michaeldexterhankins

“JERRY”

“They were nice to me and on Christmas always left a sizable tip or present.”

Looking back at folks I’ve met along the way, several stand out tall amongst the rest. Two of these were special people that I didn’t entirely know the history of. It was only after they passed away and I began writing, did I unearth their backgrounds through old wedding announcements and obituaries.

Alan and Muriel Girardet I first met as customers on my newspaper route in Anchorage. They were nice to me and on Christmas always left a sizable tip or present. When I say sizable I’m talking at least $5. The couple lived in a small but well-kept trailer in an older section of Alaskan Village Trailer Park.

Muriel and Alan were especially kind to neighborhood children, and this was especially true on Halloween. They were known to hand out the largest amount of candy of anyone in the park. There was a reason for them being so gracious to us kids that I didn’t know back then.

Alan went by the nickname of Jerry and I still don’t know the reason for that and probably never will at this point. His middle name was Newton. Mr. Girardet and his wife owned Lock, Stock, and Barrel gun shop, with a few of us kids who owned rifles purchasing .22 ammo from him. We’d been taught gun safety at Clark Junior High so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

The school had a small “take down” shooting range for the Clark Shooting Club. It would be set up in the gym and then taken down when not in use. For competition purposes, we’d go to an indoor target range on a local military base.

At home, sitting behind the gun shop was a hill that we could safely shoot into. A wrecked car sitting in front of it was riddled with holes. It was quite common to find several locals back there on a Saturday morning firing away.

My father eventually purchased the building that housed Lock, Stock, and Barrel Gun Shop, and I came to know Jerry even better. The man had a German Shepherd dog named “Heidi” that he brought to work every day. At lunch, Jerry would toss a ball and Heidi would chase it. You could tell by the excitement in her retrieving it that it was the highlight of the day.

Jerry became friends with my father-in-law and I learned from Herman that Jerry had also been in the United States Navy. Both men saw duty in WWII so they had something in common to talk about. Jerry served on the aircraft carrier USS Maine before retiring in 1959. His wife, Muriel, was also in the Navy. Being a member of the WAVES (women accepted for voluntary emergency service), Muriel remained on active duty until the end of the war.

Sadly, Jerry’s brother, David Lloyd Girardet, was killed in the crash of a Grumman Hellcat airplane during WWII. Not once did Jerry ever mention this to me nor tell my wife’s father, Herman, about the tragedy. Ensign David Lloyd Girardet attended the Naval Academy with a presidential appointment courtesy of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Hanging on a wall in the gun shop was a Brown Bess musket and powder horn dating back to the 1700s. I often visited Jerry just to check out this weapon. He eventually brought it down for me to inspect. I knew it was one of his prized possessions just by the way he handed it to me. The gun was long and heavy.

Because of my fascination for this Brown Bess, thirty years later I purchased one in Scottsdale, Arizona. I always wondered what happened to Jerry’s musket believing that it’d been sold after he passed away.

A couple of important things were learned about Jerry and Muriel along with that Brown Bess in writing this story—one of them quite sad. I never knew during the time I first met them in 1967, that they’d lost their only son in a motorcycle accident just three years prior.

David Lloyd Girardet was struck by a drunk driver in 1964 and killed. I can’t imagine the heartbreak of losing a child, and I suppose this was a reason for them seemingly “adopting” some of us neighborhood kids. David was without question named after Jerry’s late brother.

The other thing I came to know is not so tragic. The beloved “Brown Bess” was donated by Jerry and Muriel to the Lake Ronkonkoma Historical Society Museum in New York. A picture of it on their website shows the musket and powder horn in a place of reverence. A brass tag identifies it as being donated by the Girardets.

Interestingly enough, Jerry was born and raised in Lake Ronkonkoma, with the family living on Hawkins Lane. That street name was eventually changed to Hawkins Avenue, now considered the city business center. The Girardet patriarch came to America from France, where he also served in the Navy. Jerry, Muriel, and David are buried in the Lake Ronkonkoma Cemetery.

Some might ask what does this story have to do with Lake Havasu City? The answer is simple. There are thousands of seniors living here from all parts of the country. Undoubtedly, a good many have backgrounds much like the Giradets. In most cases, we’ll never know until they’re gone!

