copy of each.

Books I enjoyed reading, going all the way back to grade school, are history, autobiographies, and biographies, with almost all of them void of humor. No humor in a book is akin to dinner without dessert, cake minus ice cream, or a marriage with no love. Alaska Kemosabe is chock-full of chuckles and grins.

My wife seriously asked me the other morning, “This book won’t offend any of our friends or family, will it?” Thinking about that for a few seconds, I told her it shouldn’t, just as long as they didn’t read things. I know she’ll be one of the first flipping through pages, searching for questionable remarks.

Alaska Kemosabe is available in hardcover, softcover, and Kindle. All versions can be purchased online through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Target, Walmart, Goodreads, and other popular book outlets. A sizable portion can be read for free on the Amazon book sales site under “read sample.”

Watch for my upcoming podcasts, including a YouTube preview that is now online. Several libraries of my choice will also receive hardcover editions. Unfortunately, the Lake Havasu City Library isn’t one of them.

I tried to donate a couple of complimentary copies, but was informed they first have to be reviewed by the Mohave County Library Board in Kingman. It’s sort of like Alaska Kemosabe having to run the gauntlet before being allowed on a shelf.

Rather than go through the lengthy process, I said, “No, thank you,” and walked back to my truck, chuckling as I whispered to myself, “Hi Yo, Silver, away!”

IN SYNC

“I was more than glad to be headed home, with another measly four minutes wait not going to spoil my return.”

Over the past few years, there’s been much discussion about how city traffic lights aren’t synchronized. If memory serves me correctly, a year or so ago, the Arizona DOT made a valid attempt to get them all adjusted.

After traffic engineers tweaked things a bit, I still couldn’t tell, and it was a big joke with my wife and me that we were destined to catch each and every one. Our lives were seemingly wilting away, sitting at red lights. I believe we’ve observed more red-light runners in this town than anywhere else, with others undoubtedly thinking the same as us.

Joleen and I would cringe about one light in particular — the one at Highway 95 and Mulberry. That red light is the one we dread most, as it seems to take a lifetime for things to change green. I attempted to time it one morning, finding that at least four minutes had passed after rolling to a stop. I can shave, brush my teeth, and floss in four minutes.

Being retired, there’s no real hurry to life like there was in the past, at least I thought there wasn’t. Having unsynchronized traffic lights should be no big deal to retirees. My car brakes tell a different story. Constantly having to stop while using them makes for heated and quickly worn-out brake pads.

The Monday after Father’s Day, late that afternoon, alone, I was sitting in my chair attempting to watch a movie when things started to feel quite weird. My heart started to race with the beats seemingly off kilter.

Taking blood pressure, I saw that it was extremely high, with my heart rate up to 191 beats per minute. Believing that I was having an episode of AFIB, or atrial fibrillation, an irregular arrhythmia of the heart, I calmly got in my vehicle and started driving to the ER. Perhaps I should’ve called an ambulance, but I didn’t.

Miraculously, six intersection lights all stayed green during my trip. A block away from the ER entrance, red and blue lights suddenly appeared in my rearview mirror. Seeing that it was a police car, I continued on until I parked.

Slowly climbing out of the Jeep, I told the officer that I was having some type of heart episode. He offered assistance, but I was on a mission at that point. The policeman did inform me that the reason he’d lit me up was because I didn’t have my headlights on. I thought it was a bit dark while driving that night, believing it had something to do with my eyes.

Thankfully, the emergency room staff got me quickly into a room. Dr. Eduardo Lam performed a successful cardioversion, and my heart was soon back in sync. The medical term for such is called sinus rhythm. A big thanks to Dr. Lam, Chuck, and others on the cardiac team. I was out of it during the procedure and don’t recall many of their names.

Driving back home sometime around 3 in the morning, I caught each and every red light as was the norm. While sitting at Mulberry and 95, things suddenly came into perspective.

I was more than glad to be headed home, with another measly four minutes wait not going to spoil my return. Pulling into the garage, I softly said with tears in my eyes, “Thank you, Jesus.”

Without question, I knew that things could’ve turned out much worse than they did. It’s great to still be alive and kicking in beautiful Lake Havasu City.

GAS PUMP JOCKEYS

“Early on, I learned that the majority of people are nice, yet some were born to be disrespectful and rude.”

