Author: michaeldexterhankins

It’s been almost 20 years since I woke up early one morning, stuck a toothbrush in my mouth and quickly discovered something wasn’t right. Looking in the mirror, I saw that the left side of my face was drooping like crazy. The left eye sagged as well. Speech was slurred like a drunk person with drool coming out of my mouth uncontrollably.

A quick trip to the doctor with him running several tests, confirmed that I was fortunate it was only Bell’s palsy (BP) and not a stroke or Cerebral palsy (CP). I’d never heard of the ailment, with Doctor Meinhardt in Anchorage, Alaska, saying it’s quite rare. Research shows that approximately 40,000 people a year get the BP nerve disorder.

Hopkins medical website lists the following about this malady: Bell’s palsy is an unexplained episode of facial muscle weakness or paralysis. It begins suddenly and worsens over 48 hours. This condition results from damage to the facial nerve (the 7th cranial nerve). Pain and discomfort usually occur on one side of the face or head.

Bell’s palsy can strike anyone at any age. It occurs most often in pregnant women, and people who have diabetes, influenza, a cold, or another upper respiratory ailment. Bell’s palsy affects men and women equally. It is less common before age 15 or after age 60.

Bell’s palsy is not considered permanent, but in rare cases, it does not disappear. Currently, there is no known cure for Bell’s palsy; however, recovery usually begins 2 weeks to 6 months from the onset of the symptoms. Most people with Bell’s palsy recover full facial strength and expression.

Back to work two days later, co-workers noticed things were askew the moment I hit the building. I’d been prescribed a high dose of prednisone which made my face swell up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Extra weight followed. Telling them that I had Bell’s Palsy—a couple of guys wondered right away if it was something they’d catch.

I quickly made a sign and taped it outside my office door saying: Come On In – I’m Not Contagious! A smiley face was added to try and inject some humor into the ordeal. Deep inside though, I wondered if I’d be like this forever, asking God more than once, “Why me?” I did all I could to stay out of the public eye.

Timing couldn’t have been worse because I was slated to make a commercial for the local Anchorage Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep dealership that week. A co-worker, Ralph Gorder, and I promised an advertising firm that we’d go on camera with our recently purchased Hemi Ram trucks. With me wanting to back out, Ralph was disappointed, saying that he wouldn’t go it alone.

Chuck Talsky, the owner of the advertising firm reassured me that camera angle would take care of any unusual extremities. Hearing that, I agreed, making Ralph happy. A few days after our “gig” was filmed, the commercial ran and I quickly saw that camera angle didn’t solve all of the problem.

Friends viewing the ad started calling the house immediately afterwards asking what was wrong with my face and voice. Ralph on the other hand, he came across cool and calm. My coworker jokingly remarked that the video made him a movie star with his pals and family.

The commercial ran for at least a year. Each time it aired I refused to watch feeling total embarrassment. My Bell’s palsy symptoms eventually went away except for a pronounced crooked smile. One side of my lips refused to totally cooperate—a moustache and beard now help cover up that anomality.

I always hoped the commercial remained buried forever, yet somehow my son came across a copy and brought it over for Thanksgiving. I was finally able to watch and chuckle unlike previous years.

On occasion, I come cross someone with a drooping lip or cheek believing that they too incurred Bell’s Palsy in their life. Out of privacy and rudeness I never ask. Actor George Clooney suffered a bout yet it didn’t hurt his looks or smile one iota.

The other day, I walked into a grocery store on McCulloch Boulevard and a person shopping there undoubtedly had Cerebral Palsy. Unlike Bell’s Palsy, CP remains with a person until death.

I’ve come across a couple of folks over the years having CP—all of them overachievers in spite of such. My son’s mother-in-law, Simone Robertson was born with it. She had more energy and courage than most people I know. It wasn’t out of the norm for Simone to drive halfway across the country by herself to visit friends and family. She did this up until succumbing from complications of dementia at age 75.

David Ring is an evangelist and motivational speaker having CP. His unusual way of talking and moving does not prevent him from getting a strong message across. To this day David still jokes about his malady. There’s quite a list of highly successful people having Cerebral palsy, with Anne McDonald (author), Dan Keplinger (screenwriter), Josh Blue (comedian), Nicolas Hamilton (racecar driver), and Stephen Hawking (theoretical physicist) being just a few.

Early on, I was one of those people that after noticing someone talking or walking strange, I immediately felt sorry for them, wondering why God would allow this to happen. Now looking back on things, I believe he picked certain people because of their strength. Not everyone can go through life, enduring constant stares and behind-the-back whispers, yet still leave a positive influence on those around them.

