Author: michaeldexterhankins

Christmas isn’t far away and I’m already seeing Christmas decorations appear in several stores. The only thing missing these past 30 years is the traditional Christmas toy catalogs. Sears had them including Montgomery Ward and J.C. Penney. My brother and I would gaze through these books time and time again, until pages became dogeared and torn.

I’m a traditional kind of guy. Searching page by page through those catalogs was a small part of the holiday ritual I loved most as a kid. Sadly, they’ve went the way of many things, such as fruitcakes and silver Christmas trees, although fruitcakes can still be found in certain stores.

Sadly, Christmas cards is another disappearing holiday tradition. For many years a good assortment arrived from family and friends. With so many of the older generation now gone, and younger people not sending them out, the number of cards received is getting fewer and fewer.

For years, one thing my family has always done before Christmas and throughout the year, is not patronize those places of business that replace the name Christmas with Xmas. I won’t play Monopoly anymore, because the game maker, Hasbro, still uses this blasphemous Xmas definition on one of their Community Chest cards. It’s actually been that way going back to 1935, when the Parker Brothers first released this game.

Tradition has a way of disappearing it seems in not just Christmas, but other areas. I’m a traditional church-music-guy over that of contemporary. There’s nothing wrong with musical instruments in a church service, but when things start sounding like a rock concert, I tune out.

I’ve shed many tears while singing “The Old Rugged Cross” with no instruments whatsoever. The words alone are what penetrated my heart—not booming Ludwig drums or a rattling tambourine. All in all though, if loud music is what draws a person to a place of worship, I’m okay with it. The message is what counts most.

Holiday names are also a traditional thing for me, and I see no reason to change them to satisfy a few.  An early episode of “Seinfeld” had George Costanza celebrating Festivus instead of Christmas or Hanukkah. The comical slogan for this event was, “Festivus for the rest of us.”  There’s no such holiday of course, and I believe it was a way to poke fun at Kwanza which ironically falls on December 26, one day after Christmas.

A group of folks are out to change Columbus Day to Indigenous Native Day. Please leave Columbus Day alone, and keep Indigenous Native Day separate. Christopher Columbus is a hero from my earliest days of studying history in school and always will be.

Yes, he was the first Italian explorer discovering this part of the world. Others may have been here first but that isn’t the point. I was the first person in McDonalds the other morning but that doesn’t mean I totally own the place. Others came in after me and they sat down as well.

Celebrating Columbus Day is a part of American tradition. History books from my era made no mention of slavery or torture of Indigenous people. If newly written books say otherwise, I’d suggest questioning the people that wrote them. How many of those writers were around in 1492 to actually observe this taking place?

Christopher Columbus and his crew may have used what would be construed as cruel methods when dealing with Native, Indian, or Indigenous people, but if you study the warriorlike Navajo, Comanche, Apache, and Tlingit’s, you’ll find they did the exact same thing to other tribes, along with the Aztecs in Mexico.

George Washington’s Birthday will always be George Washington’s Birthday, instead of the unofficial, President’s Day. Slyly changing names of an existing holiday to another is a sneaky way to invoke wokeness or political correctness. Most of us are wise enough to see through this.

Mt. McKinley will remain Mt. McKinley on my map. Just because former President Barack Obama officially changed the name doesn’t mean that I’ll conform to his way of thinking. If some folks want to refer to it as Denali instead of McKinley that’s okay.  My friend has a fully loaded 2018 with all the bells and whistles. It’s a big and luxurious SUV that’ll haul his large family with ease.

When I first moved to Alaska, the airport in Anchorage, was called Anchorage International Airport. Politicians in 2000, changed names to Ted Stevens International Airport. It would now be disrespectful to the late Senator Stevens, if some politicians saw fit to change things once again, as they did with Mt. McKinley. Such talk is being tossed around by leftist Democrats.

There’ll probably come a day when some obscure group decides that Big Rock Candy Mountain needs a name change as well. It wouldn’t surprise me. Of course, they’ll want to name it something that 99 percent of the population can’t pronounce. This seems to be the current line of thinking.

The word moon is of Latin origin. If you watch enough western movies, you’ll hear actors portraying American Indians as saying, “Many moons ago…” This wouldn’t have been the case until after they came in contact with Spanish missionaries.