My career as a “gas pump jockey” lasted for perhaps five years off and on. Dad owned gas stations going back to 1963, and even as a 9-year-old boy, I helped him by sweeping and picking up trash. Placing a red shop rag in my rear pocket made me think I was in the big leagues.

Back then, when a car rolled up and rang the driveway bell, pump jockeys were told to be prompt and courteous, checking the oil and washer fluid, including washing all windows and headlights. I was taught to never lean on a customer’s automobile like Gomer and Goober did in the Andy Griffith television series.

It wasn’t until I was tall enough to clean a vehicle windshield that I was allowed to pump gas. Even then, a small portable step was used to make sure I could reach the center. Sixty years later — I still have that problem.

I enjoyed the work and developed social skills in being able to interact with customers. Early on, I learned that the majority of people are nice, yet some were born to be disrespectful and rude. Over time, I learned how to deal with those difficult types.

Four young Army soldiers came roaring in one morning, with the driver telling me to, “Fill’er up.” After doing so and telling him the dollar amount, the fellow informed me that he’d only asked for two dollars. Not knowing how to handle the situation, I begrudgingly let the guy drive away. Informing my boss about what happened, Louis said that next time it occurred to let him know.

Several weeks later, the soldier was back. I had forewarned my supervisor, and he watched stealthily out of sight from behind a garage window. When the fellow tried to pull the same stunt, Louis slowly walked out and asked what the problem was. The driver gave him the same lie as he’d given me, with my boss smiling and saying that it could be easily fixed. “Just pull in this stall and I’ll drain the extra fuel out.”

Of course, the military man knew that his tank was about to be totally emptied, so he coughed up the extra cash. I never saw that creep again. Not to be critical of young and broke Army personnel, on another occasion, a soldier came in and had me check the air in his tires. Before leaving, he handed me a five-spot as a tip. That was the only time someone gave me a gratuity for one of my “assigned duties,” as Dad called it.

One time, a guy walked up saying that he was out of gas. I lent him the shop’s gas can, and he never returned it. I was the one getting chewed out for that mistake by being too trusting.

From then on, a driver’s license was requested beforehand and then returned when the borrower brought the can back. Surprisingly enough, a fellow once said that he had no license as it had been revoked. I asked for his watch, which he complained about, and then disgustedly left it as collateral.

There was an older man who constantly stopped by to have me check tire pressures. He was also a constant complainer, pointing to the tiniest smudge I’d missed after squeegeeing his windshield. I cringed each time I saw his truck approaching.

A day arrived when I was prepared for his sorry hide. Keeping a rusty nail on top of the gas pump, after he gave me criticism about something I no longer remember, that nail was strategically placed in front of one of his rear tires. After he drove away, the nail was no longer visible.

The following morning, he came in for air, with it being the same tire that I’d spiked. This routine went on for several days until he finally asked to have it checked for a leak. I was fortunate enough to do the tire repair, and it was a pleasure to perform this job, or at least I thought it was.

This truck had split-ring rims, which meant hand tools were needed to remove the tire and tube. During the process, a heavy metal bar came up and struck me square in the forehead. For a few seconds, I was knocked senseless.

Blood spurted everywhere from a large gash. I managed to use tape and shop towels to interrupt the flow, eventually getting the wound to stop bleeding. My late mother would call this “Divine Intervention.”

Despite the pain, I still smiled from start to finish, believing I’d gotten vengeance, and was especially happy in collecting payment for my trouble. Fittingly so, a scar still remains as a reminder of this unscrupulous deed.

That was the only instance I remember doing something retaliatory to a customer. I quickly learned to chuckle and let petty complaints roll off my shoulders like rain. A slightly modified version of the gas pump jockey’s motto sums things up,

“Some folks may be a pain in the gas, but always smile and say thank you when takin’ their cash!”

JENNY

“I’ll never forget that night.”

Lake Havasu City is now big enough to have a convention center, one that’s able to host concerts, as well as bring in top-name entertainers. With Havasu only 70 miles from Laughlin, entertainers could make this a stopping off point for those either going to, or coming from, the casinos.

I have several friends who’ve spent thousands of dollars traveling to see their favorite bands and singers perform. The Brookings are huge fans of The Rolling Stones, with them trying to catch at least one concert a year. After each show, they always report back that Mick Jagger is still as energetic as he was when they first started going.

