The Blame Game is alive and well in America. I’m watching in High Definition (HD) on television right now, as well as seeing via social media, blame being spread on the recent Helene hurricane disaster. So and So is blamed for not sending money—while John and Sally Doe didn’t help enough.

Simply speaking, those doing the complaining generally did nothing at all, yet pointed their fingers at others to try and escape any guilt. Some folks, however, are simply born to complain.

All of this reminds me of a joke someone pulled on a former boss years ago. My supervisor was always griping about this or that on a daily basis. One morning he came to work and found a box of Midol sitting on his desk. For those not up to speed on what Midol’s intended, look it up. In today’s bizarre world of folks not knowing whether they’re male or female, I suppose the use of this drug has reached a whole different plateau.

Don (not his real name) thought the joke was funny, and I believe he got the message. Today, the person initiating this ruse would probably be fired. Easily offended thin-skinned snowflakes would raise Cain and make sure it happened.

Getting back to the blame game. A man on Facebook was criticizing Billy Graham for not sending money to South Carolina. This individual was immediately corrected, with many quickly saying that Billy Graham was dead. Franklin Graham, Billy’s son, through Samaritan’s Purse, has been on the ground running with supplies and crews of volunteers, helping out even before Helene hit.

Vice President Kamala Harris tried to play The Blame Game, by stating to anyone who’d listen, that Florida Governor Ron DeSantis didn’t return her phone calls regarding help, and that Floridians would suffer when Hurricane Milton hit.

Why would he expect calls from her, when President Biden acknowledged that he’s in constant contact with governors from all affected states? The president even went on to praise Ron Desantis, by saying he was doing an excellent job.

Our president is still at the top where the chain of command is concerned, and he’s letting that be known, especially to his possible predecessor, Kamala Harris. Without a doubt, she’s trying to create a ruckus here strictly for political gain.

I try and tune out those people routinely bellyaching but it’s sometimes hard. In the back of my mind, I often think of Don and that box of Midol. It seems after this joke was pulled the man did chill and change for the better. Is it possible he started taking the pills and they worked?

That’s something I’ll never know, because sadly, my former co-worker is no longer here to answer that question.

I try to be a “Made in the USA” kind of guy. When I say this, I’m talking about buying products manufactured in our country. Unfortunately, most of the smaller products I purchase nowadays, including shoes and clothing, are made in China. I wish things weren’t that way, but it is what it is.

The higher cost of manufacturing certain items, along with stringent environmental laws forced many US companies to fold or move overseas. Politicians, greedy investors, and unions had a lot to do with this as well.

From day one, I’ve been a Chevrolet, Ford, and Dodge owner. My reasoning is that they’re still considered American namesakes, although Dodge is now owned by Stellantis, a multinational European corporation.

Friends and strangers have told me that some components in those three makes come from other out-of-country locales. Perhaps so, but the vehicle names are still synonymous with red, white, and blue. You’ll never find me owning an import because it isn’t in my genes to do so, although Japan, Korea, Germany, and other European nations produce some fine cars and trucks.

A while ago, I wrote about coming across an authentic American Indian Dreamcatcher in WalMart. At least that’s what the label said. In small letters, the back of this packaging was printed — Made In China. Alaska gift shops sell items supposedly crafted by local natives yet are manufactured in Taiwan, China, and elsewhere. Miniature totem poles are a good example.

I purchased a stout aluminum flagpole with an American flag one year ago. Both items were identified as being made in the USA. The 4 x 6-foot flag looked to be of medium quality, manufactured of polyester, and vibrant in color. I proudly raised it to the flagpole’s full height of 30 feet. An extra flag identical to it was purchased for $49.

Our city has extreme wind and sun that constantly tests the endurance of flags. Driving about town I see them in all states of deterioration. Some are so bad that there’s not much left where color is concerned. One can only assume those flag owners are out of state, or they’re inside the house and refuse to go out and inspect things until the temperature cools down.