Undoubtedly, these tribes had other names for the moon besides moon. The Hawaiian name is Mua’Dib. In Gwich’in, the word for moon is oozrii’. When I researched what other ancient names might be out there, I came up with several unpronounceable ones. The word tłʼéʼgonaʼáí is moon in Apache. “Many tłʼéʼgonaʼáí ago…” just doesn’t cut it where Cowboy and Indian movies are concerned.

Thus far, no Indigenous tribes that I know of have proposed changing moon back to their original tongue, with perhaps that being a good thing. Having some Choctaw blood in my veins, I feel I can make light of this subject without undue criticism. I’m sure my Indigenous ancestors wouldn’t mind, those with a sense of humor even getting a chuckle or two.

On a serious note, it goes against the grain for me to follow anyone attempting to change my mindset to theirs, especially politicians, where religion, politics, and history is concerned. I won’t conform to secular belief at all on these three subjects.

Over the years, I’ve observed some friends and family conforming to the way of the world, as well as television news channels, newspapers, and in one case, a pastor. Aligning with political correctness and woke policies instead of Biblical principle are good examples of conformity. The great evangelist Billy Graham said this about non-conformity:

“There are multitudes of people who do not give themselves to Jesus Christ, because they have conformed to this world. They are afraid of being called fanatic and pious. A true Christian is a nonconformist. This is our reasonable service to the Lord.”

To that I say, Amen.

Picking an appropriate title to one of my stories is perhaps the hardest part of writing them. I try to keep titles no longer than three words—just because that seems the proper thing to do. For this piece, Galveston might seem a bit odd, yet will make perfect sense at the end.

More than one person has told me, that dealing with the public is one of the toughest jobs there is. Customers can be demanding and rude at times. Over the course of 60 years, I have bumped into several such people.

The other morning in a convenience store, I stood in line waiting to pay for my breakfast burrito when a guy rambled on and on regarding the price of diesel. The tone in which he was venting made it seem the clerk was responsible. I wanted to interject, saying that perhaps he should place the blame where it belongs—on the big guy in Washington, DC—yet didn’t. I’m sure those customers standing at the back of the line were glad I refrained.

Grocery stores are always good places to hear people whine. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in a supermarket, hearing someone behind me pipe up for everyone to hear, “Somebody needs to call another checker!”

The best comeback I’ve ever witnessed, and probably never will see again, is when an old guy blurted out for the cashier to call for backup help. This was early in the morning, minutes after the store opened. Hearing this request, the veteran employee stopped what she was doing, and then politely called over the intercom,

“Rhonda, would you check please, Rhonda.”

Without hesitation, the man moved out of line with his hand basket and scurried to the adjoining register, obviously anticipating he’d be next. At the most one minute went by with no new clerk appearing. The impatient Havasuian then demanded one more time,

“You need to page her again!”

At this point, the cool and calm store worker offered up the following,

“She heard me the first time. My name’s Rhonda and I’m the only checker here at the moment!”

Our Lake Havasu City Post Office is always a good place to hear whining and negative comments. The hard working folks working there do a tremendous job, yet there’s always someone in line thinking they’re not moving quite fast enough for them. Whenever I hear one of these complainers moaning about such, especially if they’re standing at the rear, I sometimes give them the 30-second stare.

Try staring at someone for 30 seconds without cracking a smile. It’s not easy. If they complain a second time, another stare session is in order. This usually cures them of their impatience. If the person’s directly in front of me, I merely burn a hole through the back of their head with my eyes.

It was in 1971 when the following happened to me. A beautiful and sunny Sunday—I was the only employee running my father and his partner’s Texaco gas station that day.

Sometime in the late afternoon, a young military man behind the wheel of a red convertible Mustang drove through, ringing the bell out front signaling he needed fuel. Back then, a rubber hose ran across the gas station driveway, and when a car or truck rolled over the hose, the suddenly compressed air inside of it rang a loud bell.

Hurrying outside to wait on him, the man replied, “Could you please check all four tires.”

My job was to take care of such requests, but I also wondered why this perfectly healthy guy didn’t check his own tires. Afterall, the gauge was on the end of the hose. I’d easily copped a negative attitude having to do this for him, yet kept my composure knowing that was what they paid me for.

After inspecting all four tires, out of the blue, this young Army soldier wearing a black cowboy hat, stuck his hand out with a couple of dollar bills. I only knew he was military by the large Fort Richardson Army sticker on his Mustang front bumper.

With the offer was so out of the norm, initially, I refused his money saying that air’s free, but he was insistent. Taking the cash, I stuck it in my coverall’s pocket and thanked him.