“HAPPY JACK”

“Thanks to Deana, Karon, Renee, and Starr for helping me with this project.”

On the way to Kingman from Lake Havasu City, a little-used byway crosses over Interstate 40, named Happy Jack Road. A sign identifying it is visible on this overpass. Access to the Happy Jack Road bridge or overpass is via the Santa Fe Ranch Road exit, and then one must head east for approximately one-half mile on a side road that follows alongside I-40. This side road is a remnant of old Route 66.

I’ve been on Happy Jack Road numerous times, following it until hitting Happy Jack Wash and Sacramento Wash. A BNSF railroad bridge back there has quite the history. A story could be written about it alone. Loose sand and a steep rocky incline make getting to this bridge a bit tough unless you have a four-wheel drive.

Approximately one mile west of this railroad bridge is an abandoned railroad stop named Haviland. Today, trains park there, but they only remain in place for a short time until the tracks are clear. The area is popular with meteorite hunters.

I’ve often wondered who Happy Jack was. The Jacks I know for the most part are all happy individuals—at least the ones still living. This fellow must’ve been someone special for a road and a wash to get named after him.

I presented that question to a Yucca forum site and ended up with several valid answers. One individual thought that Happy Jack was a train engineer, with two others saying that he was a former rancher in the area who owned a large section of land. A forum member said that she had an old newspaper article dictating such. It took some digging, but I eventually found several articles. Thanks to Deana, Karon, Renee, and Starr for helping me with this project.

Henry Jack Bowman is the real name of “Happy Jack.” Moving to Yucca from Tombstone in 1881, he came to the area at the same time the railroad was being constructed.

Henry owned The Yucca & Signal Stage Line in Yucca and provided service to and from the mining town of Signal. This business also hauled the mail. Henry was also a successful ranch owner and miner, along with keeping burros either to be sold or leased to other prospectors. Signal is now a ghost town.

Newspapers paint a vivid photo of Henry Bowman. He had a partner in this stage and freight operation, Charles Wilson, but the two men eventually had a falling out and went in separate directions. Meeting on a trail one spring day near Yucca in their wagons—neither gave way to the other.

“Happy Jack” was shot in the arm by his former business associate and survived, with Charles Wilson eventually turning himself into Sheriff Robert Steen.

Seven years later, Bowman went on a mining expedition into the surrounding mountains, only for his burros to return to his Cienega Ranch without their owner. Charles Wilson was one of the first men to help look for him. Two weeks later “Happy Jack” turned up a bit weathered from the experience yet alive. He was definitely a tough old buzzard.

Having researched and written this short story, the next time I drive under Happy Jack Bridge on a sweltering 120-degree summer day in an air-conditioned vehicle, with a large Coke within easy reach, I’ll think of Henry “Happy Jack” Bowman sitting on top of his stagecoach with sweaty passengers inside.

How he and others survived back then is a testament to their strength, grit, and tenacity!

LADDER OF JOY

“I’ll try to reignite my holiday spirit by watching Hallmark Christmas movies with Joleen, yet I can only take so many repeated scripts and bad acting.”

I haven’t been totally filled with “Holiday Spirit” for some time now although the top is still within reach. I’m not talking about the free-flowing spirits with which many find necessary to celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.

Some folks look for these three holidays—along with Labor Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, and Donut Day—as a time to drink to their heart’s content. By the way, Donut Day falls on Friday, June 6, in 2025.

The holiday spirit or cheer I’m talking about is uncontained excitement such as what kids experience in elementary school right before Christmas, knowing that classes will soon be put on hold until after the first of January. Brightly wrapped presents underneath the tree go along with this.

I don’t need to be reminded of the real reason for the season: Christmas. It’s the birthday of my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. That alone is reason enough to continue celebrating life and be filled with joy.

In my book, Thanksgiving began when the Pilgrims broke bread with Indigenous American Indians, while New Year’s means another year has passed. It’s also a time to look to the future.

Like so many older people, I tend to now look at holidays with a touch of sadness. I often think back to the time when parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and good friends were still here to celebrate.

I’m elated to still be around and take in activities with my own children, grandchildren, and pals, yet the elimination of debilitating back pain and other physical ailments in my body would make for a bit more elation. Only those going through such will understand.

