michaeldexterhankins

ROLLING COAL

“In the country we live, some folks believe under the guise of freedom, that they have the right to pollute air that others must use.”

I’ve observed my share of diesel pickups running around town, deliberately blowing black smoke out their exhausts—these drivers I suppose thinking they’re impressing folks or being cute. This act is called “rolling coal” for one specific reason.

Wikipedia offers the following explanation: “Rolling coal is the practice of modifying a diesel engine to emit large amounts of black or grey sooty exhaust fumes—diesel fuel that has not undergone complete combustion. It is a predominantly an Anglo American phenomenon, despite being illegal. Rolling coal is sometimes used as a form of anti-environmentalism.”

Having been behind a few of these rigs, I watched them leave stoplights pedal to the metal, leaving behind huge black clouds of unburned particulates and carcinogens. My dashcam generally catches the action, along with the license plates of those vehicles creating this pollution. Mine isn’t the only camera out there doing so.

I’ve talked with a few guys having modified their trucks to puke out this smoke, with them telling me in Arizona there’s no law against such. Their analogy may be correct, but there’s a federal law, and it’s a heavy hitter as the Diesel Brothers will attest.

At one time there was a reality television show called “Diesel Brothers.” It was a favorite of mine, but I sometimes wondered how they got away with what they did, namely, modifying diesel engines to put out noxious smoke, and then putting it out there on television for all to see.

Several seasons after this show came out, owners of the Diesel Brother’s shop, along with television producers, were sued by a group of Utah doctors for violation of the clean air act, and ultimately socked with an $850,000.00 lawsuit. The EPA was directly involved in these court hearings. That entertaining show went off the air soon afterwards.

The State of Arizona nor Lake Havasu City may not do anything to these rolling coal fanatics, although they could, yet the EPA definitely will. Coal rollers seem to forget that dashcams are being used more and more these days, with some newer cars and trucks either coming with them, or available as an option. “Smile, you’re on candid camera!”

All a person recording this violation needs to do, is send in their digitalized SD card with a clear image of the infraction, also showing vehicle license number, to the EPA, and they’ll take over from there. A hefty fine to the violator could soon follow. I’m not one to go this extreme, but some folks concerned about air quality would, and probably have, and I don’t blame them.

What these ignorant truck owners are doing, is no different than intentionally setting a rubber tire on fire in their backyard, and then blowing that toxic smoke to the surrounding neighbors. A similar act where water pollution is concerned, would be akin to a boat owner dumping their porta-potty contents into our lake, near Rotary Park Beach, where people are swimming just to get a reaction.

In the country we live, some people believe under the guise of freedom, that they have the right to pollute air that others must breathe. Citizens having heart, lung, asthma, and emphysema problems are most affected having to inhale these toxins. Rolling coal polluters might find their acts funny, yet probably won’t be laughing so hard after being hit with a mega-thousand dollar EPA fine. I’m sure the Diesel Brothers aren’t laughing about theirs.

DISTRACTED DRIVERS – II

“My third incident involving a distracted driver was a bit more serious and involved either drugs or alcohol.”

By now, most everyone having a driver’s license, has encountered someone texting or playing with their electronic smartphone or iPod while behind the wheel. My top three encounters with inattentive drivers on electronic devices, all happened while I was driving a certain Chevrolet pickup truck, them taking place in the 1990s, with cell phones still only cellphones, and not mini computers like they are today.

The first time, I was sitting at a redlight close to my home during winter. Looking in my rearview mirror, I noticed a small car slowly sliding towards me, and could also see the driver with a hand to his ear. My truck, like most of those here in Lake Havasu City, had a receiver and trailer ball under the rear bumper. This guy hit just hard enough for his bumper to go over that ball. Spinning both front tires on a slick road while trying to get loose, he couldn’t. It took three of us, lifting as he backed up, to free the car. This fellow, a businessman from Korea, acknowledged that he was distracted by his phone. No harm was done to either of us, so we shook hands and that was the end of things.

The second time was near identical to the first. A couple of gals, the driver on a cellphone, slammed into that same hitch with her Saturn. No damage was done to my truck, yet the ball and receiver punched a nice size round hole through the frozen plastic facia or bumper of that car. Once again it was winter. The teenager driver pleaded with me to not call the police, saying it was her dad’s car and she was going to be in trouble anyway. My wife sided with the distraught girl, talking me out of it as well. I wondered later on, somewhere down the road, if I’d be the one in trouble. That’s generally how things go for me in decisions like that.

My third incident involving a distracted driver was a bit more serious and involved either drugs or alcohol. I was sitting at the redlight at Lake Otis Parkway and Tudor Road. This is the same intersection where that Toyota pickup struck me on a bicycle a couple of years later.