Unlike me, who wanted to remained hidden during my Bell’s palsy episode, most of the folks having Cerebral palsy are out and about, living their lives with zest to the fullest. To them, a bout with Bell’s palsy would be no more than a Sunday walk in the park!

Christmas is near, which always reminds me of my mother’s decorated sugar cookies and milk, and Jesus’ birth, of course. Mom would leave a freshly baked cookie and small glass of milk on the coffee table for Santa. When my brother and I woke up Christmas morning, a bite would be taken from this cookie, with the milk long gone.

Jim always made it a point to polish the cookie off, mostly because I had and still have this thing about eating after someone else has touched things. Heaven only knows where Santa’s hands had been. Mom’s cookies were the greatest, but the longer they remained uneaten the harder they got.

I’ve come across some tough cookies in my life and I’m not talking about sweet ones. Steve Leffel was a co-worker at a grocery store in Eagle River, Alaska, and a WWII veteran. He’d been a British Commando during the war—and even at 60—wasn’t a person you’d want to get on the wrong side of. Not big in stature, Steve was solid as a rock.

I was eating lunch one day with a group of other adolescent workers when a beautiful young lady walked into the café. One of the box boys made a crude sexual remark about the gal, and before he’d finished his crusty statement, Steve Leffel’s hand reached out and slapped him silly upside the cheek.

Turns out the girl was Steve’s granddaughter. I’d never seen anyone move so fast and neither did the box boy. Undoubtedly, the young man was taught a lesson that day about verbally demeaning females and rightly so. Steve was a real gentleman in that sense and expected other guys to follow suit.

The Anchorage Times newspaper in the early 1970s reported that Steve and his son, Lance, were accosted by a trio of Alaska Railroad personnel in Healy, Alaska. Over the years I heard this story many times from various people and know it’s true.

The railroad men, big and burly, made a bad decision to pick a fight with the Leffels, ending up in a hospital with numerous lacerations and several broken bones afterwards.

Lance Leffel had been a US Army Green Beret having served in Vietnam before being discharged, and was no rookie where martial arts is concerned. Neither of the Leffel’s were bullies, and to meet them on the street you’d never know of their military training, as they never talked about it unless asked. Even then, they’d only say so much. Steve and Lance earn the title, “tough cookie” for their physical attributes.

Kurt Rogers is another tough cookie. I worked with Kurt during my tenure with the State of Alaska as a mechanic. Kurt was severely burned when a fuel tank exploded, with my friend crediting his survival to the Good Lord watching over him. A shop door was unlocked and the blast blew him outside the building. Had that garage door been locked as it often was he would’ve perished.

Rogers was burned over 70 percent of his body, with face and arms suffering the most damage. After countless painful skin grafts he eventually came back to work. Always having a sense of humor, Kurt often mentioned that he’d not win any more Mr. America titles.

I bestow the tough cookie award to him for his strength and determination to recover against impossible odds. His fighting skills were much different than Steve and Lance Leffels, yet just as significant.

John Ballard is a tough cookie. I worked alongside him here in Lake Havasu City for a good many years. Although he was several years older, I couldn’t keep pace. John would work from sunup to quitting time, and then head off to play several games of ping pong. He was like the Energizer Bunny. His work ethic and stamina were beyond reproach.

Me, on the other hand, I’d go to bed soon after eating knowing that come morning, John would be back at it eager for another day’s accomplishment. Unfortunately, mesothelioma took John way too early.

Bill Lowe is the final tough cookie out of five and he’s also a good friend of mine. I met Bill at East Anchorage High, where he was a standout athlete, especially in track and field. Bill set the Alaska high school record in 1972 at 12 foot – 9 inches. I believe this record still stands.

That same summer after graduating, Bill was mining for gold with another friend, Mike Kelly, on Gulch Creek near Hope, Alaska. Mike fell into the swift moving water and Bill jumped in to try and save him. Unfortunately, Mike Kelly hit his head on a rock and was knocked unconscious. Sadly, he drowned.

I was in Hope that day with another pal, Jeff Thimsen. We saw the ambulance and police cars and didn’t find out what happened until returning home. I’m told that accident bothered Bill the rest of his life and he rarely talked about it. I believe it played a big part in his ultimate life decision to become a believer in Jesus Christ. His wife’s death just a few years back from cancer might’ve also had something to do with it.

Throughout Bill’s life he worked many interesting jobs, early on, a bouncer at several rough and tumble nightclubs in Anchorage, Alaska. The forty ninth state was like the wild west during the Alaska pipeline years, with Bill saying that he incurred a fair number of fights trying to toss unruly patrons out of certain establishments.

Afterwards, he worked the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay and also on Amchitka Island in the Aleutian Chain—this after three atomic bombs had been detonated there. Bill believes that particular job is the one that permanently damaged both of his lungs, to the extent that he needed a double lung transplant some forty years later.