Before leaving the station, the fellow plugged an 8-track tape into his car stereo. It was a Glenn Campbell tape with the song “Galveston” suddenly booming from both rear speakers. Now 52 years later, I can still visualize the scene perfectly. That song greatly helped me remember things.

As he quickly drove away with music blaring, a small amount of dust and sand particles from unswept concrete lingered in the air. Sunlight reflected off it for a brief few seconds. I stood there somewhat shocked until he disappeared from sight. I’ve never forgotten that moment nor the kind act left behind by this perfect stranger. Strangely enough, I never saw him again because I would’ve been more than happy to check the air in his tires.

Years ago, I was telling my late Mom this story and she had a perfect explanation. During the 1940s, Mother worked in a small café in Vernon, Alabama. This was during her teenage years.

Mom told me that she didn’t exactly recall those folks stiffing her on tips, which happened all the time, yet remembered instead those few customers always leaving behind a nice tip, sometimes a couple of quarters just for a cup of coffee. Their kind faces evidently stuck in her brain like that soldier’s did mine.

Now, whenever I hear “Galveston” playing on the radio, I flash back to 1971 and that urban cowboy. He definitely left a positive impression on me. In an attempt to emulate the man, I make a humble effort to treat all employees of businesses with respect, no matter where they stand on the company ladder. One such way is by giving those folks bringing food or drink out to my car, a small token of appreciation—usually a dollar.

In the long run, people will undoubtedly remember me more this way, than if I’d treated them with rudeness and disrespect.

There’s a popular song from 1968 by singer/songwriter, Bobby Goldsboro, with the ending lyrics,

“See the tree, how big it’s grown, but friend it hasn’t been too long, it wasn’t big. And I laughed at her, and she got mad, the first day that she planted it—was just a twig.”

This sad tune is about a young married woman named Honey, and the different phases of life she went through before dying at an early age. The story’s told through her husband’s perspective on life. It was the #1 hit in 1968.

In the lyrics, they tell about Honey planting a seedling, with her passing away a few years after doing so. The grieving husband is reminded of her each time he sees this tree. I remember several of my teenage gal friends crying back then whenever this tune came on. It was that powerful. I won’t say that I didn’t shed a few tears myself.

At Rotary Park in Lake Havasu City, hundreds of trees have been planted in memory of lost ones. When time allows, I like to stroll through the grounds and check out the name plaques in front of each. Some of the trees are now huge having been planted many years ago.

Unfortunately, as is the case with trees and anything green; disease, weather, bugs, and vandalism have taken a toll on a few. One of my favorites sat in an area where I like to park, as it helped block the afternoon sun. This tree was planted in 2011, in memory of Robert L. Pleasant.

Sadly, city workers had to cut down the Pleasant tree last week, and it was a huge undertaking with several large trucks needed to haul things away. That tree base was as big as any in the park. I didn’t ask why they removed it, knowing that someone in the know evidently saw fit to do so. I can only hope it was removed for a valid reason.

I didn’t know Mr. Pleasant, but after finding his obituary on the Lietz-Fraze Funeral & Crematory website, I recognized his photo from working at K-Mart here in town. It was a short, but very well written documentary on Robert’s life, telling me beyond all measure that he was truly loved. I can only hope my family compose something similar about me.

“Robert Lee Pleasant passed away on Friday April 8, 2011, in Lake Havasu City, at the age of 64. Bob was born on September 30, 1946, in Indiana.

Bob moved to Arizona 23 years ago from LaVerne, California, and for the past 15 years was owner and operator of Crystal Clear Pool Service in Lake Havasu City. Bob had also worked as a Department Manager for K-Mart and was a past member of Eagles and Elks Lodge in Lake Havasu City.  He was an amazing husband, step-father (which was more like a father figure) and awesome “Papa”.

Remembering his first time babysitting his little granddaughter, Skylar, we remember getting his S.O.S. call to come and help him, because he didn’t know what to do with her crying, and poopy diaper. What a trooper he was!  To this day, his grandson Dalton always remembers having his chocolate chip cookies and milk with Papa before his bedtime.  He was an awesome handyman and would ALWAYS come to Kristin’s aid, while in the middle of the heat to rescue her with her car issues and whatever other issues she had.  He definitely was a life saver even if it was in the 120 degree heat.

