Author: michaeldexterhankins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holding onto words that teach me.”

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

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

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

2000

For many years, each time my family visited Lake Havasu City, we always made sure to take in not only the London Bridge, but the English Village underneath it. Our kids loved going there because there were activities they could take part in, such as a vintage merry-go-round, paddle boats, shooting gallery, including several shops offering tee-shirts and unusual collectibles for youngsters.

They seemed to like feeding fish and birds best of all, as a sidewalk vending machine offered a handful of fish food for a quarter. My favorite stop was what I called, “Piccadilly Lily.” A chocolate malt from this establishment was my drink of choice on hot Havasu days.

The former London, England, double-decker bus, Piccadilly Lily had been turned into a sort of Café on wheels. It actually didn’t move and was safely grounded. We could get an array of cold treats there including perhaps the best milkshakes and malts in town. They also offered burgers and hotdogs.

There came a time when we visited and the business was not open. Thinking perhaps it was a temporary thing, the next year we returned finding the same. Asking around, I was told the establishment would most likely never reopen. Sadly, the merry-go-round had met the same fate a few years earlier, and was sold to an out of state buyer. That carnival like attraction was a memorable part of Lake Havasu City, especially for our kids.

I’m not sure where Piccadilly Lily is now, but it’s not to be confused with another double-decker formerly owned by Gary Baumkirshner of McCulloch Realty. This one is similar, but I believe in not as good a shape back then. I recall seeing it parked in front of the real estate office.

An article published by “RiverScene Magazine” in 2019, mentioned that the McCulloch Realty bus had been purchased by Scott Stocking, owner of Mudshark Brewery. The magazine mentioned that Mr. Stocking was having it restored by a good friend of his, Richard Perkins. I haven’t caught glimpse of it on the road so perhaps restoration is still underway. Scott Stocking lives close by, so perhaps someday I’ll have the opportunity to ask him.

As far as Piccadilly Lily goes, hopefully it too met a similar fate as the Baumkirshner bus and wasn’t relegated to the scrap pile. Although these two double-decker buses aren’t true artifacts where age is concerned, they are significant antiques in their own right. I always think of how much fun it must’ve been driving them here.

I came across a photo of my wife and I standing in front of Piccadilly Lily taken around 2000. I believe this is the last time we found it open for business. The photo isn’t date stamped so it could’ve been much later.

Joleen found a 17-year-old newspaper article, showing that Piccadilly Lily was hauled out of the English Village in 2007 by Steve’s Towing and possibly taken to the Yucca area, and then was to be towed to Bremerton, Washington, for restoration.

According to this archived story printed in “Today’s News-Herald,” and written by reporter David Bell, the bus’s new owner, Christopher Massey of Yucca, indicated that restoration plans might be put on hold soon after he took possession of it.

Further research was done on our part, with a drive to Yucca just completed. If Piccadilly Lily is lurking amongst the shadows in that sleepy desert oasis, as tall as she is, I didn’t spot the old gal. I’m sure someone out there knows the rest of this story, and hopefully it has a happy ending.

It was either 1985 or 1986, that I was driving my family to Lake Havasu City, from Wickenburg, Arizona, on a much-needed vacation. We’d left Phoenix late in the afternoon, and then spent the night in Wickenburg after a giant thunderstorm hit. I didn’t want to take any chances with flooded roads in the area. Never in my life had I seen or heard so much fury from a storm—not even in Kansas.

Driving through Salome the next morning, I noticed a sign painted on side of a building saying, “Salome, Where She Danced.” Not having a clue what that meant, and not knowing who “she” referred to, I too was at the point of dancing after consuming several cups of coffee.

Researching the town of Salome, when we returned home to Alaska, I found the historical information quite interesting. It was a gas and watering stop for travelers back in the day. Another name for this place was Drinkmens Wells. That fictitious namesake came from a 1945 movie titled, “Salome, Where She Danced,” starring Yvonne DeCarlo.

Salome was factually named after one of the founder’s wives, Grace Salome Pratt. Supposedly, she danced after trying to walk across hot sand in bare feet. I know that feeling as well from a popular beach in Florida.

Just a few miles west of Salome, we came to the US 60-70 Café and Truckstop. Stopping to take some photos of the now boarded up place, a door was unlocked. I cautiously walked in with camera in hand. The exterior and interior hadn’t been graffitied up like so many other abandoned dwellings in and around Phoenix. Not considering it to be trespassing, although I was, my intent was to simply document things for posterity’s sake. I’m glad I did.