Within 90 days, strong Havasu winds had my USA-made American flag tattered in several places. Taking it down and running up the other, this spare lasted approximately 60 days before it too looked like it’d been through a major battle. That was $100 worth of flags destroyed in a little over half a year. At this rate by the end of 12 months, I’d be out 200 bucks.

Searching for a cheaper alternative to American-made flags I found none. The highest quality ones made of polyester were hovering around the $100 range online, while medium quality was half that price. This might be okay for some but it’s a bit rich for my wallet.

Looking further, I came across a tool supply company on McCulloch Boulevard offering Chinese-made polyester flags “on-sale” for under $4. They were smaller at 3 x 6 feet and I believe made of cheaper polyethylene rather than their advertised polyester material. I doubt that my USA-manufactured flagpole would know or even care that a foreign-made flag was perched on top.

A friend of mine from Minnesota is totally against flying flags made in other countries. In “The Gopher State,” a state law prohibits stores from peddling Chinese-manufactured American flags. That’s why so many Minnesotans buy them here and smuggle their contraband back into their home state. I say that jokingly.

Calculating that if my cheap China flags were to last one month, I’d only be out $50 for a year’s supply, 12 were purchased. For the most part, they’ve stayed together for less than 30 days, with the latest surviving just under 3 weeks. This one was in 4 pieces before being permanently lowered. At this rate of survival, a dozen might not be quite enough.

When I look at an American flag flying in the breeze, the furthest thing on my mind is whether it’s made here or in Timbuktu. What I see is red, white, and blue, along with the stars and stripes belonging to the greatest country in the nation—a place that I was blessed to be born in.

I’ll go even further, by boldly stating that many foreign workers making US flags wished they lived here too!

Forty years ago, the pastor of our church announced to the congregation that a staff member was on an “approved sabbatical.” Like me, other people noticed this man was absent, with some wondering what happened to him.

Claiming that the church employee was on prearranged leave was the preacher’s polite way of answering our question. This fellow never came back, making me think he didn’t intend to or was fired. I’m sure he wasn’t paid during his absence.

Doctors are oftentimes jokingly referred to as being on sabbatical, with golf courses undoubtedly being their mecca of choice. I only say this because a receptionist told me that’s where many of them go to unwind. It does seem the perfect place to get away from stress.

I didn’t know exactly what sabbatical meant back then, only recognizing that Sabbath is sometimes used to describe a religious period of rest. Sunday is a day of Sabbath for many Christians. The Jewish celebrate the Sabbath from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. They call this, Shabbat. There is a big difference between Sabbath and sabbatical.

The Greek explanation for a sabbatical is: an extended period of time intentionally spent on something that’s not your routine job. I found that interpretation to be quite interesting and open to further analysis. Generally speaking, those taking legitimate sabbaticals do so every few years. In this article, I use the word sabbatical as a politically correct way to describe employees stealing time.

Being observant, I like to watch folks at their places of employment, with some of them secretly or blatantly using electronic devices for nonwork purposes. I spot this activity all the time. Perhaps I’m just being an old fuddy-duddy and this is considered a new acceptable work ethic, but I don’t think so.

I recently saw an employee playing an online game in a somewhat secluded area at a big box store in town. I know this was the case because I walked up from behind and startled him with a question.

Driving around town, I constantly see construction workers standing about with their ears glued to phones. The other morning, a group of roofers were hard at work laying shingles, while one guy stood out like a sore thumb, trying to hide behind rolls of tarpaper while on his device.

During a recent and ongoing repaving project on Interstate 40, it wasn’t uncommon to see this practice. One fellow crouched behind an asphalt roller with a phone stuck to his ear—believing he was invisible to roaming eyes. I worked construction during my early years, with the only person needing to be on a phone—the foreman or superintendent.

A friend of mine managed large grocery stores for most of his lengthy career. Robert said that employees constantly using their cell phones during work hours was a definite problem. I suppose many of them saw this as being a power sabbatical of sorts much like power naps.

Studies show that employees spend an average of 2 – 3 hours each day on their electronic devices resulting in decreased productivity. It adds up quickly with wasted hours quickly turning into days. If you were to compile this misappropriated time over a year, the cost to employers would be substantial. One study shows it to be approximately 15 billion dollars annually.

