“It seems some things in life are meant to never be forgotten.”
Me – September 1963
If I was to ask most people I meet on the street here in Lake Havasu City, what were they doing on November 22, 1963, the majority would say, “I wasn’t born yet!”
For us old-timers, the answer would be different. I was living in Lubbock, Texas, the day President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. Like the terrorist attack destroying the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, it was an event never to be forgotten.
I was a fourth grader at Reese Elementary School, sitting just outside the main gate to Reese Air Force Base where my father was stationed. We’d just moved to Texas in 1963, finding the weather there much different than Selma, Alabama.
Vintage photos, along with some 8mm movies taken by Mom, showed it was blustery cold that month, with thick hoar-frost covering trees. Dad’s black 1951 Chevrolet had its fair share of ice, with another segment of film showing him scraping the windows clean.
My brother, Jim, and I are in one such movie with coats on, standing outside playing with our Duncan brand spinning tops. They were very popular back then, especially the ones that whistled while spinning.
We became quite good at twirling the toys, having a small concrete patio outside our front mobile home door to practice on. Both of us mastered yo-yos as well, with Jim able to “walk the dog” with his.
This was a clever trick where the yo-yo rolled freely on floor or concrete while you strolled along behind it holding the string. The string had to be lightly tied to the yo-yo center dowel to pull this off. It took skill to do this trick, and unfortunately, as hard as I tried, I never quite mastered the feat.
Flubber balls had also came out sometime during this period, made popular by the Walt Disney movie, “The Absent-Minded Professor”, starring actor Fred MacMurray. I had one of these balls until it exploded in a dozen different pieces. Turned out they didn’t hold up so well when used outdoors in freezing weather.
Several kids brought them to school, tossing the super hard balls down the hallway until they were confiscated, deemed dangerous by some teachers. They probably would’ve knocked a person silly if hit in the head.
On that tragic November Friday, when President Kennedy was killed, we’d just returned from the school lunchroom and were sitting in our room ready for the next lesson. A teacher from another class suddenly came in, evidently telling Mrs. Hagan what happened. Both women left the room with our teacher quickly returning with a television set.
Stunned, we sat there and watched, not quite sure what was going on. When Walter Cronkite announced that the president was dead, through tears, Mrs. Hagan and Mr. Harper, the principal, dismissed us. The whole school was let out at that time. Being that I lived less than a mile away, it was no problem walking home. For the next several days my family watched events unfold on our home TV.
What I recall most about President Kennedy’s funeral was the Civil War era caisson with casket, and riderless black horse named “Black Jack,” as the procession slowly moved down Pennsylvania Avenue to Arlington Cemetery.
The mournful drum cadence never stopped during that whole time—as the mourners and military personnel traveled some three miles. I remember Dad saying that all of the military drums were covered in black fabric. With us owning a black & white television back then, I would’ve never known they were modified had he not said so.
The funeral took place on Monday, November 25. We returned to school on the 26th. I still remember these events just like it was yesterday. It seems some things in life are meant to never be forgotten. Sadly, President John Fitzgerald’s assassination taking place some 60 years ago is one of them.
April 9 for me. Many of my friends turn 70 this year.
My 70th birthday is coming up in April, with my daughter giving me a challenge to write something uplifting about it. I thought hard about what avenue to choose, knowing that a story would take up several pages. It’d be easy to go on and on, about the many things I’m thankful for over the past 69 years. Ultimately—I chose this simple poem.
I started writing the following poem two years ago when I thought Simon was on his way out. Our 14-year-old Pekingese had severe skeletal problems and could hardly stand. My wife and daughter were adamant that something could be done. I wasn’t so believing. Thankfully, the lyrics didn’t have to be finished back then.
After much praying, along with the assistance of Dr. Lange and her associates at Lange Veterinary, we were fortunate to have him around for a wonderful, two more blessed years. Unfortunately, other ailments with no cure recently came along.
