Author: michaeldexterhankins

I don’t watch that much television anymore, not that there isn’t something educational to be gleaned from it. There is!

Take vintage westerns for example. I discovered after viewing hundreds of them, that some Colt revolvers shoot eight, nine, or ten times before reloading. Gun aficionados will know what I’m talking about here. For those not up to speed, there are only six bullets in an early Colt cylinder.

Another thing observed on my Samsung flatscreen is that stagecoach and covered wagon wheels sometimes turn backwards, at least the ones on “Wagon Train” do.

My reason to avoid watching TV lies with all the solicitations.  It seems almost every other commercial has a hand reaching out of the screen for my credit card. It’s bad enough when telemarketers attempt such through the phone during lunch or dinner.

Some of the donation queries are okay with me, like Alec, and his brave friends at Shriners Hospitals for Kids. The Disabled Vets, Wounded Warriors, and Gary Sinise Foundation can have all the airtime they want. I won’t specifically mention those solicitations irritating me most, because undoubtedly, I’d ruffle a few feathers. One in particular uses “the guilt trip” as a means to coerce money from viewers.

Over the years, there have been several charities asking for funds that I questioned, and after a bit of research, discovered a good percentage of their donated revenue went for administrative costs, namely wages. It’s not hard to find this data online, because there are public watchdog groups searching for unscrupulous charities and reporting them.

“The Center for Investigative Reporting” is one of these groups. They maintain a list of the worst offenders where stockpiling contributions and using the funds in a misappropriate manner is concerned.

On Facebook, a friend sent me a link where I could donate money via credit card to their good cause, a Ukraine relief charity. I took a few minutes in an attempt to look it up, coming across an FBI advisory warning against similar sites. It didn’t specifically mention this one as being corrupt, claiming instead that there are hundreds of bogus offices out there.

I suppose most everyone has a “good cause” that they either back via monetary donations or volunteering. My preference here in Havasu is the Western Arizona Humane Society, including Hospice of Havasu. I believe my contributions to these two organizations are wisely spent.

A day will come when television viewers are solicited for donations to help with the climate change cause. I won’t feel guilty in not writing them a check, because in a roundabout way, my wife and I are already contributing.

According to climate change experts, fossil fueled vehicles contribute greatly to warming of the atmosphere. With it being a colder than normal winter in Arizona, and the continental United States, what better reason is there for keeping gas and diesel burners on the road.

With two in our garage, perhaps a third is needed to help further the cause!

I generally don’t like talking about myself because there’s not a whole lot to say, other than, old, fat, and gray. Being that I’ve reached what’s called “writer’s block,” now seems as good a time as any to sit back in my easy chair, pull out an imaginary Cherrywood pipe from my gray tweed smoking jacket, and have what radio talk-show hosts refer to as, an open Mike.

A good friend once asked, “Where did you learn to write?” It only took a few seconds to reply, because I still have good memory, sometimes.

Mrs. Doris Harris, my first-grade teacher, taught me the alphabet, via my printing out each letter on a Big Chief notebook, using carrot size pencils. Mrs. Gladys Wood in third grade was also very instrumental in helping me keep words between the lines.

Mrs. Drake in fifth grade criticized my fiction story assignment, although I worked through the psychological trauma. Mrs. Turner in sixth grade helped considerably by praising the stuff I composed, while Mr. Slama in junior high did the same. Before I reached high school instructor’s names, my friend asking the question stopped me short.

“No, no, I mean where does your mindset come from in the creative writing process?”

Why didn’t he say that to begin with! The foremost answer to that question is a man by the name of, Edward Boyd. Mr. Boyd was a friend’s father in Anchorage, Alaska. He was a very successful businessman, real estate broker, outdoorsman, and most especially, dad to his three children, Larry, Caroline, and Jeanie.

The late Ed Boyd was also a prolific writer, having two published books to his credit, “Wolf Trail Lodge” and “Alaska Broker.” If anyone was a mentor to my writing style, Ed was that person.

He wrote lucid, well thought out Letters to the Editor, stepping on people’s toes along the way, while making them laugh at the same time. Ed always got his point across, which was what he’d initially set out to do.