Holding a soda in one hand, watching straight ahead and not my rearview mirror this time, an older Chevy pickup hit me from behind hard enough to send the cup flying—Pepsi splashing everywhere. Jumping out of my truck, I hustled to the rear asking if this driver was okay. He said that he was good to go, and was sorry, as he’d been talking to his wife. Where stereotyping is concerned—based on looks alone—I immediately pegged him as trouble and was correct in my analysis.

Rather than get out to see if there was any damage, he quickly threw it into reverse and took off. I did the same, and a slow motion chase took place, with heavy traffic both directions making him unable to get out of my sight. I followed the fellow down Lake Otis Parkway, through several subdivisions, and then onto Bragaw Street. He made a serious error and turned onto a neighborhood street that was blocked with concrete bollards. This dead end was directly near a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant.

Bailing from his vehicle, I did the same from mine, chasing the guy on foot through this KFC lobby full of diners, and out the back door. Immediately outside this kitchen exit was a patch of frozen water on asphalt with a slight amount of snow on top. When his feet hit that ice he did a near flip in the air, landing hard, with his head and backside coming down on hard ground. It temporarily dazed and knocked the wind out of him. As if that wasn’t enough, I jumped on top, holding him until a big and strong Army soldier took over for me. It turned out this Military Policeman from Fort Richardson was following both of us, because the distracted driver had sideswiped his Bronco right before he hit me. Before the Anchorage police got there, the either high or inebriated driver glared at me, then said in a loud enough voice for all to hear, “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!” At that time I laughed it off.

Minutes later, cops came from all directions and arrested the man. He was a wanted felon with a mile long list of convictions. When I mentioned to one of the officers about the guy saying he’d kill me, this policeman told me I was lucky, because there was a loaded revolver in his truck. The officer went on to warn me that it wasn’t smart on what I’d done. It’s taken close to thirty years for me to realize such, but I’ll now finally admit the policeman was right.

I’ve come across several folks here in town driving erratically, and generally, if I’m able to pull up next to them, an electronic device is visible in one of their hands. A pen and notebook is always within my reach, with a small dash cam recording things front and rear as I drive.

Should someone run into me, there’d be no need for a chase, because it’s all there on a small digital SD card for police and attorneys to see. These same cameras are available for bikers to wear, and if I was still riding, I’d have one for sure. The data recorded on them is admissible in a court of law. It’s too bad they didn’t have these handy devices back in 1990, because it would’ve kept me from having to take the law into my own hands, although I must say, it was quite the adrenaline rush.

DISTRACTED DRIVERS

“I did the same, and a slow motion chase took place, with heavy traffic both directions making him unable to get out of my sight.”

I recently read and enjoyed Publisher Rick Macke’s piece in “Bikers Corner” titled, An explanation of lane filtering (Today’s News-Herald – 06/30/2023). I could never fully understand the reasoning behind lane filtering, because in Alaska, unlike Arizona, there is no such thing, legally that is. Some cyclists in Alaska still pull up between cars at stoplights, just because they can. I always cringe seeing that, thinking someone will intentionally open a door as a motorcycle rolls through, just because they can.

After reading Rick’s article, I better understand the principle behind this is to be seen. That was one area I always had problems with on my bikes, because as seasoned bikers well know, those folks driving cars and trucks oftentimes are not on the lookout for harder to spot smaller, two-wheeled vehicles. Mr. Macke’s article dealt with one young lady in particular, carelessly driving her BMW while toying with her phone or iPod. This all took place while he was out on a Saturday motorcycle ride to Hope and back.

I was never hit while riding my motorcycle, yet was struck by a Toyota pickup as I pedaled a Cannondale bicycle. That’s a story for another day. My encounters with inattentive drivers on electronic devices all happened while driving a certain Chevrolet pickup truck, them taking place in the 1990s, with cell phones still only cellphones and not mini computers like they are today.

SIGNS

“I firmly believe signs are placed out there for various reasons, with a person merely having to slow down and observe them.”

I’ve wanted to write this piece for some time. I kept putting it off for one reason or another, the major one, being that skeptics would come out of the woodwork and be highly critical of my thoughts. Some folks like doing that just because they love to play Devil’s advocate. Regardless, something inside said to start typing anyway.

For those western movie fanatics out there, like me, almost every film has a scene where an American Indian is superior to the white man, when it comes to “tracking” or picking up the trail of a person or animal. Much of that skill has to do with them slowing down, and taking notice of minute signs, such as broken twigs on the ground, or something as simple as bent grass blades.

To most people, 911 signifies either an emergency, or reference to terrorists striking the World Trade Center in New York City. That infamous number represents an event much different to me. You see, my mother was born on 9/11. Each September 11 marks her birthday. Whenever I see the number 911, I think of her first instead of tragedy.