Bob is survived by his loving wife of 11 years, Barbara Childress Pleasant, step-daughter, Kristin Jonker, step-son Chuck Childress, both of Lake Havasu City, as well as his 2 precious grandchildren, Skylar and Dalton Jonker of Lake Havasu City, Arizona.  

He will be dearly missed. No services will be held. There will be a tree dedication ceremony for Bob on October 22, 2011. In lieu of flowers, donation in Bob’s name may be made to Hospice of Havasu, (Polidori House). P.O. Box 597, Lake Havasu City, Arizona 86405.”

That tree trunk along with the plaque are all that remain of Robert’s memorial. Undoubtedly—the trunk will soon be removed. At that point in time hopefully another tree’s planted in Robert Pleasant’s memory.

The song “Honey” is now 55 years old and still with us. There’s no reason that the Robert Pleasant tree memorial can’t continue on as well!

The other day I was thinking for a change instead of watching television, and came to the conclusion that I’ve never had an argument in Lake Havasu City, other than with my wife. I suppose age and maturity has something to do with this. Arguing takes energy and I have better places to use it like out in the desert or garage. My friends say that I’ve mellowed.

In my younger years, I found myself in heated discussions or arguments with family, friends, or perfect strangers a fair number of times. Perhaps two or three episodes a year to put things into perspective.

I’m not ashamed to say that I tried to have the last word when those type of conversations or disagreements came up, yet I wasn’t always successful. Dad was the same way—with my daughter seemingly following in our footsteps. I’ve never looked at having the last word as totally bad, because someone has to be that person, and it might as well be me.

In answering the two questions: why do some folks have to have the last word, and why did I choose to be this way on occasion, a small amount of research was undertaken on the subject. Some psychologists believe they have this figured out to a science. These professionals say it boils down to four distinct personality types.

Narcissistic personality is number one. Having egos that always need inflated, these folks have a constant goal to prove they’re better than anyone else. Not only do they have to have the last word, but they love to dominate a conversation as well.  I still wasn’t exactly sure what a narcissistic person was after reading this brief description, hoping the full elucidation didn’t fit my biological profile.

In a nutshell, a narcissist is someone with a sense of self-importance. They feel entitled and can only be around people who are important or special.  They’re preoccupied with power, success, and beauty. Arrogant is a common trait and they lack empathy for fellow man. They also must be admired. My slang definition for such is egomaniac.

The only trait out of all of those that I associate with me, is being around people who are important and special. Every one of my friends and family have those unique qualities.

Authoritarian personality is the second one. These folks like to exert their power, and have a righteousness to their opinions and beliefs. They’re very hesitant to give in to others where their opinions and beliefs are concerned. Stubborn and obstinate are part of their demeanor.

I definitely fit a portion of that description only where opinions and beliefs regarding religion and politics are concerned. There’s no changing my mind on either at this stage of life, and I won’t argue the reasoning why. In other words, I believe I’m totally right regarding both viewpoints and it’s Biblically driven.

Dominant personality is number three. These individuals seek to control everything and anything they’re involved with, including their friends and family members. They want to be in a position of power. The word I’ve always used for such people is: power freak. I definitely don’t fit that category, trying hard just to be an ordinary average guy.

Competitive personality is number four on the list. These folks are competitive by nature, and feel the need to flaunt their intellect around. Where debates and discussions are concerned, they see them as playing fields to prove their intellectual superiority and expertise. Ultimately, if someone has the last word or the final word in a discussion, argument, or disagreement, they see that person as the winner. I’m definitely competitive, but not where intellect is concerned, so I stay out of those games.

The biggest discoveries during my limited research were both logical and ideological:

1. Most people do like to have the final word, yet don’t push as hard as others to get there. Some are passive while others are aggressive in procuring it. Others just give up from the start.

2. Wanting the last word isn’t always a mental disorder—it’s more human nature than anything.

3. Never attempt to have the last word with your wife, boss, or a policeman, because you’ll lose each and every time.

4. We may make our plans, but God ultimately has the last word. Proverbs 16:1

5. There are some that’ll disagree with that last point, yet time will eventually prove them wrong.

* ruff draft (unedited) to a column piece I’m writing

In Alaska, during the 1960s, there was a stretch of the Seward Highway a few miles out of Anchorage, along Turnagain Arm, decimated with ugly spray paint messages. I’m talking about a scenic and beautiful section of road adored by locals and tourists alike. Most of the vandalism was undoubtedly performed by teenagers, either spraying their names on rocks, or favorite boyfriends or girlfriends. Peace symbols were popular and there were several in all different hues. I knew some of the guys and gals responsible.