Going back to the Greek explanation of sabbatical: an extended period of time intentionally spent on something that’s not your routine job. Judging by that definition, and using data provided by workplace studies, without question, it can be said thousands of employees are taking unscheduled mini-sabbaticals over the course of a year. If they’re smokers or vapers, add extra to the amount of nonproductive time spent in the workplace.

It might be advantageous for those employees to ask their bosses if they can go on permanent sabbatical status, along with still collecting a paycheck. I mean, that’s basically what they’re already doing!

Trying to remember complicated English rules for grammar is getting to be more difficult as the years slide by. English composition is considered the hardest to write because of so many complex rules. Add to this, advanced age with a pinch of male senility, and it becomes a toxic recipe for incessant typos.

With several books on grammar in my library to go by, stopping in midsentence to research what’s right and what’s wrong slowed me down considerably. I constantly needed help until eventually finding some.

Not long ago, I subscribed to an artificial intelligence (AI) program that helps catch the smallest mistakes. All I have to do is copy and paste my work into this site and it does the rest. The program is called Grammarly, but I named it Miss Purdy, after a character from the Jerry Lewis movie, “The Nutty Professor.”  Miss Purdy in this film is played by lovely actress, Stella Stevens.

Along the way, Miss Purdy has attempted to change my literary voice to match hers. If I strictly followed Purdy’s suggestions I’d be sounding more like “R2D2’ than anything. For “Star Wars” fans, they’ll recognize that alphanumeric name as the likable robots.

What I like most about Miss Purdy is that she helps me with semicolons, comma placement, apostrophes, capitalization, verbs, nouns, conjunctions, discombobulation, and archaic sentence structure. It’s like having my own English teacher or tutor sitting beside me. The cost is minimal and well worth the price.  All I have to do is “Charge it!” and her services are mine.

I pick and choose what changes I’ll accept which allows my voice to still come through, if ya know what I mean. For information’s sake, after running this article through her program, Miss Purdy sniffed out “ya” like a trained hound dog. My fictional tutor instinctively recommended that I change it to you. I didn’t.

For several years now, me and Miss Purdy have rendezvoused privately in my office or on the road while traveling. Songwriter and singer, Billy Paul, had a similar affair, with his 1972 tune titled, “Me and Mrs. Jones.” In Billy Paul’s song, two immoral souls meet each morning in of all places, a café. Hopefully, they order the chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns, because I hear it can’t be beat.

A tune about my plutonic relationship would be much different than Billy’s.

“Me and Miss Purdy.

Got a thang goin’ on.

I type out my words.

She points out those wrong.”

They say artificial intelligence can write complete sentences, paragraphs, and even articles with some initial direction and guidance. I’m sure Miss Purdy could do that for me but I’ve never asked her to.

When the day arrives that my submissions are totally error-free, with no slang tossed in for added effect, you’ll know that AI completely took over. My wife hopes there’ll come a time when little Miss Purdy’s smart enough to clean the house and cook.

With the speed at which AI technology progresses, that might be closer than she thinks.

Tragedy through accidents hasn’t escaped Arizona over the years, nor has it in the other 49 states. It seems every day that we read of some horrific event taking place throughout the country.

Several years ago, I wrote a lengthy piece about two locomotives colliding near Franconia, almost directly across from where the Pilot and Love truck stops are on Highway 95 and Interstate 40. Five railroad crewmen were killed in that 1901 accident, while 19 other railroad employees and passengers were badly injured.

There was no official memorial at the site, with me making simple wooden crosses for each railroad worker, and having their names written in black marker. They were then placed in soft sand at this approximate location. Hopefully, the crosses still remain, with it now illegal to visit this property.

On July 5, 1973, a large propane tank on a railroad siding exploded in Kingman, killing 12 people and injuring another 80. The shock wave from this explosion was felt well over 5 miles away. Remnants of the tank ended up over a quarter of a mile from the blast. There are at least 3 memorials in Kingman for those who died during this incident, if not more.