Records show that Jagger’s a health guru, exercising regularly while eating organic foods and lean meats. Mick even takes along a portable gymnasium on his road trips. Willie Nelson, despite what some might think, now tries to follow the same strict guidelines as Mick Jagger where eating is concerned.

Willie Nelson attempts to avoid processed food, believing that it’s a big part of our nation’s health problem. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the newly appointed Secretary of Health and Human Services, echoes this sentiment. My wife and I try to emulate Mick, Willie, and Robert by eating right, but we find it hard to do so while traveling.

Returning to my main topic, concerts, years ago, while living in Alaska, the first concert and dance I attended was Mogen David & The Grapes Of Wrath. One of the teenage musicians was a friend of mine. Their top song to play was “Pipeline” by the Ventures.

Several big-name entertainers came to Anchorage while I lived there. Lou Rawls performed a special concert at my high school, East High, and I believe it was in 1971. A music teacher at East was friends with the singer, with Rawls doing this short performance as a favor to her.

The Doobie Brothers are the first big-name group I remember hearing, although I didn’t see them. Flat broke, I failed to score tickets when the popular group came to Anchorage in 1973, yet the group played inside a metal Quonset hut building on Fireweed Lane, and the acoustics outside were undoubtedly better than within.

Three friends and I rode bicycles to this building and hung around out back very close to where the stage sat. Fireweed Lane was most appropriate for the concert address, because when the show was over and the doors opened, clouds of pot smoke drifted outside. I’ll never forget that night.

After this event, Gordon Lightfoot came to town in 1974. My good friend, Rod Sanborn, was hired as one of the security personnel for that event. Rod claimed that Lightfoot was drunk, yet he managed to pull off his show without a hitch.

In researching Gordon Lightfoot’s history, the guitarist and singer admitted to being an alcoholic but overcame this addiction in the 1990s. I consider him one of my favorite male vocalists. The Righteous Brothers hit Anchorage in 1975, also performing at West High Auditorium. I was also there, although I don’t remember much of the performance.

Other concerts attended include Kenny Rogers, The Little River Band, Jackson Browne, and Crosby, Stills, & Nash. Perhaps my last live concert was Tommy Tutone. Tickets to Tommy Tutone were won by me on a radio show, with my brother-in-law, Gary Adair, agreeing to go along.

This concert took place in a combination hotel and convention center, the Westmark, on May 31, 1982. The building was packed, and I’m sure it exceeded Anchorage’s fire department occupancy rate. Gary and I joined the crowd, with a decision made beforehand to listen to their big hit, “867-5309,” and then leave. We did just that.

Since then, I’ve seen Jenny’s phone number written in many places, especially on restroom walls. I doubt this younger generation gives the infamous phone number any thought, as they don’t have a clue who Jenny or Tommy Tutone is.

This past week, I replaced a built-in medicine cabinet in our guest bathroom. The alcove where it sits was a perfect spot for me to write a commemorative of sorts to Tommy Tutone.

“Jenny – 867-5309” was added to the sheetrock with a black Magic Marker. Once my new cabinet was slid into place, this message became invisible, that is, until someone repaints or remodels years down the road. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when that happens.

Tommy Tutone is still performing and will be in Tucson on July 3. Tickets are $37.00 each. I consider that a bargain compared to what the Stones get for theirs—$1500 for the VIP section, and they’ll quickly sell out.

For $250, Joleen and I can drive to Tucson, catch Tommy Tutone’s show, leave right after “8675309” is over, have a decent meal afterwards, and then spend the night at Motel 6. Sounds like a plan.

I’ll let the Brookings know if Tommy Heath is still as energetic as he was 53 years ago. Heath is the only remaining member of Tommy Tutone and the person this group is named after.

If Tommy’s been eating healthy like Mick, Willie, and Robert Kennedy Jr., there’s no reason he won’t be. I’ll know where we’re headed before the music even starts if I see a giant oxygen bottle sitting on stage.

Should Havasu ever decide to build a coliseum, Tommy Tutone definitely needs to be on the list of first-time performers. Add to that, Mogen David & The Grapes Of Wrath, although it might be tough getting them back together after all these years.

TO DO LIST

“Home ownership has suddenly become the biggest burden in my life.”