Slowly taking in the surroundings while on the lookout for snakes and other creepy crawlers, I noticed the counter was totally intact along with some tables still being useable. One of them was turned upside down, and I could see small blobs of ABC gum still dotting the underside of it. ABC gum for those not knowing is: already been chewed gum.

As a child, Mom used to scold me whenever I stuck my hands underneath a restaurant table, knowing better than me what lurked on the dark side of things. I believe this constant lecture on her part all started, when I removed a blob of hardened gum and brought it topside for show-n-tell.

The inside of this café was pretty much intact, and with a good amount of elbow grease and dollars, it could’ve easily been saved. I wrote a poem about the mysterious place and still have it tucked away in a filing cabinet.

Looking the business name up on http://www.newspapers.com, several “help wanted” ads were found as well as a slew of advertisements listing the property for sale. Thirty acres of vacant land went with the building. For a person wanting to work there, one of the ads showed that an apartment was provided.

A 1961 edition of, “The Yuma Daily Sun” newspaper article told a sad story regarding one of the workers. The article started out like this, “Waitress Dies At Salome Café – Eva Edith Momsen, age 58, employee of US 60-70 Café in Salome, died of an apparent heart attack while on the job.”

The following year when we drove back through, with me hoping to snap even more shots, there was nothing left of the place other than concrete where gas and diesel pumps once stood. We actually rolled right on past that morning, and it wasn’t until backtracking that I rediscovered the location.

There’ve been several other buildings I took photos of over the years that are no longer standing. The Riverboat Saloon on the California side of the Colorado is one such establishment. It was loaded with graffiti in the 1990s, and I got the chills just stopping there for a few minutes to take a few pictures.

A former California Highway Patrol officer told me that place was a real haven for criminals back in the day. Judging by location and how this decaying building looked when I last saw it, I understand why.

Quickly darting in this decrepit tavern, I glanced under the shattered remnants of a bar, spotting hardened blobs of gum attached to it like in the US 60-70 Café. Not forgetting any of this, and needing slightly more material for this composition, just recently I decided to research chewing gum as the finishing touch.

In a nutshell, this is what I discovered in an article written from a totally “green” perspective. The information came from an Aspiration newsletter. Aspiration is a climate-change-based, online financial investment company. I didn’t even know there was such an institution until now.

Chewing gum is basically non-biodegradable. A piece of discarded gum can last anywhere from 5 – 1000 years. Most chewing gum products are made from inorganic polyisobutylene, or polyvinyl acetate rubber bases, which are both resistant to biological breakdown processes.

These are the same materials used to make adhesives and tire tubes. They’re designed to be long-lasting for heavy-duty use. That’s why so much chewing gum exists on our sidewalks, benches, and lampposts for months, even years, with very little change in form. In Denmark, a piece of gum chewed some 5700 years ago was discovered during an archaeological dig. The article came to the conclusion that we shouldn’t be chewing gum for health and ecological reasons.

That explains to me why ABC gum in these two businesses remained there years after they’d closed down. According to the same article, 250,000 tons of discarded chewing gum lie in our landfills.

So, what does this all mean to me? I’ve been chewing gum for ages and don’t plan to stop. I chewed gum in school going back to the day when some teachers forbid it. Now, with other more violent things taxing a teacher’s state of mind these days, we don’t hear about gum chewing being condemned anymore.

Offer me some and I’ll take a stick—just make sure it isn’t ABC. I learned not to accept that flavor going back to first grade, perhaps earlier. There are several places to responsibly dispose of chewed gum. Under a restaurant table or on the sidewalk isn’t one of them.

Once all flavor is gone, I generally swallow the remnants. There’s no telling where it will end up after this takes place (pun intended). Getting rid of it this way is more environmentally friendly than sending spent gum to a landfill. Can you see I’m trying to save the planet here?

I didn’t think so!

This blog marks number 400. It’s taken me 15 years to obtain the goal if you can even call it that. I had no particular number in mind when starting, hoping to at least reach 100. The total amount of words of all 400 compositions is 343,021.

In comparison, the exact number of words in the KJV Holy Bible is 783,137. I’m not even halfway to that point. It took several people a period of some 1500 years to complete things for that book. Taking this into consideration, I’m not typing as slow as I think I am.

People in 88 countries have looked at my blog, with over 34,948 reader’s total. That’s hard to imagine and one of the main reasons I’m careful on what I write about.