Bill underwent this risky procedure in 2018 at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and just recently celebrated five years of success. Never one to back down or admit defeat, my friend reopened his antique store during this time, constructed a log cabin, and hoped to return to gold mining. He wasn’t going to let “anything” deter future goals. That was our East High motto: “Future Goals We Will Pursue – Senior Class Of ’72.”

His plans were to someday travel to Lake Havasu City with his son, William Jr., and visit his cousin, Kathy, and her husband, Dean, as well as stop by our place. Unfortunately, that’ll never happen as Bill unexpectedly passed away on November 15.

All of them believers, Steve, Lance, Kurt, John, and Bill, are now gone. These are some of the toughest cookies I’ve ever come in contact with. It’s reassuring to me in knowing that I’ll see them again in due time.

Hopefully, the same can be said for all of my friends and family!

Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching and our Butterball turkey’s still safe in the freezer. I just recently named him Tom. He’s been there since 2020, and will remain that way through 2023.

It’s not that my wife and I have become vegan or anything of the like, nor bow to the wishes of PETA (people for the ethical treatment of animals.) These folks are against Thanksgiving dinner where any kind of meat is served.

Our reason for not baking Tom has nothing to do with either. I calculated a couple of years ago that going out to eat for Thanksgiving was far cheaper than staying at home.

Not only do food items cost significantly more because of record breaking inflation, but combine that with the work involved in making a big meal quickly adds up. With the minimum wage here in Arizona $13.85 an hour, and calculating that it takes my wife a good six hours to prepare everything, including setting the table, her labor alone amounts to $83.10. That doesn’t include the electricity used for oven or stove.

My estimate for cost of a turkey and ham, sweet yams—no Thanksgiving dinner is complete without marshmallow covered sweet yams—green bean casserole with French onions on top, several packets of McCormick brown gravy, four large Yukon potatoes, a pack of Wonder brand Brown-n-Serve rolls, box of Kraft brand Stove Top stuffing, Dole salad mix, and an exquisite Patti LaBelle pecan pie from Walmart for dessert, complete with Reddi whip topping from a refrigerated spray can, easily tops $100.

Our preferred drink for Thanksgiving is several bottles of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider at $2.99 a bottle. Four bottles is approximately $12. The total for all required food and drink items is $112. Combined with labor for cooking the stuff we’re now up to $195.10 yet the real kicker’s still to come.

I’m the designated dishwasher, and since our GE dishwasher is temporarily out of commission, my fee for washing dishes is not much out of line with what a struggling dentist, realtor, lawyer, or plumber makes hourly on a slow day. I’d say that $150 is a good number. Split that in half because it’ll only take me 30 minutes to wash silverware, plates, pots, and pans. That brings the total up to $270.10 for a stay-home Thanksgiving meal.

This year, we’ll be going out once again and spend far less for a scrumptious smorgasbord at Shugrue’s, enjoying much more food than what Joleen would even care to make. Afterwards, washing dishes will be taken care of by someone else which takes a load off my aching shoulders. A good accountant would say that numbers alone dictate eating out is the best route to follow. There’s one additional thing worth mentioning about Turkey Day.

On Thanksgiving, President Biden will once again pardon some poor turkey, giving the bird a reprieve from someone’s dinner table. In a way, we’ve done the same for our 12 pound frozen gobbler. Unless Joleen decides to eventually clean the freezer out, it appears Tom will be safe for years to come.

I have to assume that PETA will be especially happy with this decision.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Arizona is home to some humongous tumbleweeds. Watch any old western movie, and you’ll generally spot a few in each one, most of them rolling through deserted ghost towns. When my brother was young and we lived in Alabama, Jimmy wanted one for our room. He never came across any tumbleweeds living in Selma, thus his dream remained an empty one.

Many people seem to believe that tumbleweeds are native to North America. I did too until taking the time to read up on them. It turns out they came to this part of the world from the Ukraine in Russia, most likely in bags of flax seed. This took place around 1880. An invasive species of thistle, it didn’t take long before they were tumbling across the deserts of Arizona, tossing out free seeds like Santa does candy canes at Christmas.

The botanical name for tumbleweeds is Salsola tragus. Prickly Russian thistle is another. Other names used especially by farmers and ranchers are unprintable. Some folks are allergic to just touching them and I recently found that out. Much like poison ivy or poison oak, bubbly and painful bumps cover my exposed legs and arms after encountering a renegade band of the thistles. Calamine lotion is now helping sooth and take care of the itch and discomfort.