The older I get, the longer my “to-do” list becomes. It now takes more effort and time to complete a simple task than it did ten years ago. The point has arrived where getting everything done appears insurmountable. Keeping that in mind, prioritizing tasks has even become a hassle of sorts.

The other day, my wife and I were preparing to go camping. After activating the burglar alarm and trying to open our front door, Joleen discovered that the lock was broken and it wouldn’t turn. With no time to fix it, one more thing was added to the pile.

When an item is finally marked off the list, two more generally take its place. It’s like taking one step forward and two steps back. Many things need to be tended to around the house, making home ownership the biggest burden in my life.

One way to alleviate this problem is to hire someone to perform the work. I’ve done that in certain areas, yet still can’t fathom paying a repairman to fix simple things that I can whip into shape.

Replacing that door lock was one of them. It’s now working, and I saved at least $100 doing so myself. This was an essential repair to safely get out of the house in case of fire, or I would’ve perhaps put things off until later.

When it comes to wrenching on our car or truck, I still try to do everything humanly possible. YouTube videos help immensely here. It’s interesting how many different ways YouTube experts come up with to fix the same problem. If I see someone haul out a hammer, I move on to the next professional.

My to-do notebook is comprised of: replacing the kitchen faucet (it’s been on the list for over a year now). Placing a sponge underneath the drip temporarily helps cure that nerve-wracking noise.

Other items include painting the outside wall and wrought iron fence (two years and counting), emptying the central vacuum canister (three years or longer), painting the guest bathroom, replacing heat-compromised tires and tubes in my bicycle, and purchasing and replacing ceiling fans in the living room and master bedroom.

Switching subjects for just a second, the word “master bedroom” is a “no-no” with some real estate agents. They deem it to be racist. Master locks, on the other hand, are used by many of these same thinkers to secure vacant property. Go figure?

Back to my to-do list. I still need to muck out the garage, install a new rubber seal under our garage door, squirt some silicone underneath the treadmill belt to keep it from squeaking, clean out the walk-in closet, install some tire spacers on our Jeep to make it look cooler, and finally, catch up on the last two seasons of “Longmire.”

It’s hard to prioritize these tasks because none of them are safety-oriented like that broken door lock was. After carefully looking things over, I’ll have to say the final item on my list has the most significance to me.

By the time I’m finished watching to see if Sheriff Walt Longmire’s 1994 Ford Bronco makes it through to the end, I’m sure some other things will crop up around our house needing repair. It’s a given!

Did I mention that the older I get, the longer my “to-do list” becomes? I’ve no plausible explanation for this, other than perhaps procrastination has finally set in. It seems the best way to solve this problem is to use the William Shakespeare approach. I believe it was Shakespeare who wrote these exact words almost 500 years ago.

“To do or not to do. That is the question.”

With Shakespeare being a writer, and where working around his house was concerned, I’d say he opted not to do those types of menial chores. I believe he chose to read a good book or go hunting instead, much like television lawman Walt Longmire.

William Shakespeare and I seem to have a lot in common, although his writing style is on a slightly different level. Should he still be alive, undoubtedly, “The Bard of Avon,” as William was called, would be a “Longmire” fan as well.

IT’S IN THE BAG

“Headed out the door, I decided one more bag wouldn’t hurt.”

I’ll keep things short and sweet, as this subject probably isn’t one to discuss at a breakfast table, although there is much significance to it. Each year, when my annual medical physical comes up, Dr. Angelo Ong-Veloso hands me a sample collection kit.

The unusual medical name for this kit is: Immunochemical Fecal Occult Blood Test. Without going into detail, the sample needed comes from my bottom. Savvy readers should be able to figure things out at this point.

This is an important test for those of us over 50 because colorectal cancer is a major killer amongst men and women. My Grandfather Hankins died from this disease after it metastasized into his stomach. Early prevention is the key to beating things here.

The IFOB test detects blood in the stool, which indicates there could be major problems. Rather than refuse to take it as some ignorant men do, I’m a firm believer that going through with the test could be a real lifesaver.

After collecting my tiny sample, I put it into a sealed container and then slid it inside a sealed medical bag. To add a bit more safety, I placed that small puncture-proof bag into a zipper-style Glad sandwich bag. Headed out the door, I decided one more bag wouldn’t hurt.