My wife and I decorated for the first time in several years mainly because the grandchildren were coming for Thanksgiving. I had our Kansas-manufactured, metal Saguaro cactus wrapped in red, green, blue, and white LED lights which entailed working off a ladder in the back of our truck.

A few close calls were made going up and down it. The Made in China faux Christmas tree in our living room was safely put together and thankfully has built-in bulbs. I’m sure these decorations will be up through a portion of the new year.

Christmas cards are still a part of our holiday experience although only a few now get sent. We’ve got boxes and boxes of them, enough to last ’til the dinosaurs come home.

Sadly, finding cards in our mailbox is slowly dying much like people we know—five this year alone. A friend was just diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. His doctor recommended that the family be notified immediately. That news is never easy to take.

I’ll try to reignite my holiday spirit by watching Hallmark Christmas movies with Joleen, yet I can only take so many repeated scripts and bad acting. Last week, two movies in a row had basically the same plot. I can generally predict the outcome.

Not to totally change subjects, but Albertson’s recently had Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider on sale and I purchased eight bottles for the holidays alone—two at a time because this was the limit. Being nonalcoholic—there’s plenty of carbonation in this juice to bloat a whale.

Of course, gas is an unwanted byproduct of carbonation. On the positive side, apple juice supplies seniors with a sufficient amount of fiber.

After downing my share of the delicious fruit elixir, watching Christmas movies with anyone on New Year’s Day wouldn’t be a wise idea. A solo walk in the desert will work best to start 2025 off on the right foot.

It’ll also be a good opportunity to thank God for all his blessings, reflect on the past, pray for friends and family, and pray for this country’s future. If 2025 starts as well as 2024 ends, my holiday spirit should move up another rung on the ladder of joy!

SNAPSHOT

“My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.”

The other morning in a restaurant I heard a customer remark, “That’s a Kodak moment for sure.” The short and often repeated statement simply means that some special life event has just occurred.

In this case, a male server dropped and broke a dish or cup. I suppose that happens quite often, so why this person designated it a Kodak moment still baffles me.

I’ve been one to take pictures going back to elementary school, and I’m glad I did. Those photos still exist for my kids and grandchildren to enjoy and hopefully preserve. I now keep them in a safe for safekeeping, no pun intended.

In high school, I took a graphic arts class, with part of the semester devoted to taking pictures and then developing the 35mm film. Our large classroom had a darkroom where we created negatives and printed them off.

A classmate, David Church, and I decided to use the school high-definition camera to take a snapshot of a one-dollar bill. It started out as a joke of sorts, with neither of us having viewed a movie where criminals counterfeited lowly George Washington bills.

We left the completed image in a copier before departing class on Friday afternoon, ready for it to be duplicated. With no intentions of going through with the ruse, we hoped that someone would find it and create a fuss. The following week, graphic arts had a special guest speaker—a special agent of the FBI.

This man emphasized to our class and to other classes throughout the day the serious implications of counterfeiting currency. Undoubtedly, he knew this was a cleverly planned joke, yet wanted to nip things in the bud before someone went further.

Dave and I were smart enough to keep our mouths shut, thus we suffered no serious consequences. We were light years ahead of other students throughout the whole semester, where legal creativity was concerned, and received A’s for our handiwork.

Just the other day my wife mentioned that a snapshot had been taken of me as I drove through a red light. She then mentioned all of the cameras placed at various intersections for drivers like myself. I told her a police camera would’ve vindicated me of the act as I knew that light was still yellow. Our debate ended in a draw.

Cameras throughout town capture our every move and for the most part, are a good thing. I do my best to obey the traffic laws but at times fail. Those cameras aren’t the only ones capturing me making mistakes. I have a tiny one on the vehicle dash that records such acts as well.

A couple of years ago, Joleen was searching for cheaper auto insurance and came across a company offering lower rates if we agreed to something called “Snapshot.” At first, I thought it was an onboard camera and wanted no part of the device.

After reading a pamphlet, Snapshot turned out to be a gadget that plugged into our vehicle computer, and after 90 days, the data would be analyzed for sudden stops, jackrabbit starts, excess speed, and erratic driving.