I tried doing stuff for Mom over the years, but she was a very independent woman until the very end. If anyone volunteered she’d generally refuse help. Most of the time, I’d perform things without even asking, like working on her vehicle and washing it as well. One thing my mother loved was a clean car.

On the day of Mom’s graveside service I decided our Chevrolet pickup needed cleaning. Even though the outside temperature was well below zero, and my truck door locks could easily freeze with moisture added to them, doing so seemed a priority. The vehicle’s white paint was exceedingly dirty with caked on brown mud, and I wanted it gone.

Driving to one of those automatic “touchless” washes, I waited patiently for a car in front of me to move on through. As I sat there thinking about what was yet to come that day, a white hearse pulled up at an adjoining stall. As it entered the wash bay, a coffin could be seen in back. Surprised at this sight, I whispered out,

“Mom?”

Making note of the personalized vehicle license plate, LEGCY1, I couldn’t help believe this was more than ironic, because Legacy was the name of the funeral home we used. When I exited this carwash the hearse was long gone. Telling Joleen, my brother, Jim, and son, Gunnar, about it, they said we’d know in a couple of hours. The service was being held at Pioneer Cemetery in Palmer some 50 miles away.

Being the first ones to arrive, we remained inside the frosty truck to stay warm. Wind howling outside made the chill factor -30 degrees or colder. In a matter of minutes, a white hearse rolled up, and it slowly backed to the recently dug grave. I wasn’t surprised to see LEGCY1 on its rear license plate—at that point knowing it was a sign that all would be okay.

Mother lived in a small apartment. While under hospice care, her hospital bed was located in a bedroom—and that’s where she took her last breath. A few days after she was buried, my wife and I were cleaning this apartment before turning in keys to the landlord. That particular bedroom had an old style, roll up window shade. It’d been pulled down for several weeks while Mom lay there receiving care.

Just as we were preparing to leave that day, a strange noise come from the bedroom. This window shade had rolled back up on its own, revealing bright sunshine outside and snow covered trees. At that time, I didn’t take it as a sign, being more startled than anything. Weird stuff like that doesn’t always happen just in the movies as this event proved.

Since her passing, many interesting events have occurred regarding the number 911. The number pops up at opportune or inopportune times depending on how you look at it. Skeptics would say this is pure coincidence.

Joleen and I were contemplating the purchase of a home in Manhattan, Kansas. The old farm house, including huge limestone barn, was unique in it being one-hundred-ten years old. One thing that mother always chastised me about was my love of old stuff: especially cars and trucks. She called them ‘money pits’.

I definitely wanted that house with Joleen not keen on the idea. Deciding to drive out for another look, we were stunned to find the home was located off Kansas County Road – 911. Neither of us had previously noticed this.

That made our decision an easy one—deciding not to buy the place. It was the right choice, because later on, we discovered the old limestone dwelling needed thousands of dollars in mechanical and foundation upgrades. Such repairs initially went unnoticed.

An antique Chevrolet truck I purchased in Kansas a year later turned out to have 911 connections. After buying the pickup and hauling it to Arizona, I seriously ruptured 3 vertebrae while dismantling the chassis.

Later on, after severely cutting my hand on rusted metal, I incurred several painful burns as well. On top of that, the initial estimate on getting it running quadrupled. Mom would’ve said something crass had she been alive about me even bringing it home. Joleen took over that task.

One evening, out in the garage, I took a long hard look at a rusty and faded license plate still attached to the Chevy’s cab. All of the plate’s glossy paint was long gone. Barely legible through the rust were plate numbers, 2-911. At that point, I knew Mom was saying,

“I told you so!”

Miranda’s little dog, Dixie, was accidentally run over one morning outside their home by a school bus, with my daughter beside herself with grief. The next day, she heard barking in the back yard exactly like her lost dog. Looking outside, it was a raven sitting on a telephone line mimicking the deceased Pekingese. Raven’s are great mimickers. Miranda believed it was the same bird that liked to sit up there, playfully harassing Dixie. This happened quite often when the mostly black-in-color Pekingese was outside playing in its fenced yard.

A week later, Miranda was out running her favorite trail, hearing that familiar barking sound again. She glanced up, seeing it was a raven in a tree, undoubtedly the same one. For several mornings, she’d have a raven follow her while jogging, until one day it disappeared.

Jim Tweto was a popular Alaska bush pilot who just recently passed away on June 16, after a tragic plane crash. He was well known and loved throughout the world, having flown many famous people on fishing, hunting, and flightseeing expeditions. I recently read where his widow looked out her front window, on the morning his plane went down, spotting a large flock of ravens circling their house.