An empty Walmart sack just happened to be sitting on my toolbox. Tossing everything inside of it, a knot was then tied just to make sure the contents couldn’t escape.

Walking into Dr. Ong-Veloso’s waiting room on Friday morning, I held my Wal-Mart bag up to the receptionist’s window. She asked with a curious tone, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Dr. Ong-Veloso wanted me to bring this stool sample in.”

The surprised look in the woman’s eyes immediately caught my attention. They were as large as saucers. It took a few seconds for me to realize what she was thinking. Undoubtedly, my Walmart sack was reminiscent of ones she’d seen people use to pick up after their dogs. Realizing this, I offered a quick explanation.

“Uh, this is just an extra bag the other one is in!” That seemed to ease her concern.

Walking back to my truck, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I’m guessing she did the same. Sometimes, humor just happens and isn’t planned. Sunday morning newspaper stories often occur in the same fashion!

FREE BIRDS

“Jess is our Yellow-Naped Amazon parrot, and he loves to join the conversation once a telephone is in sight.”

Over the last several years, my wife and I have received several offers for free dinners or lunches from different firms. Most of them were from financial companies offering a seminar in conjunction with a meal. The presentations were intended to show us how to wisely invest our retirement funds.

There’ve also been a few such free invitations from organizations offering us help in the Medicaid or Medicare areas. Our phones are bombarded daily with calls regarding this subject alone. I’ve picked up a few times and placed the receiver next to Jess’s cage just for grins.

Jess is our Yellow-Naped Amazon parrot, and he loves to join the conversation once a telephone is in sight. He’s kept telemarketers on the line for several minutes, rambling on about things seemingly important to him, although we often can’t understand his lingo.

Jess’s favorite telephone saying is, “Yea, uh huh,” having learned to precisely mimic these words after hearing us constantly utter such during conversations.

I’ve always been afraid to take any of these firms up on their seminars because of an incident that happened in Hawaii 40 years ago. We were on vacation and for whatever reason, Joleen and I decided to take up a pretty young Hawaiian gal’s free dinner, and timeshare-seminar offer. Thinking back, perhaps I was the one doing the accepting.

Approximately 20 of us were assembled in a conference room, and I actually believed the door was locked behind us after entering. There were restrooms in this room, and I’m sure that was part of their plan to keep people in. Tag-team sales representatives kept their spiel going for at least two hours with promises of food afterwards.

Over time, some attendees gave in to the high-pressure sales tactics and signed the dotted line. Joleen and I didn’t cave. We eventually got up and left with one sales agent following us to the door. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. We never did get to eat.

A few weeks ago, we received an invitation to a dinner from a local Havasu funeral home, Lietz-Fraze. Joleen and I used them over the years for Carly and Simon, our pets, and we were very satisfied with how they were treated.

The free dinner at Shugrue’s Restaurant was in conjunction with a seminar for final plans regarding our deaths. That wasn’t something totally new to Joleen and me, as we’d purchased burial spots in Kansas some 20 years ago, along with having a headstone made.

I was hesitant to attend at first, but at my wife’s prodding, I decided to see what could be learned that I didn’t already know. Neither Joleen nor I realized that the financial responsibility of a burial can be taken care of beforehand, without the children or grandchildren getting involved.

Host, Marie Lucinda Anderson, was most cordial, and unlike the Hawaii timeshare seminar, there was no pressure from her to sign a dotted line. Most unusual was that we were fed first, with the grilled chicken and fresh steamed vegetables most succulent. Dessert was over the top.

Also seated at our table, Mike and Janet Queyrel evidently thought the same, with it turning out they went to the same church as us, along with having similar interests. Mike was into hotrods.

Marie told a sad story about a father being murdered and the resulting trauma afterwards, especially with relatives all trying to dictate who got what, along with how the burial should be handled. Tragically, that tale involved Marie Lucinda Anderson’s own dad. During her college years, Marie decided to enter the funeral counseling field to help others not go through what she did.

The main thing I came away with from Marie’s presentation was knowing that now, while I’m still alive, I can avert any challenges to my or my wife’s last wishes, although I highly doubt my children would be the ones doing so. It would probably come in the form of meddling state lawyers.

Joleen and I decided on a plan that locks in the cost of burial even if we live another 30 years or longer. All documents are legally binding and are now safely locked in a safe. Our children or grandchildren won’t have to be involved with anything, as everything’s laid out exactly as we dictated. The free personal planning guide that Marie gave us was most useful in orchestrating things.