It seemed like a no-brainer to go through with things, not taking into consideration it was close to Christmas. My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.

For those living in town, they’ll know what I mean. The street signs are mostly faded and hard to see in the dark. Following a newspaper map with all of the Christmas light locations made for a trying experience.

Our snapshot device went off numerous times, making a loud beep as I suddenly slowed down and made quick turns. I wanted to toss it out the window. All in all, Snapshot painted a picture of me as a bad driver after the results were tabulated.

With the holidays here, thankfully, Snapshot is a thing of the past. I now use a preprogrammed GPS to find those decorated homes. There’s a good chance I’ll still execute sudden stops and turns, yet the only indication of such will be a honk coming from behind.

I’ll return the gesture out of courtesy and wave to them while cheerfully saying out loud, “Merry Christmas, Jack. Next time, stay a little further back!”

LIFE STORIES

“Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.”

In my younger years, I worked with several great storytellers at different places of employment. They were generally much older men than me. Most of their tales revolved around workplace experiences, fishing, hunting, and youthful exploits, along with rehearsed or unintentional acts of mischief.

For the most part—I believed all their tales were true—except for one bizarre story told to a group of us during morning break.

Robert Nelson was a parts expeditor for the State of Alaska. I’m not sure what his former background was because he was a “man of mystery” with little known of his past by coworkers. Bob was in his 70s when I first met the guy. I was told he drank a lot over the weekends and that his accent drastically changed when he did so.

At break one Monday morning, in what appeared to be Irish undertones, the man bragged of being at a tavern years ago when a fight broke out between him and another bar patron. Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.

We laughed hysterically believing it was a joke until Mr. Nelson became very angry. With his ears and forehead glowing cherry red, he yelled that his story was true and that we’d greatly offended him. The room turned totally quiet, with laughter returning once again, only after Bob Nelson stormed out the door.

Bob worked less than a year longer before he resigned. We were informed through the workplace grapevine, that he lost his driver’s license and had to leave because this job consisted of driving a state vehicle. That strange story of Nelson’s is probably still circulating in certain Alaskan circles. Undoubtedly, Bob Nelson created his tall tale while tanked up on agave juice. Tequila was his brew of choice.

Three men stand tall where “factual storytelling” is concerned. All of them had a lifetime of exciting adventures to share. I wish I could remember more of what they relayed over the years.

Reid Bowman served in the United States Navy during WWII, being at Iwo Jima during the heat of conflict at age 17. He saw battle on ships that I no longer recall the names of. Some of his observations while fighting the Japanese were quite graphic. I can still see tears coming from his eyes during one recollection of fellow sailors being killed when enemy fire struck their ship.

Reid had some great fishing stories as well. With him owning a beautiful cabin directly on the Kenai River near Soldotna, Alaska, there was no doubt they were true. The Kenai River has some of the best salmon fishing on the Kenai Peninsula.

Martin Allen was a native Arizonian although he was born in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1920. He was a real cowboy during his younger years, riding horses and herding cattle like those cowboys seen in Western movies. He served in WWII as a Marine, and afterward, he worked in the mines of Bisbee for what I believe was close to 30 years.

This was at the same time that miners went on strike there, and a mining company Martin Allen worked for during those years, Phelps Dodge, was found to be irresponsible with pension money. Unbeknownst to the employees, the company had been dipping into these funds for operational purposes.

At the age of 68, Martin moved to Alaska and went to work as a mechanic for the State of Alaska. He spent several years in the villages of Bethel and Aniak, where he was dubbed “The Aniak Cowboy” by locals.

An avid fisherman, Martin was also good at flipping cars and trucks and made sizable money after retirement in doing so. Martin told great stories about his time cowboying, as well as working in the mines. With mining a dangerous occupation, he mentioned losing several friends from occupational accidents.

One story I remember most was actually a wisdom-filled fable if you can call it that. I can’t describe things using his exact words because they’re a bit salty for this family newspaper, but here goes:

Two bulls were standing on a hill watching a herd of cows grazing down below. One of the bulls, a youngster, said to the other, “Let’s run down there and make love to one of those heifers.”

The larger of the pair, much older and wiser than his immature partner, with a blade of grass stuck between both front teeth, slowly replied,

“Why don’t we walk down there and make love to all of them!”