Not knowing at that time her husband was involved in an accident, and after getting the bad news, she immediately took the sighting of birds as a sign that all was going to be good. My daughter has no doubt the lone mimicking raven she observed several times, was trying to tell her the exact same thing regarding Dixie.

I’ve had family, friends, and complete strangers, tell me similar stories. One friend here in Lake Havasu City, saw a near perfect facial resemblance of a departed family member in the form of a cloud, not once, but several times. I’m no longer a doubter of such sightings as I might’ve been years ago.

Since I wrote this, another unusual experience can be added to my list—two of them to be exact. Our little Pekinese dog Simon left this world on December 27, 2023. He’d been with us 16 years. One thing Simon liked to do during that time was go for rides in the car or truck. His favorite things to observe, besides the drive-thru fast food restaurants, were birds and rabbits. I’m not sure he was so impressed with the wild animals—more curious than anything.

As I walked to the Lietz-Fraze Mortuary that sad day to make arrangements, a black bird and brownish bunny sat together just outside the entrance. I looked at them, believing they were those realistic stone creations seen in stores. Neither of them moved. Stopping to take a closer look, I saw they were real when their eyes finally blinked. Neither were afraid of me, standing perhaps 5 feet away. Right then and there, I knew this was a sign from God that all was going to be okay.

After going home that day, I went online and ordered an 8×10 photo of Simon from Walgreen’s. Picking it up on December 30, the photograph was mounted in a clear Lexan frame and placed on top of our entertainment-center for the time being, next to the grandchildren’s pictures. Joleen was going to make room for a permanent location.

The next morning, as I sat on the floor eating breakfast, a ray of light somehow came through a crack in our closed Venetian blinds, spotlighting on that one photo. Being it was so early, I sat there dumbfounded, until slowly realizing this too was a sign.

Deciding to take a picture, by the time I rounded up my camera, the light was just about gone. Opening the back door to look outside, there were clouds all over with no direct sun visible.

Wanting to see if this event happened again, today, January 1, 2024, I patiently sat in the same spot with camera in hand. I’d already glanced outside the window finding it just as cloudy as the day before. At exactly 8:27, the ray of light once again appeared. I did my best to snap a couple of shots without using a flash. The ray of light disappeared perhaps a minute later. Removing the SD card, I installed it on my computer to see what I captured. A bit fuzzy, nonetheless, they both came out quite good.

I firmly believe signs are placed there by God for various reasons, with a person merely having to slow down and observe them. I’d much rather think that way, than be a skeptic, chalking up these unique occurrences as mere coincidence.

IDITAROD MYSTERY

We’re still looking for it (read attached story). If not found in my lifetime, hopefully the search continues until it is!

https://www.lastfrontiermagazine.com/stories/iditarod-mystery?fbclid=IwAR1d5aIIkbAiCs6G1sLtQYj8j8XYUhDeGUCk0Y1fwoDT4UVzunn4bUSgT-g

PATIENCE PLEASE

“If my eyes were lasers, this fellow would’ve had holes burned through the back of his head.”

I wasn’t born having patience and highly doubt very few people are. Patience is something that has to be developed over time, and now, with sixty-nine years under my belt, I’ve yet to totally master this moral virtue.

My first remembrance of not having patience goes back to grade school. Quite often, the class would take turns reading from a book. Generally, a student would read out loud several paragraphs before another classmate took over. I was a Dodge fast reader back then – while most kids were Ford slow. Unable to sit there and wait, I’d read ahead and quickly be done with the chapter, while little Timmy struggled through his first paragraph.

The problem with this—when my turn eventually arrived, I didn’t know where we were, with the teacher having to show me, or another student. I suspect a few instructors thought I’d been sleeping, which was probably right in some cases. In Lubbock, Texas, there was no air-conditioning in Reese Elementary, and a warm classroom, with a monotone classmate poking along attempting to read, was a recipe for entering La-La Land.

Employed for a short stint in a grocery store as a stocker and cashier, it was an enjoyable experience during my early years, and many good memories came of it. There’s one section of a grocery store that I never worked, and having no patience, I’m glad I didn’t. That special section I’m referring to is the deli.

A little over a year ago, I was the next customer in line at a popular grocery store deli, waiting for one young gal in front of me to get through her long list. She was badgering the deli worker to speed things up, letting it be known that her friends were outside in the parking lot with their boat, ready to hit the lake.

The employee waiting on her was a young man, and he was sweating not only from heat coming from their brick oven, but unneeded pressure from this customer as well. Another female employee walked up to help, and after looking my direction, seeing another five or so folks patiently standing behind me, she politely asked, “What can I help you with?”