Most everyone in the country has heard of the Yarnell Hill Fire taking place on June 30, 2013. This fire took the lives of 19 firefighters. A memorial can be found at the exact location where they died, including one in Yarnell called the Granite Mountain Hotshots Memorial Park.  Another large memorial is in Prescott at the courthouse, along with others throughout the state.

On January 8, 1944, an accident occurred in Kingman that took the lives of 28 cadet soldiers stationed at the Kingman Army Air Field. I’d never heard or read of this tragedy until just recently. While doing some research on the base, I came across several articles written about the incident in various newspapers back then.

At that time, it was the worst transportation accident to ever hit Arizona, until two commercial airliners collided over the Grand Canyon in 1956 killing 128 people. Despite this, it still holds the macabre record of the most killed in an Arizona motor vehicle accident.

1944 newspaper accounts paint a horrific picture of the Kingman train and bus crash, and I’ll attempt to tone things down a bit in my description. Several of the soldier’s names were also corrected by me by using their gravestones for accuracy. I also identified their middle names by using the same.

On Thursday, January 6, 1944, 34 aviation cadets (A/C), along with their instructor and a driver, approached the Santa Fe Railroad crossing at the Kingman Army Air Field entrance. Witnesses say the bus stopped, yet lurched onto the track for whatever reason just as a train was coming. This wasn’t a bus by conventional standards. It was a semi-truck pulling a trailer converted to carry passengers.

The soldiers were all returning from night gunnery training, undoubtedly looking forward to hitting their bunks for some rest before the next grueling day. With the diesel-powered locomotive doing some 45 miles per hour, it easily tore through the bus, strewing bodies everywhere. The Kingman mortuary was overrun with corpses, with many of them sent to Needles, California. Most of these guys were in their early 20s.

Thousands of soldiers volunteered to donate blood, but because of the severe trauma incurred by those unfortunate men on the vehicle, there was not much need. Only 8 survived the crash. Oddly enough, the base commander, Colonel Harvey P. Huglin, absolved the military of any responsibility in the accident six days later. This was despite a railroad crossing agent flagging the military bus to stop.

On January 20, two weeks after the tragedy, the Arizona State Highway Department announced bids were being accepted for a new crossing that wisely placed this dangerous section of road underneath the tracks. Sometimes, it takes a tragedy to get things done, and this was precisely the case here.

I found no memorial at this site for those unfortunate 28 soldiers. To honor the deceased for their service to our country, I’ll bring to light after some 80 years, their names and hometowns one more time.

Some residents living in Lake Havasu City may be related to them. These young and brave warriors who lost their lives while preparing to go off to battle during WWII should never be forgotten, and are most deserving of a permanent plaque or monument!

Second Lieutenant Altemont Roscoe Britton Jr. – Hamilton, Alabama.

A/C Robert Lloyd Johnson – Pottstown, Pennsylvania.

A/C Seymour Kahn – Bronx, New York.

A/C Donald Bernard Keller – Minot, South Dakota.

A/C Kenneth Lawler Kirk – Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

A/C Alfred Mahler Kite – Waynesboro, Virginia.

A/C Robert Joseph Knapp – Davenport, Iowa.

A/C Robert Whittemore Knapp – St. Louis, Missouri

A/C John Henry Kubiak – Olean, New York.

A/C Chester Stephen Kulpa – Chicago, Illinois.

A/C Donald Louis Kusnerek – Little Falls, Minnesota

A/C Norman Frederick Leap – Riverside, California.

A/C Arlo Quinten Leavitt – Bunkerville, Nevada.

A/C Herbert Arthur Lewis – Schenectady, New York.

A/C Norman Levine – Long Island, New York.

A/C John Paul Liddell – Lackawanna, Pennsylvania.

A/C Niles Earl Long – Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Private Frank Edwin Smith – West Point, Iowa.

A/C John H. Stiltz Jr. – Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania.

A/C George Theodore Stine – Aliquippa, Pennsylvania.

A/C William M. Stolle Jr. – St. Louis, Missouri

A/C William Frank Swadener – Indianapolis, Indiana.