We were driving on I-40 two years ago, coming back from Laughlin, when a giant tumbleweed seemingly came out of nowhere sailing across the road, this enormous weed propelled solely by Maria. For those not grasping that last line, a song titled, “They Call the Wind Maria,” by Harve Presnell, became a top hit in 1969 after its release. Just for grins, I’ve called the wind Maria ever since. Maria and tumbleweeds go hand in hand.

My reflexes that evening on the interstate weren’t the same as they once were, thus I hit the tumbleweed head on with our Dodge pickup. Looking in the rearview mirror, all that remained was straw and dust, as the impact totally obliterated things. I thought my nice glossy paint would be scratched up, but after pulling off the road and taking a look, I didn’t find one blemish. Ram tough came through once again.

Living right next to BLM property here in Lake Havasu City, rogue tumbleweeds show up in our yard uninvited from time to time, especially during winter when Maria is prevalent. I’ve sent them on their way with a swift kick, yet most of the time their journey ends here.

A well-used snow shovel from our Alaska years and brought to Lake Havasu City as a souvenir now comes in quite handy dealing with these unwanted visitors.

The large and heavy tool works great for snuffing out dried and brittle ones. I use it to smack them silly. They basically disintegrate after a couple of good solid hits. Pre-emergent herbicide takes care of any seeds left behind, keeping them from sprouting. Quite often, my flame thrower comes out of hibernation to cremate them. That’s what I call our large propane weed burner.

A local insect and herbicide company employee says there’s not much you can do to keep tumble weeds from growing, other than pull them out of the ground while still alive and let them die. As mentioned, use a pre-emergent herbicide to keep seeds from germinating. He said the biggest weeds need to be removed for this chemical to work as intended.

Joleen and I have a piece of vacant property in Kingman that tumbleweeds love to take up residence on. They’ve become squatters, moving in without asking permission. Most likely, they see our lot as a safe sanctuary much like San Francisco does with certain people.

During summer they appear, and then come late fall or winter they disappear. Exactly where do they go? I suppose all different directions depending on Maria’s choosing. This is part of their life cycle and they’ll keep tumbling until totally falling apart. Studies show tumbleweeds can travel several miles before disintegrating as long as nothing gets in the way, like walls, fences, or Dodge pickups.

Tumbleweeds aren’t all bad. In the western movie, Conagher, starring Sam Elliot and Katherine Ross, the part that Ms. Ross plays is of a widow (Evie Teale) living by herself in the wilds trying to raise two children.

In desperation, she places poetic notes into tumbleweeds and turns them loose. Conn Conagher (Sam Elliot) finds several of the messages and eventually discovers who wrote them. Of course, it has a happy ending. This is one of my wife’s favorite movies for that reason alone.

Just recently, I was trying to annihilate a few tumbleweeds on our Kingman lot so that several gallons of Ortho Groundclear would penetrate into the roots. A gentleman living next door came over and was inquisitive about such, curiously wondering what I was doing to begin with, and what was I going to do with the removed vegetation. I had them stacked in a corner of our property. His concern was that they’d end up in his yard once Maria made her presence.

This subdivision is in Cerbat Canyon and the surrounding acreage is inundated with tumbleweeds, kazillions of them, everywhere. After dying, they can be spotted rolling down the street, ending up in yards, and eventually the golf course. That’s how our property and other barren ground on the hill got infested with seeds. Officially, this infestation of weeds comes under the heading: an act of nature.

Standing out front of our property that morning, sweating like a wart hog, perspiration coming down like rain after cutting a swath into the lot by hand, I started feeling the burn and itch of coming in close contact with these spiny creatures. My back was aching as well.

After being asked what was I going to do with them, I had to stand there and think for several seconds before silently chuckling to myself. It reminded me of something told to me four years ago by a good friend.

Jim Brownfield mentioned to me when I asked what his plans were for the weekend, “I’m going to free Willy!” I wasn’t totally quite sure what he meant by that statement. Knowing that Free Willy was the name of a movie about a trapped whale, I wondered if he liked the film so much, that he planned on watching it marathon style. Seeing my puzzled state of mind, Jim explained things further.

He planned to cut some dead brush at the back wall of his home, and cleverly, Jim named all of the tumbleweeds, Willy.  By severing the roots that bound Willy to the soil, Jim said freeing them was the righteous thing to do. I informed him of my snow shovel trick, but he didn’t want to put forth that much energy where work was concerned. Being retired myself, I know the feeling.

Walking over to watch, it wasn’t long before a brisk northerly breeze started a few of of his freed tumbleweeds on their pilgrimage to freedom. Borrowing a line from the movie, Forrest Gump, and changing wording just a bit, I couldn’t help but jokingly call out to the lead weed, “Run Willy Run!”