Simon’s last ride was to Del Taco on Christmas day, and then to Rotary Park, where he observed Joleen and I make a mess of ourselves eating burritos as we normally do. He also quietly watched the quail, pigeons, and rabbits walking near our car begging for food.
One of his favorite activities while driving around town was look for other doggies, birds, and wildlife. He was fascinated with the cottontails, and when Simon was much younger he tried chasing them to no avail.
Late Christmas evening, Simon got quite sick and became lethargic. The next morning, Tuesday, we rushed him to Stockton Hill Animal Hospital in Kingman as we couldn’t find anyone to see him in Havasu. We understood. There was a multitude of ill pets needing tended to that morning, and a doctor can only see one at a time. I set a record getting to Kingman.
Our little fur baby stayed overnight with them giving him infusions and an IV. Unfortunately, in spite of all the excellent care they couldn’t save our little guy. Blood results showed a failing liver and pancreas.
On Wednesday afternoon, as I walked to the front door of Lietz-Fraze Funeral Home to make arrangements, a black crow stood next to a brownish rabbit, perhaps five feet away from me. At first, I thought they were of the stone variety, yet after stopping and observing, I noticed these guys were real.
The two stood there watching me, totally unafraid, until I went inside. Needing some emotional uplifting at this point, through tears, I took this as a sign that all was going to be okay. I truly believe we’ll see our pets again some day. I’m sure Simon will be up there ready to play.
“Many don’t want to learn the truth because it would go against their own, chiseled-in-stone, biased opinions.”
CBS NEWS before bias became so blatant
a work in progress (unedited)
Social media along with some mainstream news agencies including television and newspapers are now being used as tools to spread erroneous information—this practice seemingly at an all-time high. I make this statement based upon my own personal observation, this after several years of using online forums of all type, along with watching television news, reading papers, or listening to radio talk shows before unrestrained bias reared its ugly head.
The days of Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, and David Brinkley are long gone. Although those deceased news anchors had their political sides, all three men were able to stay unbiased and neutral while reporting. Walter Cronkite was said to be an extreme leftist, yet I could never tell this because he was fair throughout his reporting. Some news announcers today are just the opposite, blatantly telling viewers how they should think.
Yellow Journalism is running amuck amongst several news agencies. Brian Williams, former NBC anchor, was found to have created sensationalistic stories about his time in Iraq during the war. Williams was ultimately given 6 months suspension by NBC before he eventually resigned.
CBS Correspondent Lara Logan was caught lying in her 60 Minutes report about a security contractor who fought a militant and scaled a wall of the Benghazi compound. In the fall of 2013, it was revealed to be entirely untrue and Logan was put on leave by CBS.
MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow was caught lying in 2011 when she accused Rush Limbaugh of racism and cited “birther” remarks he made after Obama’s birth certificate was released. She was forced to apologize to Limbaugh and on the air when NewsBusters reported the video she used was from before the certificate’s release, one year old rather than one day.
The New York Times staff reporter Jayson Blair was caught lying about entire stories, sometimes making up quotes and scenes that never even occurred. The Times called Blair’s lying a “low point in the 152-year history of the newspaper” and fired him on May 1, 2003.
Stephen Randall Glass is an American former journalist. He worked for The New Republic from 1995 to 1998 until it was revealed many of his published articles were fabrications.
Perhaps the biggest news spin that I’ve witnessed in my lifetime, are some journalists and politicians calling January 6, 2021, an insurrection in Washington DC. I watched tape after tape of this activity after they were finally released, seeing nothing more than an out of control political protest.
ANTIFA and BLM protestors did the same numerous times throughout the country, setting fires and causing mass destruction, and those were erroneously called peaceful protests by some news organizations. Going by the New York Times way of looking at things, if January 6 is an insurrection, then the 0.4 tremor hitting Alaska on December 22, 2023, was a full blown earthquake.