A/C Joseph C. Taylor – Atlanta, Georgia.

A/C Alfred Hannis Tees – Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

A/C Lewis M. Thompson Jr. – Hollywood, California.

A/C William R. Thornell – Metuchen, New Jersey.

A/C Fred Charles Vogley – Canton, Ohio.

A/C Robert Keith Tingley – Marshall, Illinois.

Type of military bus like the one used at Kingman Army Air Field

My wife and I recently returned from a lengthy driving excursion through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas. It was not unlike other trips that we’ve made over the years, with thankfully, no major incidents. Our two Amazon parrots, Jess and Aldo, rode along making things quite interesting and noisy. They’ve been entertaining us now going on 35 years.

Jess and Aldo were not happy from the git-go being forced into smaller cages. Their larger metal homes wouldn’t fit inside our RV so they were left behind. Angry birds the whole way, they tried several times to bite the fingers that fed them. I’d probably be doing the same after enduring day after day of bumpy roads while standing on wood perches. Joleen and I had cushy seats so we wouldn’t exactly know how they felt.

The purpose of the trip was for my wife to reconnect with her brother, aunt, and cousins, along with displaying our old 1950 Chevy pickup at the McConnell Air Force Base, “Frontiers in Flight Air Show” including the Chapman, Kansas, “Labor Day Car Show.”

Getting to our destinations, we traveled a good many miles on rural highways. There were interesting things to see on this route while meeting some down-to-earth people in cafes, restaurants, and truck stops. I talked politics with a couple of truck drivers, including doing the same with an Amish family in Kansas. Amish people generally don’t vote, but these folks are fully aware like most of us of what’s going on in the country.

Sadly, it’s amazing how much roadkill we saw on our journey. Raccoons, possums, armadillos, coyotes, and skunks had been a bit too slow crossing busy roads and highways. We generally smelled the skunks before and after seeing them. Hungry ravens, vultures, and hawks were usually circling above the carcasses. I honked our horn at a few on the ground so that the scavengers didn’t end up with missing feathers.

While away from home for any lengthy time, it never fails that our alarm system goes berserk, with it doing the same this time around. After a physical inspection, we were assured by the alarm company that no entry had been made into the dwelling through opened doors.

Strangely enough, one motion detector had picked up movement in the living room. With no ceiling fans left on, and it being too early for Santa to come down the chimney, a ghost evidently set things off.

The only problem we encountered while driving, was on the return leg coming down that steep hill out of Kingman. An 18-wheeler blew by us nearly sideswiping our RV on the final sweeping curve. In the process, the careless truck driver came close to running our vehicle off the road while he was traveling well over the speed limit.

After this happened, four angry birds were squawking inside our motorhome, with Joleen and I being the loudest. Wanting to desperately catch the driver, the tantalizing allure of a succulent Cinnabon roll at the newly opened Flying J truck stop just down the road in Yucca, quickly took revenge off my mind.

On our final push into Lake Havasu City, there were several RV’s sporting out-of-state plates behind and in front of us. They were most likely snowbirds making their way back to Arizona paradise to escape a forthcoming cold winter.

Hopefully, none of them became angry at the hotter-than-normal temps here. On a positive note, where getting the best RV parking spaces is concerned, these savvy visitors understand that the early bird catches the worm.

As far as Jess and Aldo the parrots go, they lost their angry bird status once back inside their comfortable and spacious cages. Something tells me they’ll opt to stay home next time or ask to sit up front with us.

I came across a 1994 movie the other day starring John Denver, called, “Walking Thunder.” In a nutshell, the storyline’s about a pioneer family, the McKay’s, traveling to California right after the American Civil War. John Denver plays the main part of John McKay, an East Coast shipbuilder looking to move his expectant wife and children west to start a new life.

A large bear attacks their covered wagon and begins destroying it somewhere in the rugged Rocky Mountains, with the wagon ultimately ending up with an unrepairable broken axle. My first thought after seeing this was quite sarcastic, “McKay should’ve purchased a one-ton!”  