Just as I started to say a fried chicken breast, the rude person already being helped abruptly cut in, saying that perhaps things could be speeded up with two workers helping with her order. Thankfully, the somewhat stunned employee totally ignored this gal, taking my order.

I heard one person behind me say, “She better not wait on that impatient____!” You fill in the blank here, because it’s unprintable. I had to chuckle hearing that, yet I’m sure the person it was directed to wasn’t laughing, although she didn’t say anything in retaliation.

The other day, in a different grocery store deli, I ended up behind four people, two of them were an older couple, while another man and woman were both middle-aged. My legs were tired that morning, and within minutes, I wished I’d brought along a folding chair like I do at the beach.

These two seniors, around my age, weren’t exactly sure what they wanted. The husband asked for sample after sample of not only salads, but slices of turkey and ham as well. Quickly running out of patience, I wanted to speak up, asking the deli worker to just give him two slices of bread, so the poor guy could make a sandwich. Still having some couth, I held back, trying to remain patient. Eight minutes later, I sensed the unwavering deli employee was glad to see them go, because I definitely was.

Thinking that I was going to be out of there soon, this next fellow took the prize for most inconsiderate customer of the week. Ordering a pound of coleslaw, and after it was weighed and handed to him, the man elected at this time to see if he liked it. Asking the deli worker for a fork, he removed the plastic lid and took a bite. Deciding that he didn’t quite like the flavor, he then asked for a pound of another salad.

You’d think this fellow would’ve taken them both, but he didn’t. That pound of slaw was tossed in the trash on his behalf just because he no longer wanted it. If my eyes were lasers, this guy would’ve had holes burned through the back of his head. Once again, I believe the deli worker was more than happy when another irritating customer went down the road.

Next in line, was a polite and nice looking lady. She definitely had her act together, asking for a pound of meatballs, and after getting them, thanked the worker and moved on. It happened so fast that I couldn’t believe I was now at the front.

Ordering two pounds of fruit and nut rotisserie chicken, when the deli worker dished it into a container, and then placed things on the scale, it came out a perfect two pounds. She looked at me, mentioning with a smile that it was a good day for both of us to buy a lotto ticket, because her hitting the asked-for-weight, spot on, rarely happens.

Taking this woman’s advice, I did exactly that. If by chance my ticket is a winner, this deli employee is going to get a portion of the winnings because she deserves it. All of them do for that matter. Where having patience in dealing with problem people is concerned, deli workers are the cream of the crop!

ROTARY PARK

“In what appeared to be a fit of rage, one of the guys balled up the remnants and carried it to a nearby dumpster.”

When I lack anything of substance to write about I oftentimes go to Rotary Park in Lake Havasu City for a mental awakening. Guaranteed, I’ll come away with something to use my expensive LaserJet ink on, perhaps after being down there for only an hour or less.

Rotary Park is my go-to place for enjoying a hot breakfast sandwich or salsa soaked tacos in the car, occasionally parking my derriere at one of many picnic tables. I’m not the only one thinking this desert oasis is paradise, because I often see the same vehicles and faces.

Having done this for several years, oftentimes I have to read between the lines on stuff I’ve observed. This can sometimes leave me rather glum, and is the type of visual observation that isn’t fun to share, such as this one.

For a couple of years, an older man and his wife would be there in the
morning, having their coffee and most likely Egg McMuffins. I’d see their truck
in McDonald’s drive-thru several times a week, and on occasion—we were either in front of or behind it. The couple’s little Pug dog was generally always staring out a driver or passenger side window, looking as cute as Pugs can be. They were locals because I’m talking summer and winter.

For several months the vehicle disappeared, and then one morning it was
back, with just the male driver and his dog—no female passenger. I suspect this missing person to be his wife or girlfriend. One can only assume the worst here although I pray not.

These days, I no longer see this fellow and his four-legged pal. Hopefully, things are okay, but as a “spectator” and not knowing the answer to that question, anyone’s guess is as good as mine. I’m sure the ever friendly Rotary Park hosts notice stuff like this, including those hardworking volunteers and city employees always down there.

Not all is sad along those same lines as a missing couple and their dog. Just this past week, my wife and I were parked in our usual spot enjoying some pulled pork sandwiches for lunch. I’d backed our vehicle in next to the golf course fence, and four visitors were getting ready to enjoy the lake just across from us. One of the men had a large inflatable boat, designed to merely sit in at lake edge and not venture out into deep water.

He had a unique way to inflate things, using a leaf blower with an attachment
and hose. While two of his party walked on down to the lake to check things out, this gentleman stayed behind along with wife or girlfriend to inflate the raft. From the start he had trouble keeping air going in where it should, and before all air cavities were filled, his leaf blower suddenly stopped, having ran out of gas.