Ed Boyd had a unique way of looking at things and an uncanny means of putting thoughts to paper. I’ll never be able to emulate the man’s writing, but I try, always coming up short.

One editorial in particular clings in my noggin like a wad of Wrigley’s chewing gum stuck under a restaurant table. Anchorage, Alaska has a public transportation system called, People Mover. It’s made up of some fifteen buses running throughout various city routes. Mr. Boyd’s Pioneer Realty office overlooked C Street and Northern Lights Boulevard in the 1970s.

In his newspaper editorial, he made mention of always seeing these large buses driving by with empty seats. The sight of such bothered him as it did others. The metropolis of Anchorage, like all big cities, had a homeless population even back then, made up mostly of substance abusers. Alcohol abuse and drug use was a big problem in Alaska and still is.

Ed Boyd’s suggestion was to allow these homeless individuals to ride the shuttles, as a means during winter for them to stay warm, come summer, keep out of the rain, which it does quite often. Of course, after his “opinion” was out there, he received plenty of static from the snowflake crowd. Yep, they were alive and well back then too!

Mr. Boyd got his message across loud and clear, with that being People Mover buses were a waste of tax paper money, and they might as well be used constructively, instead of burning diesel fuel and polluting the air for naught. I remember chuckling at his excellent suggestion.

Edward Marvin Boyd died on April 25, 2012, in Bellevue, Washington, at the age of 94. The man left behind a legacy in many areas, but for me, he’ll aways be at the top where elite Alaskan writers are concerned. Attempting to follow in his footsteps where my compositions are concerned will never be accomplished.

There’s not much else to be said about my writing style other than perhaps one additional thing. Like Edward Boyd, another published author I try to emulate yet always come up way short is best known for, The Ten Commandments. I’m not referring to the movie version starring Charleston Heston, but the original stone tablets engraved with a finger.

As they often do, the embers in my imaginary pipe have just went cold. Like Elvis, I too have left the building!

I’ve never voluntarily used tobacco products. Thankfully, I was born with a working brain. Involuntarily using tobacco products is another subject.

I suppose you might say I smoked cigarettes, without ever picking one up. My parents early on were chain smokers. I don’t know how many cartons of Pall Mall’s they consumed during my tenure at home, but I bet it’d be a railroad car full. My brother and I were forced to breathe their secondhand smoke, with it eventually taking a toll on my body. Bronchitis now comes easy.

I still remember a certain camping trip ruined because of this addiction on their part. In 1965, we drove to the mountains of Tres Ritos, New Mexico, from Lubbock, Texas, in a 1963 Buick station wagon. Dad and Mom puffed away the whole time we were in the vehicle, with it being hot outside and the air-conditioner going full speed ahead. Somewhere along the way, I developed a headache so bad that I thought I was going to die. My head was throbbing hard enough that I puked several times.

Dad deviated from his planned route and stopped at a small medical clinic in a town I no longer remember. They diagnosed me with infected sinuses, not saying of course, that all the smoke floating around in our car caused it. I suppose that would’ve been politically incorrect back then for them to claim such, since a good many doctors and nurses were hardcore smokers.

I don’t entirely blame parents for my medical shortcomings. For many years, smoking was allowed in the workplace, and I spent my share of time working alongside guys and gals with Marlboro’s or Camel’s hanging from their lips. Eventually, I had enough and circulated a petition asking for signatures of employees like me, wanting such activity snuffed out in the building. By the end of that day the list was full.

One morning, before leaving for work, I came out of the house finding my unlocked truck cab full of smoke. Someone had lit one and stuck it in the ashtray, and it sat there and smoldered. I knew who’d done the dastardly deed but could never prove such. It wasn’t long before smokers at our shop were ordered to “do their thing” outside. I was successful here, with plenty of backing from others, but enemies had been made along the way.

I didn’t stop there. On Friday and Saturday nights, in Anchorage, Alaska, my wife and I along with our two children attended the University of Alaska – Anchorage Seawolves hockey games at Sullivan Arena. We had season tickets. Directly behind our seats sat Dr. Kevin Park and his wife and child. Kevin was a friend from high school. Smoking was allowed in the stadium at this time in one section, that being where all the concessions and restrooms were. Kevin made mention of having to walk through a cloud to get to either, which gave me an idea.