If someone should ever inquire as to what direction a herd of freed tumbleweeds go once they stampede, Maria is the only one knowing the answer. One thing I’ve noticed during my 69 years, much like several women I’m acquainted with, Maria’s plans can suddenly change at any given moment.

I was raised by a father and mother that took no “guff” from me or my brother while growing up. That unusual word was one of their favorites, although you hardly hear it anymore.

To this day, I’m not totally sure what my parent’s definition of guff was, yet I heard the warning numerous times—generally followed by a swat to the hiney. The Collins Dictionary definition for guff is: nonsense, rubbish, malarkey, or bull.

Their lesson eventually rubbed off on me. As I grew older, I decided not to take guff from anyone, with it backfiring on numerous occasions. I’ll bring to light one memorable event.

The year was 1973 and I was 19. Jeff Thimsen, my new girlfriend, Joleen Freeman, and me were sitting in my 1968 Dodge Charger enjoying a box of Fudgesicles. It was a hot Saturday afternoon in Anchorage, Alaska, a sweltering 75 degrees.

The frozen treats on wood sticks were a welcome delight as this vehicle had no air conditioner. With a half-dozen Fudgesicles in a cardboard container, it was taking us some time to eat them all without getting brain freeze. The chocolate was starting to melt making things even worse.

My F8 green Dodge musclecar was parked in a medical facility parking lot across from the Long’s Drug Store on Northern Lights Boulevard. This professional building was closed on weekends and the lot was empty. Jeff and I had parked there before to eat our corndogs and mustard purchased from Andy’s Caramel Corn, located in the Sear’s Mall.

Having our windows down, a man in a Loomis Security car suddenly appeared, claiming that we had to vacate the premises. Looking around for No Parking signs and seeing none, I politely asked, “Why?”

In questioning his authority, that’s all it took for the guy to go on a rant, saying once again, that the lot was closed, and he had strict orders to make sure no one parked there. I took what he said as pure guff, replying back with guff of my own, “We’ll leave as soon as we’ve finished our Fudgesicles!”

The security employee stood beside my door for a short while, muttering stuff that me and the others couldn’t hear. All of our windows were up at this time. When he finally stormed away, Jeff, Joleen, and I figured that was the end of it.

A couple of minutes went by before four Anchorage Police Department vehicles came roaring up with lights and sirens. Evidently, the Loomis agent called them, saying there were three teenagers in the parking lot doing drugs and refused to leave when asked. When I began giving one older APD officer some guff about there being no posted signs, things quickly escalated for the worse.

We were ordered to step out of the vehicle, frisked, handcuffed, and taken to the city jail where fingerprints were taken. I’m sure my car was searched after we departed, with police most likely looking for drugs or alcohol, although none of us ever used this stuff.

Joleen was led to a separate room while Jeff and I were taken to the main holding cell. There was one other occupant inside it besides us. This man had been arrested for soliciting a female undercover officer posing as a prostitute, and the somber guy actually admitted such to us for whatever reason, perhaps other than guilt.

Jeff and I spent an hour behind those steel bars singing songs and laughing while having a grand old time. We didn’t take things serious at all believing this was just a big joke. Some of the jail personnel got a few grins from us being so jovial in a not so jovial locale.

Bail was set at $50 each, with us guys having no money, thus Joleen picked up the tab, writing them a check. She didn’t see any humor out of the ordeal, and to this day still doesn’t.

To make a long story short, our city appointed public defender laughed at the “loitering” charges brought against us, and the district attorney dropped the case like a hot potato, wondering why police officers went to so much trouble over nothing.

We were told later on by another cop, they were most likely trying to make an example out of us, especially me. Having long hair, owning a fast car, and fitting the stereotype of a stoner aligned perfectly with some police back then. My tossing out a trifle amount of retaliatory guff evidently didn’t help matters.

The following Saturday, we drove by that parking lot, spotting newly installed, red and white No Parking signs on several light poles. The small writing underneath said this policy was intended for Saturdays and Sundays. Had those signs been there to begin with, I wouldn’t be writing this story.

Flash ahead fifty years to a recent Tuesday afternoon. After spending the morning cutting heavy brush on a vacant lot in Kingman, and being totally spent of energy, I stopped at the Kingman In-N-Out and ordered myself a burger and vanilla shake. I’ve done this countless times over the years, always driving and parking outside the entrance to the Chrysler Proving Grounds to eat.

Sitting there peacefully enjoying my food, I decided to snap a few photos of our Jeep Grand Cherokee before leaving, with a Stellantis Proving Grounds sign in the background. The Stellantis group are the ones having purchased Chrysler in 2021. No sooner had I taken three digital pictures, a man dressed in a fluorescent yellow security jacket walked up—demanding to know what I was doing.