Ron Kolbeck came to Alaska from Wisconsin. His family was involved in farming and that’s where he picked up some of his ability to work on all types of heavy equipment, along with being in the Air Force as an aircraft mechanic during the Korean War.

Ron worked on the Alaska Pipeline from start to finish and was able to sock away a significant amount of money. He spent several years at Prudhoe Bay as a mechanic. Most younger guys doing the same weren’t as savvy and spent their windfall on frivolous things like fancy trucks, cars, and toys. Ron and his wife, Helen, wisely invested theirs.

Oil pipeline work was dangerous with Kolbeck mentioning several accidents that took the lives of fellow workers. He told stories of enduring harsh weather 12 hours a day – 7 days a week to get the job done. I especially remember him talking about a welder he worked with who used an acetylene torch to cut up galvanized metal.

Ron warned the man about the hazards of doing such without an outside air supply and the guy didn’t listen. Galvanized steel heated to its melting point, gives off a deadly green gas. Ron told us that this fellow died of a serious lung infection before the summer was over.

I miss listening to Ron, Reid, and Martin share the exciting adventures they were a part of. Each man lived a relatively long life despite their hazardous occupations. One of my regrets is never thanking them for their military service.

I still enjoy chatting about the past with family, friends, and acquaintances who are now in their senior years. Not once have any of them mentioned taking someone’s head off and placing it on a bar counter. Without question, Robert Nelson set the bar sky-high for anyone to top that amazing feat!

GRANDMA’S HANDS

“I’ve been craving an authentic Alabama pecan pie for several years now.”

Holiday time is upon us. Not long ago, using “eternity” as a guideline, Mama Haynes prepared special food from generational handed-down recipes for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.

As kids, in the early 1960s, my brother Jim and I helped Mama Haynes “shell” peas or cut snap beans. Several types of peas were served at almost every holiday dinner, with blackeye peas always in a big bowl at the center of the table come New Year’s Day. Eating them was supposed to bring good luck, although none of my relatives ever won the lottery.

I can still recall the unique odor associated with shelling green peas, unlike anything I’ve smelled other than perhaps one counterculture product. The fragrance was very strong if a pod full of green peas was especially fresh. I’m not a hemp user, but I’ve driven by a few marijuana greenhouses in California, and the pungent sweet aroma coming from them is close to the same. I believe my grandparents’ name for marijuana was loco weed. My folks called it Wacky Tobackie.

Jim and I would sit on Mama Haynes’s back porch, simultaneously talking and shelling with her. By the end of the process, certain fingers would be green from pinching hundreds of pods until they were all shelled. Soap and water removed some of the green chlorophyll, although some staining remained. It was no worse than having dirt or grease embedded in my skin, a daily ritual. No biggie.

Both of my grandmas would mash their own potatoes using hand-crank mixers. I’d assist on rare occasions but it wasn’t one of my favorite tasks. The procedure was labor intensive. Mashed potatoes in a box took care of that problem, but they’re not near as good as the real thing, not even the Idahoan brand.

When making a cake or a pie, that was a different story where mixing ingredients was concerned. I’d gladfully help out and even “sift flour” as it was called. Mama Haynes made the best pecan pies, with the nuts gathered locally from Lamar County pecan trees or sent to her from my Aunt Katrulia. Aunt K’s family owned a pecan orchard near Grand Bay, Alabama.

I helped open the unshelled pecans using a small hammer to crack the shell. The object was to remove the “meat” of a pecan in one piece. It took practice. When she wasn’t looking I often smashed a pecan to smithereens just to see how flat it would go.

Mama Haynes’ pecan pies were made using a special syrup named Golden Eagle. This delicious ingredient is manufactured in a small town in Alabama called Fayette, with the company in operation for almost 100 years. Fayette was originally called LaFayette after the famous Revolutionary War hero, Marquis de LaFayette.

Incorporated in 1821, my brother was born there and I often joked as a boy that he looked Fayette, although I was the chubby one.

After my family moved to Alaska, shelling peas with Grandma Hankins and Mama Haynes became a thing of the past. On holidays, Mom would use her electric mixer to make fresh mashed potatoes, while she still made the scrumptious pecan pies using Mama Haynes’s recipe.