I wrote a Letter to the Editor of our newspaper advocating that people attending hockey games, should they come down with any respiratory illnesses afterwards, send their medical bills to the Municipality of Anchorage for them to pay. At the next game, Dr. Park congratulated me, saying it was well written and positively taken within the local medical community.

Before that season was up, the Anchorage City Council voted to have smoking totally banned in the arena. I wasn’t the sole reason for them doing so, because after my letter was published, many more letters poured into the newspaper from doctors, nurses, and other hockey fans. That’s all water under the bridge now and I’m thankful for the outcome.

What spurred me to even write this piece is quite unusual, as least I think it is. I just came back from a Lake Havasu City convenience store where I often go to purchase peppermint candies. These are the round hard ones with stripes, covered with a clear cellophane wrapper. I’m addicted to these things.

When I first stopped at this gas station after its grand opening, it was fairly pristine outside. The parking lot was free of debris as was the surrounding landscape. This morning, taking time to look around, I spotted hundreds of cigarette butts lying on the ground. How did they get there? Why weren’t they properly disposed of in the numerous cigarette butt receptacles provided by this company. Go figure!

After opening one of my peppermint candies, I simply stuck the used wrapper in a trash receptacle also provided. Sometimes I put them in my pocket to be disposed of later. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the right thing to do here.

Thankfully, I was born with a working brain.

When residents of Lake Havasu City first received word they’d be getting large trash and recycling cans on wheels like other modern cities, there was a big hullabaloo over the decision. Some folks complained they wouldn’t be able to take these contraptions down steep driveways without disaster. I’d imagine there were a few spectacular crashes, but I never read about them in the newspaper.

A few disgruntled people didn’t like the color and suggested more of a desert hue. Leave them out in the blazing Arizona sun long enough and they’ll eventually turn that way. Some residents just saw red. I’m thinking it’s been at least three years now since these receptacles came into our lives, but who’s keeping track?

We’ve had ours long enough to have a few good stories to share. It seems weather has been a great factor behind most of them. For whatever reason, Havasu winds seem to start blowing on Sunday night, and not stop until after the trash trucks have done their job.

“Vince” and “Larry” have taken countless tumbles because of this common, at least around these parts, phenomenon. If you’re wondering who Vince and Larry are, they’re the names I gave to my plastic buddies. Vince is trash while Larry’s recycling. I switch them around on occasion, so that no longtime psychological damage is done.

You might remember Vince and Larry as being crash test dummies on the long running, National Traffic Safety Foundation, television commercials. Well, my blue buddies have also taken a beating and kept on ticking, although not on the same level as being inside vehicles that continually run into brick walls.

I’ve found these two guys, uninvited, trespassing in neighbor’s yards, flipped over, spilling their guts out throughout the landscape. It’s amazing how fast aluminum soda cans roll down the street with Mariah pushing them. If you’re now wondering who Mariah is, undoubtedly, you weren’t here fifty five years ago.

This lovely name comes from the 1965 movie, Paint Your Wagon, starring Jean Seberg, Clint Eastwood, and Lee Marvin. A popular song in that film titled, “They Call the Wind Mariah” was sung by Harve Presnell. I call the wind Mariah on certain occasions along with some unfavorable names as well, such as “stinking” and “darn.”

Cans have been discovered loitering in our driveway as I backed out of the garage. One of them managed to roll a distance of five houses, remain upright, before parking itself directly in my path. Our next door neighbor’s can slid down the road in pure agony before stopping outside our front door. I could hear it coming.

Thinking that perhaps I’d came up with a superb plan for keeping their mouths closed during strong gusts, I taped Vince and Larry’s shut. It worked a bit too well because after the garbage trucks had come and gone, both cans were still full. Since that time, I’ve experimented and found just the right combination. Clear packing tape works best especially when rain is present, with just a slight amount taped to the lid so it’ll break free when dumped.