“Sir, I Just finished an In-N-Out cheeseburger with extra grilled onions and tomatoes. You should try one fixed this way because they’re delicious!”

Ignoring my pleasantry, he quickly inquired about the camera, with me telling him I’d just taken photos of my Jeep purchased through Anderson Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep in Lake Havasu City. At that point, the fellow ordered me to delete all images, saying that I couldn’t have them. By this time another security agent rolled up in his car echoing the same.

I thought about giving them guff in return, but having a flashback to 1973, and what would undoubtedly happen afterwards if I did so made me bite my tongue. The two guards somewhat apologized before leaving saying that they were only doing their job.

During the drive home from Yucca, I couldn’t help but chuckle and think Déjà Vu had just taken place. The only difference being, that first incident in 1973 involved no signs and this one involved one sign. All I needed to complete the scene was for Jeff and Joleen to be with me, plus a box of Fudgsicles.

Telling my wife what transpired after I returned, she could only shake her head, asking why such bizarre stuff always happens to me. I didn’t have an answer, with her candidly replying that I’d been a trouble magnet for her since day one.

As far as those deleted photos go, it took about two minutes with a simple computer program to retrieve them from trash—so all was good.

Looking back on things, it appears putting the cuffs on guff that day was the wise thing for me to do!

A DeWalt cordless drill I own has a meter showing how much battery life remains before it’s dead. Sometimes it shows none, yet still has a few sparks remaining—good for a few more holes. I can then recharge and it’s ready for another two or three hours use. I suppose this would be called “life cycle” or “lifecycle” depending on what English teacher you talk to.

Humans don’t have a meter on their heads or arms to show how much time they have remaining and perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I’d handle this, especially if I was out on the road driving and the meter was almost on zero. Should I pull over or try to make it home?

Tim McGraw had a hit tune called, “Live Like You Were Dying” and it somewhat deals with a situation like this, yet in a serious manner.

The song lyrics talk about a man in his middle 40s discovering that he has cancer, with only a short time left to live. When asked what he planned to do during that time, he proceeds to describe a list.

Skydiving, Rocky Mountain climbing, ride an ornery ole bull named Fumanchu, love deeper, speak sweeter, forgive folks that he hadn’t forgiven, be a better husband, a truer friend, including reading The Good Book, which tells me he’s not talking about a Stephen King novel.

My cordless drill, when recharged, is good for a couple more hour’s use. There’s a distinct similarity between people and that tool and I’ll try to explain why in as few words as possible.

What Tim McGraw didn’t say in his song, most likely because he believes that listeners should already know this, is that the end of life isn’t the end to those of us knowing Jesus Christ. Upon acceptance of him as Savior we’re automatically recharged for eternity.

The only way my DeWalt drill will never go dead is if I leave it plugged in all the time. In essence, that’s what Jesus did for my life. He’s like a life extension cord. Once I plugged in to him there’s no turning me off. When I depart this world my soul moves on to another place, Heaven.

Going back to the Tim McGraw tune, what would I do if I knew the end was mere months away?

I’d probably attempt to emulate all of the things mentioned in the lyrics except for skydiving and riding Fumanchu. There’s good reason for this.

Death might be near, but there’s no need to expedite things!

Back in the day, some folks took up smoking just because most everyone else was doing it. For guys, it was looked upon as being cool to have a smoldering cigarette clenched between fingers, or dangling from lips.

Certain fellows would even stick a cigarette over their ear—unlit of course, or roll a pack up in their tee-shirt sleeve to be extra cool. The majority of honest smokers will testify that their lighting up is nothing more than a bad habit, an addictive one at that.

For gals, smoking was supposedly sexy. For whatever reason I never saw things that way. Thankfully, I didn’t date a girl back then that was a nicotine addict. A friend once told me that kissing a girl that smokes is akin to kissing an ashtray. I wouldn’t know because I’ve kissed neither.

People oftentimes inherently adopt the ways of the world. I see younger folks these days doing more vaping over that of smoking. My guess being that they see this as cool, just as the younger generation did of smoking in the 1940s and 1950s.

Not only is it uncool, but I’d say that attempting to drive while looking through a cloud of vapor is downright dangerous. Once again, those continuing to vape have acquired a bad habit, an unhealthy and unsafe one to boot. Smoking and vaping aren’t the only bad habits that people pick up.

Sitting in the phlebotomy lab waiting room the other morning, I looked around at five other people needing their blood drawn, with all of them transfixed on their electronic devices. The only thing I could do to pass time was gaze down at my sandals, wondering if I should buy another pair. There’s significant wear in the soft leather underneath both big toes.