I’ve been craving an authentic Alabama pecan pie for several years now. Some time ago I ordered a jar of Golden Eagle and had it sent via UPS to Arizona. That delicious syrup ultimately came to be used on pancakes, waffles, and biscuits. Why it was never turned into a pie is forgotten history.

This fall, the Golden Eagle Syrup Company announced that they’d be making a select number of large pecan pies, and that immediately caught my attention. Ordering up one before they were all spoken for, it should be here in time for Thanksgiving. With two of my grandchildren traveling from Minnesota to see us, I wanted them to partake in a part of the holiday I’d been accustomed to while young.

The distance this pie has to travel via the United States Postal Service to Lake Havasu City is 1,717 miles. I’m not sure if it’s coming by truck or plane, but when it arrives it’ll be greeted with open arms. My wife wanted to know why I didn’t just order a jar of Golden Eagle, and have her bake a pecan pie. Joleen makes excellent pies but there’s more to having this specific pie than she understands.

My grandparents on both sides of the family lived in Vernon, Alabama, which is only 18 miles from Fayette. There’s something about folks living in that neck of the woods that makes this pecan pie significant to me. It’ll be as close to one of Mama Haynes’ pecan pies as I can get.

Grandma’s hands might not have made it, but the recipe used by Golden Eagle is one and the same as hers.

THE JEEP WAVE

“So far no one has waved at us but in due time I suppose that’ll change.”

Over the years, I’ve had several friends along with in-laws who owned Jeeps. I believe Charlie Hart was the first followed by Gary Adair in the 1970s. Jeff Thimsen in Alaska eventually came to drive one and then Arizona friends, John Ballard, Tom Gildea, and Jim Brownfield.

Out of all of these names, Jim Brownfield is the only survivor where still owning and driving a Jeep is concerned. Riding with him one day I noticed a person in a decked-out Jeep Wrangler wave as he drove by. Asking if Jim knew the guy, my pal replied, “No, that was a Jeep Wave.” He went on to explain that Jeep owners much like motorcycle riders sometimes wave or acknowledge each other while on the road.

Not long after that, my wife and I purchased a Jeep Grand Cherokee. This model wasn’t four-wheel-drive with us figuring we wouldn’t need it. Our vehicle wasn’t a typical Jeep like the Wrangler or Gladiator either, and for 3 years, I can’t recall anyone waving at us. There were a few instances of receiving the middle finger after we placed a lifelike photo of Donald Trump on the rear window. A sufficient number of “thumbs up” also occurred.

With our little Jeep climbing up there in the mileage department, we decided that the time was ripe to trade it in. A fellow from Anderson Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep had been calling for several months asking if we might be interested in upgrading. They had some 2024 models with a nice rebate including an additional markdown.

On presidential election day, Joleen and I decided it might be a good time to roll the dice and take Brian Marazoni up on his offer. Finding what we wanted on their website first, I made an appointment with Brian to look things over. It only took us a few hours to be handed the keys. Our first stop was In-N-Out Burger on the way home for celebratory fries and a drink.

This Jeep is a bit taller than our old ride yet we knew that beforehand. Jim and Pat Brownfield’s Jeep Gladiator is much the same and we’d climbed in and out of it several times. Doing so is a great stretching exercise.

A couple of friends advised that we’d regret purchasing any type of vehicle sitting up high in our senior years, yet we ignored them. A set of mountable doorsteps was ordered and that took care of the problem like right now.

So far no one has given us the Jeep Wave but in due time I suppose that’ll change. If by chance we get ignored, I’ll order a Trump decal like the last one and place it on the passenger rear window. “The Donald” loved to ride in the back of our Grand Cherokee and I’m sure it’ll be the same with this new rig.

Just for grins, I might stick Kamala on the driver’s side rear window just to see if those two can now get along!

POWER OF PRAYER

“With us standing under black umbrellas, drizzly rain fell as the pastor said a few words before Grandpa’s casket was lowered into the ground.”

Representative picture of January 25, 1966.

The “power of prayer” unlike the horsepower of a car or motorcycle engine cannot be measured. If there were a device to try and capture the power of prayer like an engine dynamometer—the scale or graph with numbers could never capture such. I say this based on what I’ve observed in my own life and not what someone has told me.