This section of the Seward Highway eventually became a real eyesore, with the legislature eventually making it a crime to deface public lands. The Alaska State Troopers were strict on enforcement, and if someone was caught doing such they were prosecuted. After these painted messages were removed via sandblasting by volunteers and state workers, the graffiti stopped.

I just read an article about a family from Arizona traveling to Utah, and one of their children desecrating a scenic rock on BLM land. The defaced boulder is located near Catacomb Rock, a popular four-wheel driving destination near Moab, on land managed by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management. “The Finnfam – 2023” was written on it with a chalky substance.

These people were eventually caught, with the father telling BLM officials it wouldn’t happen again. No mention of a fine or punishment was mentioned in this story. Hopefully, something was done to the culprit, although with the BLM, I highly doubt it.

SARA Park is one of my favorite places to hike or just take in the scenery. Sadly, desecration of a large mound took place there sometime in the near past. As big a peace symbol as it is, people had to have seen the work taking place. Why it’s being left up is incomprehensible, as this circular collection of loose rocks takes away from the serenity of the area. I now call it Desecration Rock for good reason.

I understand that Lake Havasu City owns or manages the 1,082.11 acres. If that’s the case, why isn’t something being done to reel in those responsible for destroying this landscape? Those rocks need to be re-scattered. SARA Park doesn’t need an L.A. touch here by any means and I’m sure plenty of others will agree.

Ten years ago, two homeless people were camping on a hill not far from my house. I use the word homeless quite loosely here. Those folks were young enough and definitely physically capable of working. The word vagrant or bum is totally appropriate for me and that’s all that matters.

The guy and gal would hike up and start a campfire most every night, then hit the sack. They didn’t realize how far their voices and moaning sounds carried when it was dark and quiet outside. By sunrise they were gone. One neighbor said that he saw this couple at Rotary Park during the day, merely sitting, drinking, and smoking.

I climbed up one morning after they’d departed, finding trash of all kind scattered about. Making a call to the local BLM office, the receptionist connected me to an enforcement officer. This man said that he’d take care of things. Far as I know, the guy never came out to look because he was supposed to follow up.

Making another call to the same official several months later, I told him not to worry about removing all of that trash on the hill, because with one match, I was going to magically make things disappear. He got upset at this point, saying I couldn’t do that, regardless that there was no trees or shrubbery up there to catch fire. I’d evidently become the bad person in his mind, not the two people having created the mess. It was a big joke amongst a couple of friends in our neighborhood, that I was going to burn this rocky section of desert to the ground.

The vagrant’s trash consisted of discarded cardboard boxes, a well-used, slimy looking sleeping bag, plastic liquor and water bottles up the gazoo, soup cans, along with plenty of discarded hypodermic needles and syringes. The winds eventually dispersed things, and I’m sure it’s still out there, scattered from here to Tupelo.

If enforcement of our public lands is not a priority with BLM or city officials, Havasu and it’s surrounding area could soon resemble Los Angeles. Graffiti criminals are erroneously labeled as artists there. Let’s not follow in their footpath.

A clear message to say we don’t condone such destructive behavior in Lake Havasu City is for a group of volunteers to descend on Desecration Rock, and much like a giant human eraser, wipe the slate clean. I’m sure SARA would thank them greatly for it!

I just read an article about a woman who’s compiling a diary of her own dreams. She didn’t exactly call it a diary, but a journal instead. This lady keeps a notebook by her bedside, and right after wakening from a dream or nightmare, she jots things down.

I keep a notebook by my bed for ideas that pop into my head where new stories are concerned, but have never thought of compiling dreams. Some dreams I try and remember before going back to sleep, but rarely do I recall them the next morning, unless of course, it’s something worthy of such.

Some dreams are not imaginary. Years back, I woke up in the middle of the night believing that I was dreaming I’d left the drainplug out of a gearbox on a piece of heavy machinery. It was during winter and the snowblower was going to be used the next morning. It took several seconds to realize this wasn’t a dream.

Throwing my clothes, jacket, and hat on, I quickly drove back to the shop. Grabbing a flashlight, I crawled underneath this machine finding the drainplug sitting on top of the vehicle frame. Had some operator drove it with the plug out, thousands of dollars in damage would’ve undoubtedly occurred.