Lately, on social media, I’ve never witnessed so many misguided statements, blatant lies, or trolling remarks slung out by individuals for whatever reason, other than perhaps the intent to pull someone’s string or create an illusion. I’m fortunate to still be able to intellectually discern between true and false after researching the facts. Others can do the same but sometimes choose not to.
Some friends and family seem to follow this herd and don’t take time to look into stories, especially where politics is concerned. These folks accept that if a reporter, or anyone for that matter, merely claims that Donald Trump or Joe Biden did such and such, then it must be the gospel truth. Many don’t want to learn the truth because it would go against their own, chiseled-in-stone, biased opinions. The truth is always out there, yet you sometimes have to dig to uncover it.
A case in point is our government’s flawed explanation for the explosion of TWA Flight 800 almost 30 years ago. Mainstream media seemed to finally agree with the FBI that it was faulty wiring inside a fuel tank causing the Boeing 747 to crash, yet suppressed evidence proves otherwise. I’ll never be convinced that it wasn’t a missile, this viewpoint coming from my own simple logic. Too many credible witnesses saw this streak of light or missile heading towards the plane to discount such.
Where social media is concerned, early on, I got suckered like so many others. Over time I ultimately came to grips with the situation, realizing that there are some really slick and sick folks out there mentally speaking, with online forums being their daily playgrounds. I’ll give you several instances on what I’m talking about:
I belong to a group of Nexus RV owners and enjoy reading what they have to say about maintenance and repairs. On more than one occasion, a couple of individuals enter the discussion with nothing good to offer about a particular brand. They let it be known that they no longer own one, yet believe that other owners “need” to hear about their discontent.
Countless times, forum readers tell them to move on but they don’t. I once made a statement that the habitual complainers evidently worked for competitors, which is probably true. That didn’t stop them. Like gum stuck to the sole of a shoe, they continued to toss out snide remarks not even pertinent to the subject on hand. I doubt these people ever owned the brand motorhome they were talking about. The administrators of this site should’ve tossed them off but didn’t.
A truck selling forum I belong to has similar riffraff, yet the trolls seem to be there for a different reason. I’ve watched person after person list their vehicle only to be attacked by someone sitting behind a computer. These troublemakers always start their uncalled for comments by saying the price is much too high—going on to mention that they’ve seen similar trucks in far better condition advertised for less. Before long, other trolls jump in having to offer their two cents. It’s pure recreation for these folks to stir the pot.
Smart sellers ignore these deadbeats and don’t reply back. There are some though that take it personally and retaliate. That’s what the instigators want. I’ve had a few trucks and cars to sell, yet avoided listing them on these free sites just because I don’t like going there. I place my ads on pay sites and don’t have to deal with tire kickers, creeps, and trolls.
Locally, here in Lake Havasu City, we have such an online site where people can toss out unwarranted or unproven information about businesses, even downright slander. I’ve read countless comments where someone eats at a local restaurant and they become incensed, perhaps just because their green beans were cold. At this point, others come out of the woodwork, detailing how they too suffered the same calamity.
They say that birds of a feather flock together, and this particular site is full of such people with nothing better to do than complain about nothing at all. Who really cares if a server was having a bad day and perhaps was a little slow or didn’t seem upbeat. It happens daily throughout the world. People aren’t perfect except for one.
I’ve often wanted to go on that site and write, “Get a life!,” yet doing so would only make things worse, along with making me a troll. Some forum members had the courage to do this with it instantly igniting a keg of dynamite.
A recent tragedy in Bullhead City, Arizona, involving the death of five children, sadly brought out the educationally uninformed along with troublesome trolls in droves on a couple of forums. Erroneous comments were made about the Bullhead Fire Department response time, with social media gadflies taking this unsubstantiated gossip and running with it.
That’s how social media seems to work. People read something, and then instead of investigating whether it’s true or not, instinctively put it out there on the grapevine for all to see. “A friend of a friend of a friend told me this and I’m telling you!”