The seminar was most helpful in placing us on the right track in making these final plans. This decision has allowed us to be “free birds,” so to speak, and I’m glad my wife talked me into going. The only reason we may not need this paperwork is if Jesus returns first and we’re raptured out of here while still alive.

Not being ones to gamble on this happening, we made the right decision!

FORT SIMON

“Our plans were still to build a home there, even having blueprints drawn up and certified.”

My mother had a special place in Alaska where she’d often go to seek solitude from the big city. She lived in Anchorage, which could be quite noisy and chaotic. Jet airplanes took off and landed at a nearby military base, and vehicle traffic was heard throughout all hours of the day.

Having limited areas to get away from the hustle and bustle, there were a few spots in town where quietness prevailed, yet others flocked there as well. Cheney Lake used to be a good location, but young people often found the need to listen to loud music, totally ruining the tranquility.

Mom’s sanctuary was the Family Christian Center parking lot, located some 44 miles away from her home. From this parking lot, she could see Pioneer Peak in the near distance. That rugged mountain meant lots to her because when we moved to Anchorage in 1966, Mom was taken in by its rugged beauty over anything else.

She’d bring lunch with her to Palmer during weekdays, and just sit in that parking lot and pray to God while gazing at his magnificent work of art. She said that sometimes she napped. On Sundays, Mother attended church in Palmer and listened to the preaching of Pastor Peter Gallardo.

This Man of God officiated at her graveside service, with a granite monument placed over her burial spot in Pioneer Cemetery facing Pioneer Peak. That was her wish and was only made possible via Pastor Gallardo’s help since my mother wasn’t a resident of Palmer.

Joleen and I have our own sanctuary, and it too is located out of town. Our little spot in Kingman, Arizona, is approximately 63 miles from our home in Lake Havasu City. This piece of ground is where we first wanted to build a home in the late 1990s, but unfortunately, it wasn’t for sale back then.

Taking a drive through the area in 2015, there was a realtor’s sign out front, and within hours, we snapped things up. From that point on, Joleen and I have been up there countless times to merely relax and count our blessings.

Our little Pekingese dog, Simon, loved walking the grounds while sniffing bushes and grass, marking every bit of the turf for his own. After Simon passed away in 2023, we named it Fort Simon after him.

Located in Cerbat Canyon, it’s relatively quiet even though trucks and cars on I-40 are easily seen. A sound wall will eventually eliminate the minimal amount of noise coming from this busy highway. There is a family of foxes in the vicinity, including deer on occasion, along with hawks, and of course, poisonous rattlesnakes.

Our plans were still to build a home there, even having blueprints drawn up and certified. COVID changed all that with us shifting directions, deciding to use the lot as a place of reverence more than anything else. That could still change.

While some might prefer a cabin in the woods to get away, either flying or boating to get there, all of the amenities of home are located within one mile’s distance from our tiny sanctuary. An authentic Mexican Restaurant is less than that, with Safeway and Marshalls department store about the same — all of them easily reached by walking or riding a bicycle.

I believe everyone needs a quiet place to flee life’s pressures and to seek God. Church is the preferred location, but Jesus can be found everywhere. Mother talked to him in an asphalt parking lot in Alaska overlooking a tall mountain, while Joleen and I did the same within a small canyon property we call Fort Simon.

My wife and I don’t look at things we possess as being ours — we’re merely custodians until moving on to Heaven. For those needing a bit of sanity, you’re welcome to visit our spot at 2430 Country Club Drive in Kingman. All that we ask is that you rehook the rope hook before leaving and take any trash with you.

GRIM REAPER

“Things came to a head early one morning outside a seedy bar called the Busy Body Lounge in Evansville, Indiana, when he shot and killed a member of the “Grim Reapers” Motorcycle Club during an argument.”

Many older people, at some point in their lives, question whether they made the right decisions, especially whether they’re fully secure in eternity.

Looking back at my 71 years, had I not decided to follow Jesus Christ, there’s no telling where I would’ve ended up in this life. It’s highly doubtful I’d still be alive. Where eternity is concerned, Heaven is the only direction for this cat.