I’ve always been a dreamer and have had some doozies over the years. Most didn’t make sense and are long forgotten. These past few years I constantly dream I’m back at work. It happens quite often. Most of my dreaming is now attributed to a cholesterol lowering medication taken daily, but not all of them.

Sometimes I wake up and still remember finite details to the work dreams, telling them to my wife on occasion.  She once joked that I should send in a timesheet to my old workplace and see what happens. My reply back to her was, “If I worked for the federal government they’d probably mail me a check!”

A good friend of mine once told me that if you ever see a group of senior men sitting around a table telling stories about their youthful exploits, most likely half of the conversation is made up of either dreams or tall tales. The other morning in Basha’s grocery store, I observed such a table of individuals and had to chuckle, remembering what my pal said. I wanted to say something to these fellows yet held back as they didn’t know me from Adam.

The same friend offered up even more wisdom regarding fellows getting older by saying, “There’ll come a day when a dream is as good as it gets!” Jim Brownfield didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that, so I have to assume he was talking about riding motorcycles.

A couple of recent dreams are related to when I belonged to the Lion’s Club here in Havasu. I was on the Balloon Festival trash collection crew headed by the late, John Ballard, as well as helping pick up garbage for the club along Highway 95.

In the first dream, we did such a good job of policing golf course grounds, that Balloon Festival supervisors, Marquita McKnight and Jim Day, farmed out our crew to other such events throughout the state. Before long, we were living out of motorhomes, while pulling giant trailers filled with trash behind them.

Where the other dream’s concerned, Lion’s Club volunteers were picking up rubbish near Palo Verde and 95 as a long line of cars drove by. Drivers honked their horns at workers in appreciation. John told a group of us men, “Just smile and wave boys. Smile and wave!”

This wasn’t actually imaginary because it happened each and every time we were out there, although I don’t recall John Ballard using that famous line from the popular animated movie, “Madagascar.” Sadly, Marquita McKnight and John Ballard left us way too early. I’m happy their smiling faces reappeared in my dream, believing there’s a special reason for such. It was a way to let me know that all’s okay on the other side. Thankfully, Jim Day’s still orchestrating his many talents throughout our city.

I’m not sure what the woman at the beginning of my story will do with her diary of dreams. If she plans on using them in a future manuscript, good luck selling it. A book of someone else’s dreams isn’t something I’d be interested in buying and reading.

Where some of my dreams are concerned, regarding things that actually happened—I’m happy whenever they occur to go back and reenter certain periods of time, especially my Balloon Festival days. John Ballard made picking up trash “a gas.” I never saw Marquita McKnight without a smile.

Being reunited with my late parents, grandparents, family, friends, and pets in an occasional dream is like icing on a cake to a good night’s sleep. As a believer in life after death through the saving grace of Jesus Christ, there’ll come a time when I won’t dream at all. Try putting that thought in perspective with “eternity” and it’ll definitely have you thinking.

Most everyone’s had to deal with ‘walking on eggshells’ at some point in their life. I’m not talking about working on a poultry farm or in a kitchen. The general description for walking on eggshells is: “To be very careful about what you do or say to someone, because they are easily upset or offended.”

I worked with a guy for several years, and on some days if you said, “Good morning,” it would set him off. After so many years of not knowing what mood the co-worker was in, I’d merely nod when he walked in the door. I’m not sure what was happening upstairs, but others simply said he got up on the wrong side of the bed.

I believe there was more to it than that, because this man abruptly quit one day, with him and his wife quickly leaving for another state. I never heard the reason why, yet something drastic had definitely taken place forcing him to desert a perfectly good job.

My wife shared the same office with a fellow that she says was always cordial and polite. One day Joleen was talking to him and she mentioned the Vietnam War. That’s all it took for the former soldier to go from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. He was insistent to her that there was never any such war and it was a conflict. His threatening demeanor and abrupt posturing actually scared my wife. Joleen said from that point on he was less communicative.

The common definition for Jekyll and Hyde is the following: “Used in reference to a person or thing that alternately displays two different sides to their character or nature.” Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was evidently lurking under this man’s skin causing him to act that way.

Later in life I came to realize there is a correlation between Jekyll and Hyde personalities and bi-polar disorder. This all came to be after an encounter with a now deceased family member.

Trudy (not her real name) seemed to be either warm or cold each time we met up. When I say warm I mean she was receptive to carrying on a decent conversation. With the snap of a switch she’d become argumentative and hostile.