I could feel the man’s pain, incurring dilemmas like this all the time. Having no extra fuel, the leaf blower used a mixture of oil and gasoline, all the guy could do at this point was pull numerous rubber plugs back out of the round boat, and lie on top of it, exhausting what air there was still inside.

When the other two people eventually came to check on his progress, I could see dejection on their faces as the distressed man told them his story. Hopefully, the foursome still had fun without their toy, although we left at this point, with my wife not wanting us looking like gawkers at an accident scene.

Not all such incidents have been this hard to watch. A trio of young guys, evidently three sheets to the wind, were attempting to assemble one of those pop-up tents while the Havasu winds were blowing quite strong.

They’d get it almost up when a gust would take it down. This went on for at
least thirty minutes. Finally, a strong enough blast came along turning the
aluminum legs on this thing into pretzels. In what appeared to be a fit of rage, one of the guys balled up crumpled remnants and carried them to a nearby dumpster.

Joleen and I weren’t the only ones watching this free show, because all eyes in the parking lot were fixated on this act. Since that time, I’ve seen it repeated a good half dozen times, yet never on the same hilarious level as those three dudes.

This morning, a young man and woman attempted to carry a heavy paddleboat across a lengthy section of parking lot and place it in the water. I couldn’t understand why the driver hadn’t pulled their little car and trailer next to the lake, instead of near the golf course where we sat. A fellow coming over to help most likely thought the same thing, because I could read his lips. Still having ruptured, bulging, and ulcerated discs in my back from performing similar crazy acts over many years, sometimes it takes a little pain to learn the right way to do things. I eventually did, as I’m sure this younger person will in due time.

Perhaps the funniest thing we’ve witnessed at Rotary Park was several years ago. An older woman was feeding birds French fries out the window of her car. Some smaller brown birds were brave. They’d fly up and light on her hand, quickly snatch a fry, and then zip away.

Pigeons on the ground were evidently a bit incensed at not receiving any food, because they were walking around in circles talking to one another. A seagull soaring overhead had evidently seen enough and decided to crash the party.

Holding out another morsel of food, the dirty brown seagull suddenly swooped down, flying inside the car while the lady instantaneously flew out. Within seconds, this gull exited the now open door carrying a red and yellow French fries carton in its beak, undoubtedly now empty. I’m sure he left a mess behind with this lady doing the same.

There’s no telling what I’ll see on tomorrow’s trip. I can only hope that man and his dog return, with this being the type of story I’d love to write about next week!

HONORABLE MENTION

“I’m not sure where honorable mention would be in a stockcar race at Havasu 95 Speedway, but I’m guessing somewhere near dead last.”

I was watching an episode of The Rifleman the other day during one of my frequent writing breaks. In one drama filled scene, a newspaper reporter from back east is called a two-bit-writer by a rough talking cowboy. This part takes place in a North Fork saloon where trouble always seems to brew. Warm beer perhaps?

The New York journalist is composing a story on what it’s like to live in the Wild West, and after his manuscript is snatched away by the fellow poking fun of him, this notebook is quickly handed to another cowboy to read. That was the best part, making me laugh for several seconds. My wife quickly remarked, “A person has to have a sick sense of humor laughing at someone educationally challenged!” I believe she was directing her candid jibe at me but I totally ignored it.

When this literate, saddle tramp friend starts reading the reporter’s story out loud for all to hear, it’s quickly discovered that some disparaging comments were written about about his illiterate pal. At this point, the easterner is roughed up a bit by the humiliated gunslinger until Lucas McCain intervenes. I always love it when Lucas gets involved with lowlife cowboys, because a brawl is soon to follow. The Rifleman without a fight is like ice tea minus lemon.

After “two-bit-writer” is tossed out there for the whole saloon to hear, I couldn’t tell if the journalist was offended or not. It appeared he was, but I’m not totally sure, because you see, the television channel broke for a Balance of Nature commercial which they do quite often. When the show finally came back on a different scene was taking place.

Had I been that newspaper fellow back in the day, I would’ve taken two-bit-writer as a compliment. With two bits equaling fifty cents, in the 1870s, that would buy a nice steak and drink at Delmonico’s. That’s the name for the best place to eat in Dodge City. If you watch Gunsmoke like I do, you’re well familiar with this five-star restaurant. Marshall Matt Dillon, Miss Kitty, Doc, Chester, and Festus always eat there, yet I’ve never seen them leave a tip.

Years ago, I took a creative writing course under the tutorship of Professor Michael Burwell. Our class composed several stories during that two month period, with Professor Burwell stating that students should submit one of their pieces to The Anchorage Daily News Creative Writing Contest. I elected to mail in “Fishin’ with Mike,” believing it was my best work.