On Facebook, I’ve seen post after post about this or that, supposedly the information being fact, when in reality their information is as bogus as folks claiming years ago that the earth was flat. These days, whenever I come across information that I deem to be suspicious, whether it be on social media or mainstream news, I think back to the last two lines of that classic piece of poetry at the end of “Nights in White Satin,” by the Moody Blues.
The ending lyrics to “Late Lament” align perfectly for those of us that are wise enough to take time to learn the truth. Unfortunately, many out there are incapable of further research for various reasons. Sadly, these are undoubtedly the ones believing everything they hear on their respective news channels where politics is concerned, and vote accordingly.
There are even people knowing that something’s fake, while at the same time brazenly spreading the word that it’s real. I can think of several politicians that are experts at this, yet will refrain from name dropping to avoid another keg of dynamite going off.
When I finally hear CNN broadcast journalist, Anderson Cooper, inform viewers that red is actually grey, and yellow without question, is white, I’ll know that we’ve reached the end of the road where fake news is concerned. With some news outlets going along with woke agendas and political correctness regarding male and female identity, we’re not that far off.
“LATE LAMENT”
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day’s useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one.
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son.
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold-hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white,
But we decide which is right
And which is an illusion.
Social media and mainstream news are both full of illusions.
“Folklore tells that this tradition dates back to the Civil War when black-eye peas were called field peas and were considered to be food for animals.”
It was always tradition while growing up for Mom to make black-eye peas and collard greens on New Year’s Day. She told me it was a southern thing and was supposed to give a person good luck and prosperity for the coming year.
I did some research on this and found the following information in a 12/31/2013 “Lubbock Avalanche-Journal” newspaper article written by Ellen Peffley. Ms. Peffley’s words pretty much sum up other articles I read on the same subject.
“Of Southern traditions, black-eye peas on New Year’s Day ranks right on top. Folklore tells that this tradition dates back to the Civil War when black-eye peas were called field peas and were considered to be food for animals.
When Sherman’s troops overtook and raided the food supplies of the Confederate South, Union soldiers regarded them as animal feed and left them behind in the fields. The Confederates, however, survived by eating this crop and considered themselves lucky to have had them and, so, the peas became symbolic of luck. Good luck to be gained by eating black-eye peas with greens, such as collards, comes from the symbols of peas as coins and greens as paper money.”
When we lived in Alabama, the black-eye peas Mom cooked were fresh from a vine, with collard greens recently harvested from Grandma’s garden. After moving to Texas, it was harder to find fresh collard greens so she switched to using turnip greens. Mother tossed in a few slices of bacon for flavor and they were quite tasty made this way. On occasion, our black-eye peas were of the frozen variety.
After our family relocated to Alaska—we’d have frozen or canned peas with canned collard or turnip greens. The fresh greens available in Anchorage grocery stores back then was not on the same fresh level as Alabama or Texas.
Sometimes, it appeared the opposite of rigor mortis had set in on their long trip north. Dollar conscious produce managers attempted to revive greens by drowning them in water. The word I’m looking for here is “rotten” and I’m not talking Johnny.
My wife followed through on this tradition and always uses canned for both entities these days. This year, she one-upped things by going with Sylvia’s Southern Style Black-Eye Peas, and Sylvia’s Turkey Flavor Collard Greens ordered online from Wal-Mart. These are supposed to have some added spices for that special southern flavor.
The late Sylvia Woods was a restaurant owner in Harlem, New York, and is still considered the Queen of Soul Food. She hailed from the south before moving east. This family continues to operate the business, having branched off into canned goods as well.
At one time there was a soul food eatery in Fairview, Alaska, called the Blue Bird Café. They served the best “fresh” soul food of any southern style restaurant I’ve ever visited. Unfortunately, it closed down many years ago as the building it was located in was condemned. I’m guessing it was on the same level as Sylvia’s where taste is concerned.