I didn’t know what was taking place, believing that it was my highly opinionated and conservative viewpoint that lit her fuse. Sadly, it was too late after I came to realize that she had a mental problem. At this point, dementia had already set in, and there was no chance of reconciliation. Trudy died soon afterward. Since that time, I have more empathy for those struggling with severe depression-like conditions.

At one time I was a bit abrasive and vocal towards those of differing opinion. There was nothing worse than sitting in a restaurant or diner hearing someone verbally trash my president, and I’m not talking Joe Biden. These days, I’ve learned to not retaliate, and simply sit back and listen. Keeping my trap shut, I fight back via sending contributions to select political candidates, as well as voting for them at the ballot box.

I’ve also become much more diplomatic in later years, deciding it’s wiser to keep all political opinions to myself, especially where strangers are concerned. I now listen to folks with different viewpoints and merely chastise or condemn them under my breath instead of out loud. In doing so, they often believe I agree with their ideology, keeping potential inflammatory conversations to a minimum.

Everyone’s heard the saying, “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.” It’s a good statement after an argument and I’ve used it a time or two myself. Generally, after I’m forced to utter such, I still have unanswered questions at the tip of my tongue on why they don’t quite see things my way.

My lips have yearned to politely blurt out as we parted company, wanting the last word of course, “Perhaps if you educate yourself on this subject a tad more, you’ll see things much more clearly!”

Common sense dictates that if I ever did this, depending on the person it’s said to, something besides eggshells might be broken!

My marketing manager asked that I update my bio photo for any new fiction book releases. The photo I’ve been using is at least 10 years old, and it’s an outdoor shot taken in the desert. She wanted one of me sitting behind a desk of all places. When I mentioned that looks have changed drastically since that last picture was taken, the woman tried to reassure me by saying, “You’ve more than likely aged gracefully since then!”

I’ve heard that term “aging gracefully” from time to time, yet never knew what it exactly meant, always thinking that Clint Eastwood or Christie Brinkley fit the mold. After looking things up, I discovered the following:

Aging gracefully is often used as a euphemism for “looking old, but still holding on” or “showing signs of aging—yet still moving forward with life.” That definition fits not just Hollywood types, but all of my senior friends.

Some have hit their fair share of potholes in the road but continue to motor along. I fit that category as does my wife. I’d love to share some details here, but our life problems haven’t been much different than anyone else’s.

Some of my friends had catastrophic things happen to them over the years, but overcame, while others didn’t. I’m not one to disclose personal information of anyone just for a story, and I’d hope they’d do the same. Some of them have some outstanding tales to tell if they ever elect to share them.

Getting back to my definition of aging gracefully: I know that if Clint Eastwood walked into a local restaurant, all attention would immediately focus his direction. The same would happen with Christie Brinkley.

Christie was born on February 2, 1954, some 66 days before me, yet she looks 30 years younger. Clint Eastwood is 93 years old, but you can’t tell, at least I can’t. They’ve both definitely aged well.

I can associate aging gracefully more with an automobile than anything. Attend any car show and you’ll see what I’m referring to. Vintage cars such as Camaros and Corvettes still elicit mega attention, even from the younger crowd. I’d equate those vehicles as being a Clint Eastwood or Christie Brinkley. Crowds gather around them like bees on honey.

If I were an automobile and was at a car show, I’d be more akin to a 1972 AMC Gremlin with rust and dents. Still able to motor in and then drive out under my own power, where aging gracefully is concerned, that’s more than I could ask for. There’d definitely be no crowds standing around oohing and aahing for sure.

People would stroll by barely giving me a second glance, and every so often someone would stop and say, “That’s an oldie for sure. I wonder if they had to tow it here?”

Still being able to move forward means a lot to me. If that’s as good as things get from here on out, I’ll be happy.  

These days, my wife and I won’t travel anywhere, unless each and every night we’re on the road, we know exactly where we’ll be sleeping beforehand. That wasn’t the case years ago. I’d drive until tired and then pull over to take a snooze. Younger folks can still get away with such.

Years ago, Motel 6 had a commercial where spokesperson, Tom Bodette, at the end of his spiel announced, “We’ll leave the light on for you!” Possibly, that’s one of the best advertising slogans to ever come along, because it advocates travel reassurance which is a necessity for older folks like me.