Much like smokers before ‘No Smoking’ signs appeared, I constantly witness folks in public, staring into their devices while walking, jogging, in restaurants, doctors’ offices, baseball and football games, and even driving. Without question, this activity rates up there with smoking and vaping as addictive.

One area in similarity between smokers and device users is lighting up after a meal. Now, instead of cigarettes and cigars, device addicts light up the flat screens on their handheld computers after eating for enjoyment or entertainment.

Just the other evening, I watched a group of five middle-aged hens doing just that as they chatted and sipped on their cocktails. The luminous glow from several smartphones being randomly checked could be seen on occasion, somewhat reminding me of the distinct glow from cigarettes being puffed on. The only thing missing was a bluish haze hovering over their heads.

In the 1930s thru 1940s, some doctors recommended smoking as a form of stress relief, going so far as to appear in advertisements advocating certain brands. It eventually came to light that they were handing out harmful advice.

Certain studies funded by tobacco companies in the 40s and 50’s showed that smoking was basically harmless, and that some brands were safer than others. Of course, the research firms undertaking these tests weren’t being paid to report anything bad.

Our own government did little to prove smoking was deadly, until cancer statistics started rising so fast amongst the smoking crowd that they couldn’t be kept under wraps. It wasn’t until 1957 that the surgeon general put out an official notice, warning of the dangers of tobacco use where certain cancers are concerned.

Telecommunication companies are now trying hard to disprove that radiofrequency Radiation (RF) from smartphones and iPods are harmful to users. The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) is going along with their biased and bogus studies, most likely because of the immense power of telecommunication lobbyists. Mega dollars distributed to government and political leaders are helping fuel that power.

On the other side of the street, private studies performed by scientists and medical experts, show their is a direct correlation between certain cancers and RF energy in rats and mice where overexposure is concerned.

Realizing that our government isn’t to be trusted with policies regarding my health, especially after Covid swept through town, I’ve elected to first pray about things, and then make pertinent decisions based on logic and pure science, instead of what the next politically influenced Dr. Fauci has to say.

Thus far, I’ve decided to forego smartphone or iPod use, just recently grudgingly opting for a compact flip phone instead. Purchased for emergency use only, I never have it on me unless of course I’m in the desert or traveling somewhere, and even then it’s in my backpack.

It appears to me that the world is trying to force people to have these fancy phones, undoubtedly for marketing and tracking reasons. Hey, they’re even giving them to those folks crossing the border. The abbreviation “app” is synonymous with smartphone.

As a Christian, I believe this phone craze is somewhat reminiscent of the Biblical, ‘Mark of the Beast’. There may come a day when all people are required to have the infamous app when purchasing certain items, namely food. I’ll leave the bulk of that controversial thought for theologians.

Monday morning while in a local grocery store, I spotted avocados on sale for .59 cents each. The limit was four. When I checked out, the total for these four avocados came to six bucks. Asking the cashier, “Why so high when they’re supposedly on sale?,” she then inquired of me, “Do you have the app?”

This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked such. A robot at McDonald’s drive-thru inquires all the time. I didn’t know what the app even was when first introduced and still don’t.

Over the past several years, I’ve mistakenly picked up items that were marked for sale, discovering at the checkout stand that I needed the app to get them for that special price. These days, I constantly look for this warning, but in the case of those avocados, the writing was miniscule enough for me not to see.

Telling a clerk that I didn’t have a fancy phone like most everyone does, she advised me, “You should think about getting one because you can save money using the app.” I didn’t inform her that 90% of my grocery purchases come from Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club, and Costco, and for now, these businesses don’t utilize discriminatory gimmicks like the app.

Watching so many people these days glued to their electronic devices, I wonder how healthy that activity is in comparison to tobacco use and vaping. You never hear our government leaders or doctors warning of the potential side effects, because a good majority of these folks are device users themselves. Some people I know, including family members, are habitually on their iPhones the minute they wake up until they go to bed.

Private research has proven that smartphones, iPods, and the like all give off small doses of radiation. At some point, ongoing scientific studies of placing these devices so close to the brain over long periods of time will be released. Most likely, the results won’t be pretty, especially where potential brain tumors and cancer is concerned.

Of course, not owning a device doesn’t make nonusers totally safe. With so many folks using these phones in close proximity, our being bombarded daily with secondhand RF radiation is undoubtedly doing some physical damage.

The next time someone in a grocery store asks me, “Do you have the app?,” I’ll have an immediate and confusing reply.

“No, thus far I’ve been able to avoid it, and for my health’s sake, I hope things stay that way!”