Growing up a military brat, pulling up stakes and moving every 3 years, I often wondered how the friends I’d made along the way fared. Several years back, I decided to try to find out, using information some of my old pals had given me, along with news Mom’s friends had provided her.

Social media didn’t exist in the late 1980s; the only way to find what I needed to know was by letter or telephone. When Facebook came along, it expedited matters. I was successful in reconnecting with many classmates — the news I gleaned from them was mostly uplifting. There were two exceptions.

In 1972, Todd Mold unfortunately passed away not long after graduating from high school. A car he was a passenger in left the road and struck a tree. Todd died a few days later in a Massachusetts hospital. Todd and I were good friends at Reese Elementary in Texas.

Larelia Sadler Ragsdale, a classmate from Texas, was sadly killed in 1976 after being in a car accident with her husband, Roger. A drunk driver was at fault for driving in the wrong direction and hitting their vehicle.

The couple were high-school sweethearts and had been married only a few years. During a school play at Reese Elementary School in Wolfforth, Texas, Larelia played Mary, while I played Joseph. We were good pals back then.

Oftentimes, the survivor of a horrible accident is considered the fortunate one. That wasn’t the case in the accident involving Larelia and Roger. I didn’t know the whole story until just a short time ago, as something kept nagging at me to keep researching over the past 5 years to see what ultimately happened to Roger Ragsdale.

After I discovered what I had done, the information was kept under wraps, and I wondered what good it would do to openly disclose it. Some might question why I’m doing so now, yet there’s an important lesson to be learned here, especially from someone perhaps going through the same turmoil as Roger did. There’s help out there if one merely seeks it.

We often come across people who have ruined their lives through alcohol, drugs, or erratic psychological behavior. I know several. Thankfully, a few of them got on the right track and turned off their destructive paths to disaster.

Our church, Calvary Baptist, has a program called Celebrate Recovery. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people have benefited from their weekly prayer and counseling sessions.

Roger Ragsdale not only lost a precious wife on that September day in 1976, but he also lost the direction of his own life as public information dictates. Badly injured, with his face almost totally obliterated, the man spent considerable time recovering, yet the hurt went much deeper than physically.

Records show that he was arrested numerous times afterward for driving under the influence, after crashing his motorcycle into a fence and injuring a female passenger in the process. Roger Ragsdale was cited in connection with the incident and later sued by the other party.

Illegal drugs eventually came into play, with Ragsdale arrested for not only using them but also selling them to undercover investigators. Things came to a head early one morning outside a seedy bar called the Busy Body Lounge in Evansville, Indiana, when he shot and killed a member of the “Grim Reapers” Motorcycle Club during an argument.

Roger went to prison because of this, most likely the same prison Jack Aper should’ve been in. Aper is the man responsible for driving while intoxicated and recklessly crashing into Ragsdale’s car in 1977.

Newspaper records show that the prosecution wanted Aper behind bars, but articles also have him playing golf and bowling by 1978. If he was incarcerated, it was very minimal or not at all. Jack Aper lived to 84 after retiring in Florida.

I never met Roger Ragsdale, but I’ve come across several people just like him, men and women who lost control of their lives because of some underlying physical calamity, addiction, or mental problem. Unless they ask Jesus Christ to intercede, their caustic actions can destroy not only themselves but also friends, family, and loved ones in the process.

Some of these folks I knew were habitual users of alcohol and drugs, yet after they ditched their pride and sincerely asked for God’s help, a few of their lives changed for the better. Unfortunately, not all took that same route.

I’m not singling out Roger Ragsdale for his faults. We’ve all come short of God’s glory — me included. If he hadn’t already done so, before taking his last breath and meeting the Grim Reaper on May 8, 2004, at only 51 years of age, hopefully, Roger Ragsdale reached out to God.

Somewhere along the way after that terrible accident, a friend or concerned acquaintance needed to take this wounded man by the hand and lead him to scripture, showing that help was available to release him from his earthly torture. The ending to this story will only be known when I reach Heaven.

“Do not be afraid, for I am with you; do not be discouraged because I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10.

EVERYDAY HOUSEWIFE

“Not any of my male friends that I’m aware of are concerned about wrinkles.”

Singer and songwriter Glen Campbell had a hit tune in 1968 called “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife.” I was only 14 at the time, thus, this song and its lyrics meant little to me.