I’ve been praying to God since childhood, although the simple prayer repeated nightly back then meant little to me. Mom lovingly instructed my brother and me to always pray before we went to bed.

“Now lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, bless me Lord, my soul to take.”

I first experienced the loss of someone in 1959, when a good neighbor, Lt. Richard Herndon, was killed in a jet airplane crash. It wasn’t so much his death that affected me as the sudden loss of someone who’d always been there. I felt sadness not only for losing this older friend but for his wife who I never saw again. Mary Herndon was my babysitter.

Death meant little to me for seven more years—until attending my Grandpa Hankins’ funeral on January 25, 1966. I vividly recall that cold, foggy, January morning in Vernon, Alabama, a line of cars following the hearse to Asbury Cemetery.

As we stood under black umbrellas, drizzly rain fell as the pastor said a few words before Grandpa’s casket was lowered into the ground. Seeing his body lying in that coffin back at the church was a sobering sight for me.

The Bible doesn’t specifically mention a year for children reaching the age of accountability, meaning, the year when children become solely responsible for their salvation. Many Catholics believe it’s at seven while Mormons say eight.

The Jewish take things a bit further by claiming it’s thirteen. It appears only God knows the correct answer to that question, him knowing that every child is different based upon their maturity. Some pastors are already shaking their heads before I even finish.

I’m not specifically talking about sin here, but the point a child “doesn’t go” to Heaven without asking Jesus to save them. I didn’t make that important commitment until 1973 soon after turning nineteen.

Getting back to the main subject, it wasn’t until after I made that life-changing decision in the early 70s that I began to notice the power associated with prayer. Our son, Gunnar, came down with spinal meningitis at nine months and was seriously ill.

Rushing him to Providence Hospital, resident pediatrician, Dr. Tower, took Joleen and me into a room and asked if we wanted to pray for our son. Of course, we did. Afterward, friends and family were doing the same. Miraculously, Gunnar came through without any brain damage, although some of his friends will jokingly question that.

Our first grandson, Kevin, was born with serious physical irregularities and spent considerable time in Denver Children’s Hospital. Many prayer warriors are responsible for his remarkable recovery. Kevin just recently entered Cedarville College where he plans on becoming a neurologist.

I’ve seen the power of prayer help pull close friends out of the stranglehold of cancer, with my wife and two of her sisters included. Lying in a Lake Havasu City, Arizona, hospital bed one night with my heart buzzing like a chainsaw, and destined for a procedure the next morning to stop my ticker and then restart it, with tears in my eyes, I asked my wife to go onto my Facebook page and ask for prayers.

She did, and only a few hours later I woke up with a slew of nurses and a doctor standing around me. The cardiologist said that my heart went back to normal on its own—although I knew the real reason why.

Since then, I’ve been involved with many prayer victories regarding health and financial matters of family and friends. Perhaps the biggest prayer miracle of all happened on November 5 of this year. Not to be political in this writing, how could I ignore this event where the power of prayer is concerned. I’ll tread ever so lightly here.

A call went out on October 24 for those of a certain political party to pray for their candidate’s success. The specific time of prayer was to be Monday, November 4, at 6:00 p.m. Millions joined in that day and the result on November 5 was the biggest presidential landslide in United States history.

What I found so “unbelievable” about this, is that not once did I hear the other side pray for their party or candidate. Did they not know about the power of prayer? Something tells me they do now, or at the least the enlightened ones will.

THE HARRIS WALTZ

“Just what happened here?”

Da news has been buzzin’.

For some time now.

How Trump’s goin’ down.

Let us jump and shout.

*****

Kah-mah-lah—you go girl!

Oprah’s got your back.

Along with Taylor Swift,

Michelle, and Barack.

*****

Bill and Hillary too.

They’re quite a lovely pair.

Missy wears the pants.

Willy doesn’t care.

*****

His left eye is winkin’.

At every skirt in sight.

That slow southern drawl.

Makes gals run with fright.

*****

When Dem votes rolled in.

Not all campers were happy.

Just what happened here?

Tim Walz was a bit snappy.

*****

We must put the blame.

Not on me but someone else.

Kah-mah-lah, dear.

Why won’t you wear a dress?