Several weeks went by and finally the winners were announced in a special Sunday edition called, We Alaskans. Quickly going to the printed list hoping to see my name, there it was, Michael Hankins – Honorable Mention. I framed that certificate which came in the mail a week later, and kept it on my office wall as a joke for many years.

To be honest, I would just as soon not had that award. The late and great Nascar driver, Dale Earnhardt Sr., once said, “Second place is the first loser!” I’m not sure where honorable mention would be in a stockcar race at Havasu 95 Speedway, but I’m guessing somewhere near dead last.

Watching that episode of The Rifleman got me to thinking back to the 1984 creative writing contest. I believe had I looked, and saw two-bit-writer beside my name, I would’ve laughed and then called my friends to hear their congratulations. Not one person said anything about my honorable mention, so what does that tell you?

I believe had that outlaw informed the New York reporter he was an honorable mention type of journalist instead of calling him two-bit-writer, that would’ve been immediate grounds for them to meet on the street, and settle things the cowboy way. Afterwards, if he was last man standing, the journalist would’ve really had a Wild West story to write home about!

WORLD TRAVELER

“I consider myself more of a “rural traveler” than anything else.”

My wife’s mother, brother, and sisters in Longford, Kansas

World traveler has never been tacked onto my lengthy life resume. The only foreign country my wife and I have visited is Canada, absolutely loving the place including its people. I’m blessed to live amongst fine natives from this land right here in Lake Havasu City, where they maintain second homes, and oftentimes relocate for good.

I’ve learned several Canadian words: Canucks, kerfuffle, two-four, loonie, and Ontario. That last word is shared by Canadians and Californians alike, with a friend from Fontana claiming that California had it first. Who am I to doubt the man, because Fontanians are not known as story tellers. Hopefully, a kerfuffle doesn’t break out over this. Kerfuffle is Canadian for argument or scuffle, and you often see these during hockey games.

I consider myself more of a “rural traveler” than anything. This seldom used term is not as widely advertised as world traveler, because in layman’s terms, it’s someone traveling on a shoestring budget.

My wife and I generally take back roads—finding them much slower than the interstate and more to my driving skill. Going 45 in a 55 is something rural travelers do quite common and I’m quick to imitate. It’s amazing how much more you can see by slowing down. Years ago, I spotted a rusty Crescent wrench lying along one country road, having time to stop—then back up and retrieve it. Try that on Interstate 40 with big rigs whizzing by.

My travels have taken me to some out-of-the-way places that few of my friends here in town have had the honor of visiting. Yoder, Kansas, quickly comes to mind. Yoder is an Amish community where residents still use horse and buggies as transportation. They have a renowned restaurant in town that my wife’s family loves to visit called, Carriage Crossing Restaurant and Bakery. The portions are good and food tasty, much akin to our Black Bear Diner here in LHC. My number one rural restaurant though, is Coachlight Restaurant in Longford, Kansas.

Longford is a small town where you can go and not feel unwelcome. Residents there seem to treat all visitors with open arms much like Lake Havasu City does. Coachlight Diner in Longford is my favorite place to eat because of their freshly baked pies. It’s generally packed on Friday and Saturday nights with folks driving fifty miles or more one-way just to eat. I equate it to Crossroads Diner in peaceful Parker, or The Wagon Wheel diner in bustling, Needles, California, at least where ambiance is concerned. The buildings in all three places are not fancy, but have lots of history behind them, much like Hussong’s Mexican Restaurant did in Havasu before it went up in flames.

With Father’s Day fast approaching, I’ve got a hankering to get on the road once again, and hit another one of those exotic rural destinations. Not wanting to go very far, classy, Kingman, Arizona, and their world renowned Cracker Barrel restaurant comes to mind. I’d love to hang around town for a Father’s Day meal, but unfortunately, no one here serves chicken & dumplings.

For us rural travelers and purveyors of exquisite cuisine, that’s one delicious lunch or dinner to simply die for!

HOLE-IN-ONE

“I’ve scored many hole-in-ones at miniature golf courses over the years, but most likely, I’m one of few people having done so in a go-cart as well.”

Years ago in Lake Havasu City, there was a miniature golf course located in the old Mudshark Pizza building on Swanson Boulevard. This is now the newly remodeled, yet still vacant Foundry building, with the upscale looking structure having a for sale sign on it for a couple of years, that sign just recently disappearing.

My wife and kids visited this defunct Havasu miniature golf course a couple of times on vacation in the 80s. It wasn’t large by any means in comparison to Golfland-Sunsplash in Mesa, but did give us something different to do besides the lake, or hanging out at Holiday Inn swimming pool. I’m referring to the old Holiday Inn that’s now named Hampton Inn.

I can’t recall if any of us ever got a hole-in-one while golfing at this local facility but it’s highly probable. It’s doubtful we ever visited one of these miniature golf courses without getting several.