Only 10 minutes in, I’d already decided to earmark the film as “hokey.” That’s a word I use to describe movies that hinge on being bogus or unrealistic. Seeing that my wife was enjoying things, I decided to quietly go along for the ride without complaint.

In the story’s beginning, the great-grandson of John McKay, Danny McKay, stays with his grandmother for a few days. Grandma Anne McKay wants her grandson to go through an old trunk in her attic that once belonged to their early McKay relative, Jacob.

Inside this antique trunk is an Indian dreamcatcher, a Colt revolver, and a journal written by Danny’s great-grandfather, Jacob, about the problematic trip to California. From that point on the storyline follows what happened next.

After the bear encounter, the McKay clan befriended a mountain man, Abner Murdock, and his Sioux medicine man friend, Dark Wind. Murdock gives the family some pointers on how to survive in the wilderness as winter is fast approaching. He also tells them what Dark Wind’s dreamcatcher is used for, after seeing that McKay’s two boys, Jacob and Toby, are interested in it.

In simplistic terms, a dreamcatcher is a circular wood hoop with webbing in the middle and feathers hanging from it. The weblike part of the religious item supposedly catches evil spirits and bad dreams during the night, and when daylight comes they dissipate. The feathers retain any good dreams.

As if dealing with a vicious bear wasn’t bad enough, three snarky-looking hide hunters come along, harassing the family and wanting their gold and silver. There were fights galore between the evildoers, McKay’s, and Abner Murdock, yet no one was killed.

Each time John McKay shot at any wild game he missed. It was only because of Abner Murdock having good hunting skills that they survived—although he was never shown killing or butchering any animals. They did eat well indicating that such events happened.

Where family movies are concerned this is a good one, with no f-bombs being dropped, drug use, excess violence, or explicit sexual acts. I seriously doubt this type of film is being made anymore, at least not in Hollywood. That’s a good part of what’s wrong with this country.

Lake Havasu City has a dreamcatcher of its own, although the city doesn’t rightly own it. “Dreamcatcher” is the name the Chemehuevi Indians gave to their Havasu Landing Resort and Casino transportation boat. This sleek-looking vessel transports folks across the water to their California desert oasis numerous times a day, and for only $3.00 roundtrip. Hands down it’s the best deal in town!

Authentic American Indian dreamcatchers are popular tourist items in almost every Native gift store. I’ve even seen them in Walmart, yet with “Made in China” labels, I seriously doubt they’ll catch dreams. Undoubtedly though, they will catch dust.

The opposite of dreamcatcher is dreammaker. I’ve found that lots of things can create dreams, including fatigue, prescription medicines, and certain foods, such as pizza and spaghetti. I’m not the only person claiming that red tomato sauce makes them dream.

It happens to me all the time, especially after eating pizza from one specific location here in town. Don’t get me wrong, their pizza is delicious—I just wish it’d stop giving me nightmares.

With the length and severity of bad dreams, this food creates for me, I highly doubt an average-sized authentic Indian dreamcatcher would snag them all. I’ll need one about the size of a garbage can lid for starts.

There’s no room on our walls for a dreamcatcher this size, so maybe this eatery could be coaxed into placing one in their dining room. It makes sense to me that the bad dreams should be snared before ever leaving their front door!

Out of pure laziness to not bend over and slip on my sandals, the other afternoon, I decided to walk outside and check the mail while barefoot. Our thermometer showed 109. Knowing that asphalt is a killer in this heat, concrete didn’t seem like it’d be as hot. I made it to the mailbox with no problem yet the return trip had me dancing.

A 1966 song by Robert Parker, “Barefootin’” is about dancing without shoes and socks, yet there’s no mention of it being performed on hot blacktop or concrete. In my younger days, my brother and I often went barefooted in Alabama and Texas, being smart enough to avoid pavement.

I can’t remember us incurring any major problems other than sticker briars. After a summer of going shoeless, feet developed thick callouses that somewhat protected them.