Unable to travel to Harlem for New Years and personally visit Sylvia’s Restaurant, those two 15-ounce cans on the top shelf in our pantry will have to satisfy any soul food craving for now, at least I thought they would.
Before finishing this story, I took a quick look to see what went into making both products, being extremely shocked at the first one—monosodium glutamate (MSG). The last time I ate anything having monosodium glutamate, my heart started pounding like drums in “Little Drummer Boy” (pah rumpa pum pum). To be fair, Sylvia’s isn’t the only brand of canned black-eye peas and collards having MSG in them.
I’ve stayed away from the flavor enhancer since then not wanting a self-inflicted heart attack. Dad had the same problem when he was alive. After eating a salad with MSG he was rushed to the hospital with heart palpitations.
There’s a restaurant here in Lake Havasu City that claims to not use MSG, but whenever I eat certain items from there my blood pressure goes off the chart. I heard through the grapevine by a former employee, that several of their entrees do contain monosodium glutamate.
Some of the other questionable ingredients in Sylvia’s collard greens and black-eye peas are: corn gluten, sodium phosphate, sodium diacetate, silicon dioxide, sodium inosinate, and smoked pork fat. The corn gluten and smoked pork fat seem healthy enough but not the rest. Even more amazing is a label on front claiming heart healthy; definitely not mine with all that MSG.
It appears this year might be the first that I don’t partake of Mom’s traditional New Year’s Day dishes, unless we go to frozen instead of cans. I’m not a believer in the good luck and prosperity part anyway. It seems more of an old wives’ tale than anything.
By declining to eat canned black-eye peas and collard greens cooked via Sylvia’s specially seasoned way, it appears I’ll “stay out of the box” come New Year’s Day. To me, that’s something especially worthy of celebrating.
“I know what the red-nosed reindeer’s talking about!”
Photo credit: Mrs. Claus
I’ve never been a poet or had any musical talent. This Christmas, just for grins, I decided to try and compose a Christmas rap song, or at the minimum, a rap poem about life in our great city.
The hardest part I had in writing was deciding whether to use one particular word in particular, exactly the way it’s spelled. Most L.A. rap artists, of course, wouldn’t have this problem.
I’d been told by my parents early on that it’s a bad word, yet on the other hand, I’ve heard minister after minister say it all the time. I’ve never run across the word in a family newspaper, so I erred on the safe side.
There’s a town in Kansas named this, and undoubtedly that’s the place Rudolph’s talking about, or at least we’ll have to assume he is. Having been through this area when humidity’s up around 70%, I know what the red-nosed reindeer’s talking about!
CHRISTMAS IN HAVASU
The city comes alive with loud Harleys and trucks.
Snowbirds in bunches, some waddlin’ like Oregon ducks.
London Bridge all aglow, with red, white, and blue.
There’s nothin’ like Christmas time, in scenic Lake Havasu.
No snow on the ground, or Jack Frost anywhere.
Folks wearin’ bright shorts—they don’t seem to care.
Santa arrives each Christmas Eve and stays for a brief spell,
Rudolph always sayin’, “Rooftops get hotter than Hale!”
Christmas in Havasu, with lotsa cheer and good will.
Visitors from Canada, eh-scapin’ arctic chill.
Some bring huge RV’s, while dragging tiny cars.
Retired folks aplenty, a few being stars.
Ice skating outdoors, what a sight to see.
Homes lit with colored lights, most all L-E-D.
Inflatables in yards, making soft whirring sounds.
Tall vinyl snowmen, wind often takes them down.
From Aloha Lane, Felicidad Circle, to Quiero Drive,
The jolly one’s on his way, he’s soon to arrive.
With most Havasu homes lacking fireplace chimneys,
It’s good ole Saint Nick knows how to jimmy.
Deadbolt locks aplenty in this college town.
He cracks them open without the slightest sound.
Inside homes and apartments in the blink of an eye.