I’ve played at numerous miniature golf course throughout the country with my favorite being a Putt Putt Miniature Golf course in Manhattan, Kansas. This franchised course sat next to a shopping center in the city, and was owned by an older man and his wife. It was meticulously maintained, which is what counts most to me. There’s nothing worse than putting and having your ball derailed by an acorn or gum wrapper.

At 12:27 PM, on March 30, 1981. I was playing this Kansas course with my wife and her brother, Calvin Freeman. The reason I know the exact time and day was that President Reagan was shot at that precise moment.

The old guy owning the business came running out of his little golf shack and told us the shocking news, quickly piping a live report over his outside speakers. Besides that owner, we were the only three people present at this time. Memory of such sticks in my brain like it was yesterday.

A year or so later I revisited the place on a rather cloudy day. It was just my brother-in-law at this point, with the owner watching us from inside the hut. We’d reminded him beforehand about being there when Reagan was shot, and he remembered things well.

On that second visit, Calvin and I were in a tightly contested game when lightning and thunder came up with a fury. Kansas electrical storms have a way of doing that just like in Arizona. Neither of us wanted to stop even after rain started falling. The owner, evidently afraid that lightning would strike us, handed out a refund including two passes for free games.

A couple of years went by before we drove back to Manhattan solely for the purpose of using those passes, finishing that game, and finally declaring a winner. Pulling into the parking lot, sadly, this golf course was gone with nothing showing that it’d ever been there. That happens a lot to these entertainment facilities as the one in Havasu is testament to.

Something else we often did on our vacations was ride go-carts, especially the Malibu Gran Prix cars in Phoenix and Tucson. Those bigger Malibu cars had 440cc snowmobile engines in them and were quite fast. My daughter was in one of their conventional lawnmower-engine powered rigs. It was her first time behind the wheel.

Most all of these machines have remote kill switches that employees use to stop a cart if something goes wrong. This device didn’t work on Miranda’s when she drove off the track, underneath a chain link fence, ultimately crashing into a big thick hedge. My daughter was unhurt, yet the manager wasn’t where nerves are concerned. This guy was so stressed that he gave us free tickets for additional rides, including drinks. I suppose the fellow had potential lawsuit on his mind although we’re not that type of people.

Havasu at one time had a nice go-cart track located on Lake Havasu Avenue, with it best seen from Highway 95. The cars they used were not on the same caliber of Malibu Gran Prix, but fun to drive, nonetheless. I visited that track a couple of times before it was shutdown, finding things a blast like I generally do with these type of venues.

On another such track in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, sometime in the 1970s, it was extremely hot outside, and the sweltering asphalt was oily and slick. Drivers were told not to leave the course because sand on the outskirts of the raceway would go flying into machines, and they’d have to thoroughly be cleaned before reuse. Doing so was grounds for immediate expulsion.

Thinking there was no way one of these low-horsepower cars could possibly slide off the course, I pushed mine hard into a sharp curve, and it did just that, with me ending up stuck in a sand pit of sorts, something like those sand traps in actual golf courses. They weren’t very happy and I wasn’t allowed to reenter the track for obvious reason.

I’ve scored many hole-in-ones at miniature golf courses over the years, but most likely, I’m one of few people having done so in a go-cart as well. Sometime in the late 1960s, there was a go-cart track in Anchorage, Alaska, three miles from where we lived. I would’ve been around sixteen at the time. This seasonal track was located on Boniface Parkway near a tool rental place. Going there one night with several friends, we raced each other in some doggy, three horsepower, Briggs and Stratton powered carts.

One of the employees suddenly appeared in a cart and blew around us like we were standing still. Observing that he had one hand reaching around back of the engine, I knew exactly what this guy was doing. Having owned gas powered mowers going back to the beginning of time, it’s easy to disable a governor allowing one of these engines to rev beyond its limit.

On our next race, I reached back and opened things up, so to speak, exactly like this attendant had been doing. Whizzing by my friends like my cart was on steroids, a young worker was evidently screaming obscenities at me, although I couldn’t exactly hear what choice words he was using. Just as this employee started to run out on the track and flag me down, my cart backfired with a pop, and then departed this life with a big cloud of blue smoke following. The attendant was extremely angry saying that I’d just put a hole in the piston. Evidently a valve came loose and that’s all she wrote.

When I told this irate fellow I was only copying him, the guy quickly calmed down, probably not wanting such information leaking out to his boss. That’s when my friend, Rod Sanborn, came up from behind and slapped me on the back. Much like golfers do to a fellow player after they’ve hit a hole-in-one, Rod said something like this to me,

“Good job Hankins!”

He didn’t need to tell me. I already knew.