A third-grade class photo I have shows a schoolmate of mine without shoes. I’m sure had Dad and Mom allowed me, I would’ve been barefoot in that picture as well. I view folks at Rotary Beach here in town shoeless or sandal-less all the time, with smoking hot sand being hard for me to take. Everyone must have a different pain threshold, with flip-flops being our saving grace when visiting beaches in Alabama or Florida.

The Arizona town of Salome has a slogan, “Where She Danced.” Many visitors to this small oasis in the desert inquire as to its meaning. There are two explanations. Supposedly, the newly arrived wife of Charles Pratt, co-founder of the town, Grace Salome Pratt, after first removing shoes during summer to try walking barefooted on desert sand, ended up dancing instead.

The second reason has to do with a 1945 movie called, “Salome, Where She Danced,” starring Yvonne DeCarlo. The famous actress plays the part of Anna Maria, a ballerina who escapes Europe during The Austrian-Prussian War after being accused there as a spy.

Immigrating to America, she hooks up with another long-retired dancer, Madame Europe. They’re set to dance together for the first time in a small western town called Drinkman Wells, in a musical play called, “Salome, Where She Danced. The town name is soon changed to Salome, to appease Anna Maria.

The actors and townspeople are robbed by a band of outlaws as the dancing begins, with Anna Maria taken hostage. I watched this movie for free on YouTube and found it somewhat entertaining, yet no scenes were filmed in Salome which would’ve made it better. Yvonne DeCarlo was quite a hottie in this film, unlike the character she played in “The Munsters” as Herman Munster’s wife, Lily.

If the late Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert (Siskel and Ebert) were still rating movies, they’d undoubtedly give the film two thumbs down for plot. It’s highly possible that writer, Laurence Stallings, came up with the screenplay name after visiting Salome.

On a negative side to barefootin’, I see people in town from time to time walking their dogs on hot asphalt in summer, with the poor animals dancing like I had to. A slow form of torturing these pets, I want to say something to the pet owners, yet know that any remark from me won’t help the suffering canines.

Pet owners like that are, unfortunately, a little dense upstairs, with their excuse being, “Well it has to walk and do its business somewhere!” Walking a dog on burning asphalt during summer in this town or any other proximity is never a valid excuse.

Just today, a fellow was out in front of Walmart soliciting money, while his dog lay on hot concrete with its tongue hanging out. My car thermometer read 106. Using crutches or a walker as a prop to garner sympathy is one thing, but bringing along an animal to do the same shows a callous individual. A few snowflakes might say I’m being judgmental here, but I see it as simply being observant.

I’ve had a couple of dogs in Havasu, finding that paw protectors, when soaked with a portable spray bottle full of water help considerably. I sprayed their fur down as well. Of course, having that important cell phone in one hand and a leash in the other makes that impossible for some pet owners.

As our two Pekingese got older and couldn’t take the heat anymore, they weren’t too old to train. I taught them both to do their business in the garage on a pee pad. A little Clorox bleach and water helped clean up any spillage.

Children are much like pets in some ways. Neither have any say in what parents or caretakers they’ll end up with. Some were dealt a good hand while others ended up on the losing end of the stick. Hopefully, my wife and I are deemed by our kids and departed pets as being good stewards where taking care of them is concerned.

One thing’s for sure, we never forced them to go barefootin’ on sizzlin’ hot pavement or locked our kids in a hot car. It doesn’t take a Harvard or Yale scholar to know that these inexcusable acts have serious and sometimes irreversible consequences.

SERENITY NOW

When I’m involved in doing something tedious or technical, I don’t want outside interference interrupting me. Building an engine for a hotrod is one of those times. Getting distracted, and forgetting to torque one measly connecting rod nut can spell disaster.

I’ve never made that mistake, yet tales of others doing it aren’t uncommon. On rare occasions, rebuilt engines put together by even professionals are prone to such mishaps. All it takes is a phone call, or someone wanting to stop by and chat during assembly for this to happen.

Writing is another area where I like to be left alone, with no distractions. Keeping the thought train going without entering the “Twilight Zone” seems to get harder the older I get. Telephone calls, trying to take care of social media inquiries, and of course, unusual noises such as sirens going off or outside disturbances can bother me to the point of temporarily curtailing a writing project.