On the average, it takes me three hours to compose a decent piece. That time includes numerous proofreads and corrections. Taking 400 and multiplying by 3, of course, comes out to 1200 hours total. That in itself equates to 50 days of writing over 15 years if I sat at the keyboard nonstop—24 hours a day. Being that I can’t do it, three-hour days at the computer comes to 400 days, or a little over a year.

From a mechanic’s perspective, normally, it takes me around 3 hours to do a full brake job on American vehicles, that is if I have the parts on hand. Using that number as a guideline and taking the 1200 hours of writing and dividing by 3, I could’ve theoretically performed 400 brake jobs over the past 15 years.

The last brake job, I charged a person $100.  Taking that amount and multiplying by 400 equals $40,000.00. Of course, had I done brake jobs over a decade and a half instead of writing, all of that money in my hands would most likely be gone. I’m thinking if I had that cash now, a Can-Am Maverick X3 RC SXS would be nice, decked out of course.

What I have instead, are 400 different stories. Unfortunately, none of them can be taken to McDonald’s and traded for a cup of coffee.

If I want to reach the number of words in the Bible, I still need to write an additional 440,116. At the rate I plodded along to reach 343,021, it’ll take me another 17 years to reach that goal. I’ll be 89 if I make it. Being that I’m not doing brake jobs anymore, writing seems like the venue to best spend my time. Some seniors paint, do puzzles, beadwork, crochet, or watch TV, but that’s not for me.

If writing keeps me upright—then it’ll be well worth continuing. Perhaps by the time I decide to hang it up, I’ll get one right where spelling and punctuation are concerned!

Someone asked me today if I saw the solar eclipse on April 8. Technically, I was outside looking skyward, yet clouds obscured anything remotely resembling a sun or moon. How was I to answer that question other than, “I tried.”

I’m not one to get excited about such rare celestial occurrences anyway. Researching how many partial and full, lunar and solar eclipses that have taken place since my birth, there’ve been 312, or 4.457 for every year of my life.

A song sung by Roy Hawkins in 1951, titled, “The Thrill is gone.,” immediately comes to mind.  The late blues musician B.B. King sings it best. Lyrics go like this,

“The thrill is gone

It’s gone for good

All the thrill is gone

Baby, it’s gone for good.”

I’m not positive this song meaning relates to watching too many eclipses, but it does for me. Whenever I hear that another eclipse is on the way, it generally goes in one ear and out the other. There’s one exception to this star gazing, and that’s to see Halley’s Comet when it once again passes over earth.

The last time that happened was in 1986, and I was in Alaska. With the skies there being cloudy a good portion of time, I can’t remember if I saw it or not, but it’s highly likely I was outside looking up. I’m not so sure I would’ve even known what it looked like had I saw it. According to NASA, there are over 3,800 comets in our solar system.

Halley’s Comet is set to appear over our planet once again in 2061. Hopefully, I’ll be prepared this time and there’ll be no clouds to hinder observation. Telling my wife this, she said that if I do catch a glimpse, it’ll be from a totally different perspective. That comment took a couple of seconds for me to comprehend.

Yes, she’s right—unless I make it to 107. If not, I’ll be looking down at things instead of up. Fortunately, a person won’t end up with a kinked neck while doing so.

This is the day I turn 70, or the “Platinum Jubilee” as it’s referred to by Grey Poupon users. A big deal to me because of so many things, especially knowing various friends and family didn’t make it this far. No birthday bash or party extravaganza planned. The day will be spent with Joleen and me taking a short hike in the desert and then lunch at Red Robin, only because I have a free burger coming from them. I thank God for so many blessings along the way, especially a loving wife, supportive family, and faithful friends.

STILL KICKIN’

That boy’s still kickin’.

But, not quite as high.

Gait’s a bit slower.

Help needed for eyes.

***

Loved ones departed.

Pets did just the same.

He just keeps walking,

In fear of goin’ lame.

***

Still makin’ memories.

Dexter boots in the sand.

Out hiking vast desert.

With crimson suntan.

***

It’s better to be pokey,

As long as you can.

Than starin’ out windows.

Unable to stand.

***

Happy Birthday, Michael.

Some folks will soon say.

Yet, each waking morning,

Is reason to celebrate.

***

That boy’s still kickin’.

More sunsets to watch.

Keep movin’ forward.

You ancient, Sasquatch!”

Ecclesiastes 9:11