I’ve stayed at Motel 6s throughout the country, partly from hearing that commercial alone, and the other being price. There’s nothing like after a hard day of driving, pulling into a motel or hotel, and being handed a key to your room with no hassle.

When I was more adventurous, I’d simply look for a safe place to park the car or truck, hoping that someone wouldn’t do a drive by shooting while we were resting. On one occasion in Canada, my family woke up to huge buffalo looking in our Chevrolet Blazer windows. That’s still safer than some stray cat in a hoodie toting a Glock doing the same.

There was more than one occasion when we drove for hours, pulling into a town expecting a room and finding “No Vacancy” signs everywhere. I recall one time having to put the family up in a seedy motel directly above a beer joint. Stale cigarette smoke permeated the room, and a jukebox directly below us bellowed until the wee hours of morning.

Now that I’m well into the golden years, not only do I want to know where I’ll be sleeping each and every night, but I want to know the same once I take the biggest trip of my life, and I’m not talking Lake Minnetonka.

Much like Tom Bodette did for weary highway travelers, Jesus Christ does the same for those leaving this world for good. In John 8:12 (NIV) he tells his followers: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

That’s all the assuredness I need for my final journey. After studying various religions during my early years, not once did I find more comforting words than these.

I suppose the term Bahama Mama has different meaning to different folks. For me, it best sums up a tantalizing drink my children loved early on. I believe it was either Appleby’s or Red Robin back in the 80s that served a nonalcohol version, and that’s the one I’m talking about.

This concoction had coconut juice, orange, as well as pineapple and grapefruit juice, along with grenadine syrup, but don’t hold me to the exact ingredients. The kids loved them, along with their Shirley Temples and Bahama Mama Shakes.

There’s a song called “Bahama Mama” sung by a German/Caribbean group called Boney M. I’ve only listened to it once—finding the lyrics somewhat amusing, although they could be construed as offensive to some overweight folks.

From my take on things after hearing this tune, Bahama Mama lives in the biggest dwelling in town, along with six, beautiful, unmarried daughters. The girls are evidently eating her out of house and home.

What brought Bahama Mama to my mind isn’t a drink nor the song. It came to me after several trips to one of Havasu’s best kept secrets. The Bonfire Grill is within walking distance of my place, and I’ve made that trip on foot numerous times, generally for breakfast sandwiches or burritos. Hands down they have the best breakfast selection on the southside of town, especially where price is concerned. Everything’s made fresh in their kitchen.

The golden star of their menu is the steak nachos. I indulge once a month generally using my bonus points earned from purchases to score a free one. I think my wife and I have sampled just about everything, finding nothing to our distaste. There’s one menu item we’ve shied away from—Jalapeño Bahama Mama Wrap. The word jalapeño brings back haunting memories to me after a dining experience in Lake Havasu City.

It was at the now defunct Hussong’s Mexican restaurant on a vacation in 1983 that I encountered jalapeños seemingly out to kill me. I’d never had jalapeños at that time, and my chicken enchilada contained several of the El Scorcho peppers. After one bite my mouth was literally on fire.

That wasn’t the worst part. Quickly pulling the evil green peppers off my food with two fingers, I rubbed both watering eyes. That burning sensation basically blinded me, and I ended up stumbling to their restroom and splashing cold water in my face for several minutes. Those having done this before will know what I’m talking about.

The pain didn’t fully subside until a couple of hours later. The next morning in our hotel room, I felt burning once again, but in other places. Since that time, anything with jalapeño written on it is totally avoided.

My wife’s just the opposite. She has no problem with them and makes sure her Mexican food includes plenty of this fiery fruit. You read things right. Some botanists claim that jalapeño peppers are in the fruit category. Look things up because I did several times just to make sure it was true.

Joleen eventually came to the point where she asked to try one of their Jalapeño Bahama Mama Wraps. According to an employee working at the grill, this particular wrap is a favorite amongst construction workers, which is easy to believe. I’d tend to think those type of customers undoubtedly have seared taste buds or iron stomachs—perhaps both.

My wife incurred no problem eating hers, and claimed that the jalapeños inside the sausage like hotdog had jus the right amount of spicy flavor. Come to think of it, I believe that’s what she said at Hussong’s Mexican restaurant some 40 years ago.

My wife and I are happy that Bonfire Grill came to town. It’s made life so much more convenient for us where needing a quick bite to eat is concerned. Something tells me that if Bahama Mama and her six beautiful daughters lived on our block, they’d be making the same walk.