Run to the Sun is here, and for the second year in a row, “Ole Blue” is going. Hopefully, the truck arrives under its own power instead of via a tow hook. I generally only drive the rusty Chevy twice a year, with it parked the majority of time in my garage gathering dust. Sometimes it’s nice to just sit in the cab with a cup of coffee and think about those airmen that once sat behind the wheel. They’d all be in their 80s now or older if still alive.

“Ole Blue” is a 1950 Chevrolet—former USAF pickup. The vintage “Follow Me” truck basically looks the same as when I discovered it on a horse ranch in Alta Vista, Kansas. Last year it backfired and sputtered all the way to and from Bridgewater Links Golf Course because of bad fuel. Talk about embarrassing. I made sure to drain and refill the gas tank with fresh brew for this year’s automotive extravaganza.

Good things already happened to me on the day I signed up. As usual, not having greenbacks in my wallet besides a slew of credit cards, I needed ten dollars cash to pay for reserved parking. A kind and very lovely young lady standing in front of me picked up the tab. I couldn’t thank her enough. You’ll definitely not find a better group of folks than car people!

My wife and I have been attending Run to the Sun going back to 1983. Living in Alaska, we planned vacations around the function and were never disappointed. There were times when the Havasu heat got to me, including allergies from golf course grass, but I persevered and kept on truckin’ always with a cold lemonade in hand.

I generally wore a Chicago Cubs baseball cap for style more than anything, always coming away with a sunburned neck. There’s nothing worse than trying to sleep at night in a hotel with your skin on fire. Aloe vera juice can only do so much soothing. Folks constantly asked if I was from Chicago, with me telling them I’d never been to Illinois, yet have always been a Cubs’ fan. Like the old truck, that blue hat is a good conversation piece.

Because the show is so close to Halloween, several years ago I dressed the part of an Amish farmer just for kicks. I’d grown a beard down to my chest back then adding further creativity to the ensemble. That authentic look got a lot of quick glances and whispering behind my back, some even sneaking a photo or two with their phones.

For those unfamiliar with the Amish doctrine, they generally don’t own motorized vehicles, yet can ride in one with a non-Amish driver. Horse and carriage is their standard mode of transportation. Although I did it as a joke, that was the first time I didn’t suffer a sunburnt neck thanks to the unique hat.

I’ve never come across any Amish person attending a car show and probably never will. It’s akin to seeing a U-Haul trailer being pulled behind a hearse, although several years back, my wife and I did witness this taking place on I-40 in Kansas.

The thing I won’t do again at a Run to the Sun or any other public event is wear a tee-shirt with “SEKURITY” emblazoned on front and back. The one time I did, folks came up asking all kinds of questions that I didn’t have answers to. It turned out to be a prank gone astray.

Joleen took a great shot of me wearing it while standing beside a row of Jack Pots portable latrines, arms crossed, posing as if I was watching over them. That was one reason I ordered the shirt to begin with, turning it into my own inexpensive Halloween costume.

The picture was then shared with family and friends at Christmas time and they got a kick out of it, actually believing that “Latrine Patrol” was my designated Run to the Sun duty. To this day some still do.

I’d love to see a show where on Saturday, attendees young and old dress up as zombies. That’d add a different touch to things with best costume awards given out by Relics and Rods. Some folks unknowingly look the part already, oohing and aahing at all the nice cars and trucks without watching where they’re going. I’m definitely part of that crowd.

This year you won’t find me sitting behind my vehicle like so many other attendees do. There’s a favorite tree near the Rotary Park entrance that Joleen and I like best. Being a former mechanic, there’s nothing better than a large shade tree to seek cover, having worked under a few as well. Hopefully, there’ll be plenty of lemonade on hand, because after looking at the weather report for Friday and Saturday, we’re going to need gallons.

That Amish hat with wide round brim, after being dusted off, will definitely make another Run to the Sun appearance. This time it’ll be put to good use in keeping my scalp from burning instead of just for grins. I’m sure that’s why the Amish prefer them over baseball caps. Unlike many of us, they’re smart enough to pick a hat for function over that of style.

The last day for this show is Sunday, with the grand finale that morning being a parade down McCulloch Boulevard. If you’re unable to attend yet hear a bunch of loud backfiring it won’t be “Ole Blue” this trip. Most likely, it’ll be another fellow’s rig with a sour tank of gas trying to spit and sputter its way home.

This is representative of how my rough draft blog pieces look after published. This one is in the 10/15/2023 – Today’s News-Herald – Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

For those that subscribe to my blog. The copy you will always see is the unedited rough draft version. Typos and misspelling abound. I go back later and clean things up. You’ll only see that revised copy by going to http://www.michael-hankins.com. It might be a day or two before I have them totally fit and trim. I’m always changing things after I first publish. This is just part of my writing process. mh