Dropping his presents, those reindeer then must fly.
When Christmas is over, he’ll be back come June.
Kris and his missus rent a condo and pontoon.
Strolling through local shops, totally incognito,
Mrs. Claus often tell folks, “We’re the Kringles from San Bernadino!”
“I wouldn’t trade this memorable experience for the same in a comfy, king-size-bed in Marriott’s ritziest hotel.”
Christmas is near, with most boys and girls not expecting to find a lump of coal in their stockings. The ones expecting coal are on Santa’s naughty list. Evidently, I never made that notorious list because coal was not one of my gifts. The closest I came was one year getting black licorice. I don’t know how anyone can eat that horrible stuff!
My grandparents on the Hankins side were very poor. Grandpa Hankins worked as a painter and wall paperer, yet when jobs were hard to come by, Grandpa and Grandma barely made ends meet. I’m positive that my parents helped them at times although this was never mentioned to us boys. I only know about it from eavesdropping as a kid.
My father had connections to coal, as did my late cousin Randall McDaniel. Randall was a geologist and spent most of his working life in that occupation in the Birmingham, Alabama, area, a good portion of his career studying rock formations below ground. Before this took place, he proudly served four years in the US Marine Corp.
Dad’s stint in the coal business was on a different level. Sometime early on in life he dropped out of school and went to work delivering coal, wood, and other things to help supplement his parent’s meager income. I’m not sure if they expected him to help out but he did so regardless.
Eventually, making enough money to go in partners with a friend, Dad and his pal purchased a truck and ventured out on their own. I have a picture of him standing in front of this vehicle. Undoubtedly it wasn’t a huge success because a few years later, after getting his GED, my father joined the Air Force.
He still sent his folks money, because once again, I recall Dad and Mom talking about how much should they write the check for. My parents were struggling financially, yet still made it a point to send them something.
During Christmas season sometime in the late 1950s, we traveled to Vernon, Alabama, to spend time with both sets of grandparents. Stopping at Grandpa and Grandma Hankins’s house overlooking town, Dad found that they didn’t have any coal or wood for their fireplace. I remember him being upset because they hadn’t wrote and told them—with it freezing cold in the drafty old home. Dad immediately ordered a load of coal and wood.
My brother and I enjoyed combing through the coal pile, because on occasion we’d find a chunk with the imprint of a prehistoric leaf on one side. We were generally black with coal dust afterwards—ordered to bathe in a galvanized steel tub with water heated on an old wood stove. I’m sure my dad considered this a waste of precious wood, and probably gave us a lecture on wastefulness.
Grandpa and Grandma Hankins, Dad, Jim, and me (1957)
At night, Grandma made sure Jim and I were warm by giving us extra quilts for after the fire went out. There were no extra beds so the four of us visitors slept on the floor which had cracks throughout. It’s something I’ll never forget, and I wouldn’t trade this memorable experience for the same in a comfy, king-size-bed in Marriott’s ritziest hotel.
After my grandparents died, their decrepit wood house built in the late 1800s was razed, and a road now goes through where it once sat. In 1977, we traveled through Vernon and stopped at the exact spot where this house once stood. It was a sad experience.
Trying to figure out where everything was originally situated, we came across an area with coal particles still dotting the ground. Kicking around at the soil, I uncovered a small chunk of coal and pocketed it. I still have that lump stashed with other significant mementoes.
The worthless blob of coal means much to me, yet after I’m gone, and the kids go through my treasures, they’ll come across it and undoubtedly contemplate giving things a toss. If they still have a keen sense of humor, Gunnar and Miranda will immediately seize the opportunity for a joke,
“It appears the old man was on Santa’s naughty list!”
What they won’t realize by holding it, is that a simple load of coal delivered on a freezing winter day, was undoubtedly one of the best Christmas gifts that their great grandparents ever received!
Large X is where the house once sat – Small x is where coal pile once sat.