*****

The guilty party,

‘Tis sleepy Joe Biden.

Let’s tan his wrinkled hide.

Where is the man hidin’?

*****

The Harris-Waltz.

It wuz no dance at all.

Just like Humpty Dumpty.

Destined for a fall!

BAKED LAUGHLIN

“In the forty-ninth state, there’s a special dessert called Baked Alaska.”

I first visited Laughlin, Nevada, in 1979. My brother took my wife, son, and me to the Riverside Casino to try our hands at playing slot machines. We each took turns sitting in an air-conditioned truck watching one-year-old Gunnar, because there was no place inside the building for children back then.

The AC worked so well in Jim’s Chevrolet, that I’d have to step outside his vehicle every so often to warm up. Even on low, the Chevy cab would become a virtual refrigerator. A few minutes of sweltering Nevada heat helped immensely before getting back in.

When it was my turn to play, after perhaps 30 minutes of feeding large Eisenhower dollars into a slot machine, my pockets were bulging with winnings. Feeling proud of myself as I walked out of the place, I ended up with $100 more than I started.

Joleen and Jim came out ahead as well. My wife still has an unopened roll of Eisenhower silver dollars from that trip tucked away in a bedroom drawer. I don’t believe they’re totally made of silver as that practice stopped in 1964.

I purchased everyone’s dinner that night, telling anyone who’d listen that Don Laughlin was paying for things. The late Don Laughlin is the originator of Laughlin and owner of Riverside Casino.

Over the years we’ve gone back only to see Laughlin grow in leaps and bounds, and then slow down to a snail’s pace. New bridges have been built to make it easier to get across the Colorado River, but casino construction has all but ceased. The Colorado Belle casino closed down several years later.

Our reason to visit Laughlin these days isn’t to gamble, but to dine at a favorite Mexican Restaurant and check out the cars in Don Laughlin’s car museum. That museum has been in existence for quite some time with free admission.

I talked to a man overseeing the museum collection sometime in the 1990s. He told me that Don Laughlin would stealthily show up unannounced to inspect things. It wasn’t uncommon for him to climb inside an automobile and check it for dust and cleanliness. He’d then quietly disappear through a secret passageway.

I found that to be humorous because there’s been a story circulating around Lake Havasu City for many years, about Don flying his helicopter to a car show here in town, and landing on the golf course where all of the vehicles were parked. Dust, dirt, and debris went everywhere. Supposedly, he graciously paid for any damage to the cars and trucks.

Don Laughlin died on October 22, 2023, and was 92 years old. Laughlin as a city lost a great man, a visionary who was generous with his money in keeping the town alive. He did so many things where charity is concerned, that it’d take a book to list them all.

Just recently, we were back in Laughlin to visit his museum and grab a bite to eat. A longtime employee of one of the Laughlin businesses, who wishes to remain anonymous, told Joleen and me that Don still lived in the penthouse suite above the Riverside. With that bizarre statement being said and knowing that Don was deceased—we both raised our eyebrows.

The fellow then went on to explain that Don Laughlin made plans to have his body cryogenically frozen years before his death. Evidently, the wish was followed through by family members. He finished things off by saying, unconfirmed rumors had it that Don’s frozen remains were returned to Laughlin and now reside within the top floor of the casino.

I checked things out, finding that Don had been frozen as the fellow claimed. For rich folks having that process done, they do so in hopes somewhere down the road scientists will be able to bring them back to life. As a Christian, I know that isn’t possible using cryogenics alone. As far as the location of Laughlin’s body goes, I couldn’t substantiate that rumor.

In the forty-ninth state, there’s a special dessert called Baked Alaska. It consists of cake and ice cream. By following a prescribed recipe, the combination is baked in an oven without any ice cream melting. From a layman’s perspective, that’s how I view this cryogenic experiment.

Should scientists ever revive one of these frozen corpses, I suppose the first thing Don Laughlin would do after waking, besides grabbing a cup of hot coffee, would be to walk outside his casino for a blast of desert air.

Having aching bones myself whenever I get cold, a dose of Arizona or Nevada desert heat makes them hurt much less. I can only imagine how rejuvenated Don will feel after doing the same, with Baked Laughlin instantly coming to mind!