A couple of teenage girls I knew back then, undoubtedly, could relate Glen Campbell’s words to their mothers. I suppose they now do the same with their own lives. The first stanza has a powerful meaning, with the complete song a thought-provoker.

“She looks in the mirror and stares at wrinkles that weren’t there yesterday. And thinks of the young man that she almost married. What would he think if he now saw her this way?”

My mom, in comparison to the song, wasn’t an everyday housewife, although she probably desired to be such. Along with being a helpmate to Dad and a mother to my brother and me, she worked a full-time job to help make ends meet.

Housekeeping was added to this equation as well, although Jim and I helped out in this department. Despite both parents working, life wasn’t so bad for us boys. We had a tad more freedom than some kids, with them often being away.

I still recall my folks having to use Household Finance to obtain a loan, with the interest rate near 30%. That made it virtually impossible to pay this debt off, yet they somehow succeeded. Dad warned my brother and me about the pitfalls of borrowing money and told us to avoid doing so in our lives if we could.

In later years, my father mentioned that business loans were somewhat different, as long as the business owner was personally protected from litigation by placing things under a corporation. I’ve always remembered that advice — seeing it come into play several times with family and friends.

Housewife is considered a demeaning term by some left-leaning women’s rights advocates, portraying the term to mean an uneducated woman relegated to serving her husband and children with no interest in a career. I see their analysis as offensive. Stay-at-home moms should be celebrated just as much as those entering the workplace, perhaps even more.

Changing directions just a smidgen, senior citizens are constantly bombarded by commercials on television trying to hawk some type of wrinkle-erasing cream. It seems as if they’re directed at us anyway.

One such advertisement shows a daughter applying a cream under her aged father’s eyes. Before and after photos show a difference, yet small and barely readable printing at the bottom of the infomercial dictates that the result is not long-lasting.

Not any of my male friends that I’m aware of are concerned about wrinkles. Some women, on the other hand, are a different story. My mother used something called Oil of Olay. This company is now called Olay, and the product originated in South Africa. While there’s some mystique about the name, the main ingredient is simplistic lanolin. I get a dose of that every day when I wash my hands and face with soap.

Living in Arizona is hard on the skin, and one only has to look around to see the damage. I try to use skin protectants along with wearing hats to protect the sensitive scalp. Having burned my head in Hawaii years ago, I’ve never made that mistake again.

My wife always comments about a new wrinkle here or a new wrinkle there. I never see them unless she points things out. That unpreventable aging goes with a portion of the marriage vows saying, “For better or for worse.”

Looking at another set of lyrics from Glen Campbell’s song, “The photograph album she took from the closet and slowly turns the page. And picks up the crumbling flower, the first one he gave her, now withering with age.”

When a couple ties the knot, I highly doubt they’re looking down the road wondering how their mate is going to look in 50 years. That shouldn’t even enter their minds. Had that been the case, Joleen should’ve visualized a train wreck in me.

My looks have significantly changed for the worse, yet my persona remains not much different than when we married in 1977. She fared much better where aging is concerned, and her sense of humor or outlook on the future hasn’t suffered at all. Most of us geriatrics fit that bill. Our minds don’t seem to age at all, unlike our bodies.

Just recently, I read a story about a couple in New York who’ve been married for 80 years. Anthony and Gloria Aquaro are both over 100 years old and still live together in a home owned by their grandson.

Before and after photos of the couple are as expected, with time molding them into relatively healthy centenarians. Tony Aquaro had words of advice for keeping two people together for so long: “In a marriage, you can’t be a big boss. You have to respect each other’s wishes!” He went on to say that finding and keeping a good wife is the key to longevity.

Gloria mentioned that they did have disagreements, yet those arguments didn’t take precedence over their love and respect for one another. “Just never stop loving each other. I still love him as much as I did when we first met!”

Gloria Aquaro went on to explain that they were high school sweethearts and that she came to know Tony at a baseball game he was a player in. After winning the game, Tony asked for a kiss and was turned down. Despite this, it was love at first sight for both.

I can visualize Anthony Aquaro, in a croaky voice, singing the ending lines to Glen Campbell’s song and truly meaning every word of it. This stanza especially fits with many older men and women throughout the world.

“Oh, such are the dreams of the everyday housewife, you see everywhere, any time of the day. An everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me.”