There’ve been times when I walked into the kitchen for a specific reason, took an unexpected phone call, and then afterward wondered what was I doing in the kitchen to begin with. Walking back in the living room it suddenly hit me, to get a glass of milk.

In July, I decided to write a book, giving myself one year to finish it. The novel would consist of 49 individual stories about Alaska. My mind automatically went into stress mode just thinking about the tremendous amount of work ahead of me. My year was practically mapped out on other things needing to be accomplished, while undertaking such a large project seemed like overkill.

Deciding that I’d take things one story at a time, and place aside all other communication with the outside world, other than my wife, within 30 days I was finished. That meant burning some midnight oil along with working long hours from morning to evening. I shut down my Facebook account mid-project, so as not to be bothered there. It’s been so refreshing that I don’t know if I’ll return.

There’s still a way to go with tweaking things, but the main part where thinking and creativity is concerned, and typing out the 49 stories is all finished.  It’s amazing what can be done in a short period when having a goal, and a desire to accomplish it.

In my teenage years, cruising was the weekly thing to do in Anchorage, Alaska. Guys, gals, and cars would head out on Friday and Saturday nights with their hotrods, oftentimes ending up on Sand Lake Road for a grudge match.

Doug Miller had a 1967 Pontiac Firebird with a 400-big block engine. Street racing it one night, the engine tossed a connecting rod, destroying the block and crankshaft beyond repair. With a desire to go cruising the next evening, Doug and another good friend, Jeff Thimsen, did a marathon rebuild on a spare engine. They started around 1:00 a.m., removing the wounded powerplant, and by 5:00 the next afternoon a rebuilt one was in its place.

As a senior citizen, I can still accomplish interesting things in a timely manner, such as writing that book, yet mundane chores around the house seem to take me forever. In some cases, I could care less if they’re even finished. A stucco wall I started painting 2 years ago is one of those projects.

Building engines and writing stories, as mentioned, are two areas where I try to stay focused without interruption. Anymore, putting an engine together isn’t done like in prior years.

My number one distraction these days involves driving. I have to be more observant than in the past because peripherical vision has diminished. You won’t find me on the phone texting people as I drive, viewing that on the same level as consuming alcoholic beverages while endangering others.

Daily, I see folks behind the wheel doing their thing with electronic devices in hand as if nothing is wrong. These are generally the people drifting from lane to lane, or going 20 miles per hour slower than the speed limit. I try to stay away from them but they’re everywhere. Hopefully, I never meet one coming head-on.

There is a law in Arizona, that began January 2021, prohibiting drivers from using handheld mobile devices while driving, including texting. Has a ticket ever been given out for such? This law seems to be strictly followed like the speed limit is on 95.

Seeking serenity while living in towns or cities is hard to find. Other than turning off the television, unplugging phones, and installing earplugs, there’s not much else a person can do. Outside noise always penetrates the walls of a home, condo, or apartment. In an episode of Seinfeld, Frank Constanza found calm and peace in New York City by screaming out, “Serenity now!” I’ve tried it a few times finding myself laughing more than anything. Laughter is the best medicine they say.

Famous writer, Henry David Thoreau, constructed a cabin deep in the woods as a place to avoid distraction, compose literature, as well as find solitude from the outside world. It was an experiment of sorts to see if he could exist without perks of the city. The land this cabin was built on, next to Walden Pond, belonged to his friend, mentor, and famous author, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

During Thoreau’s two years of solitude, the most important thing he accomplished in this small cabin, besides writing, was get closer to God. If that was the only thing accomplished in his life experiment, it was a huge success.

In Matthew 6:31-32, Jesus says, “Let’s go off by ourselves to a quiet place and rest for a while.”

For now, my quiet place of solitude, away from city distractions, will have to be our small RV. I’m sure had Henry David Thoreau had the same back in 1845, it would’ve worked for him in achieving his goals, on the same level as that blessed cabin in the woods.