Vince and Larry are a little banged up from all they’ve gone through but they’re tough and resilient. I believe Vince might’ve been struck by a sleepy driver early one morning, but thankfully, nothing on our security cameras showed such. He has a nice indention on one of his backside corners evidently caused by a vehicle bumper, ironically matching the height of ours.

I only hope they survive for as long as I’m around. I’ve become quite attached to these guys, enough so, that I truly appreciate the thankless job they do!

New Year’s Eve is here and gone, and I didn’t make a single “new” resolution. I quit doing so several years ago figuring it was a waste of time. My ongoing resolution for over a decade is to stay healthy, upright, and out of the box. Everything else seems second-fold, at least to me it does.

I just read a newspaper article written by an anonymous person dictating that my mindset is flawed. That could very well be because family and friends have echoed this for ages.

This unknown writer said that a Rush University study showed it’s healthy for seniors to have yearly goals, because they help offset Alzheimer’s. That’s a perfectly valid reason. I know several people who’ve gone through this terrible disease and they’re no longer here. They, along with their family, suffered immensely.

The article went on to state that seniors should set goals at eliminating clutter in their home. This is considered a safety move, because the older a person gets, the easier it is to take a tumble. Broken hips and pelvises are to be avoided, especially for Havasu’s “Over-The-Hill-Gang.” Most of them already know that. There are still a few crazies amongst the group doing dangerous things, like trying to lift heavy things without help.

Just what clutter to get rid of can be mindboggling. Never mind that some of my tools are no longer used. They must stay regardless! It’s borderline sacrilegious for a gearhead to dispose of his or her tools. Right now, I have both eyes pointed towards my wife’s clutter more than anything. So far, she’s resisted my advice on what needs to disappear.

Another senior resolution brought up in this column is to get all medical stuff in proper order. Evidently, that means having a current list of all the medications you take, including a file for Medicare, insurance, and other papers. I’m not the most organized person in that area, sometimes not giving a rip on what’s inside those countless letter’s seniors receive, spewing unwanted healthcare advice. As long as my pharmacy gives me pills without hassle, I’m a happy camper.

Making new social contacts is also on this person’s recommendation list. Reconnecting with old friends is one of the items mentioned. Mark that one off my list because I started doing such years back. I located former friends all the way back to elementary school, including first-grade teacher, Mrs. Doris Harris.

For the most part, I wholeheartedly agree with what this article said. A couple of things mentioned I’ll start doing. I didn’t need to make any senior resolutions this year, because someone else made them for me!

One of the things I like most about living in Arizona, is that I don’t have to go far to find seclusion away from all the city lights, and do some serious stargazing. When light pollution’s at a minimum, it’s easy to spot satellites circling overhead and meteors heading across the sky. For my wife and I, this is directly out our backdoor.

The same could be said in Alaska although I don’t recall that many “shooting stars” as we called them. I suppose those folks living in the bush communities saw them all the time. In Anchorage, unlike parts of Lake Havasu City, there was a constant glow above the city preventing such.

Joleen and I would drive to Bird Creek some twenty miles out of Anchorage and watch for celestial anomalies. It was winter when we did this, because during summer months, the sun barely set before it popped up again.

The darkest place I ever observed stars while in Alaska was on LaTouche Island in Prince William Sound. There were five of us camping there in late fall, and we were the only inhabitants. At that time of year the days were getting shorter. In a few months the moon would reign supreme over the sun.

Around midnight, my son and I stepped outside the old cabin we were staying in and turned off our flashlights. I’ve never seen the Alaskan stars brighter than at that one spot alone. It was as pitch black as it gets, unless you’re standing in a tunnel or cave.

People say that the Northern Lights or Aurora Borealis, whatever you prefer to call them, snap, crackle, and pop at certain intervals. I can vouch for that, having heard them do so one time. It’s easy for me to recall exactly when that happened because it was on New Year’s Eve.

On December 31, 1970, good friend, Bob Malone, my brother, Jim, and I decided to go late night snowmobiling to bring in the New Year. It was no problem doing such as we could drive the machines from our front yards, across Muldoon Road, and be in the sticks within minutes.

That particular night was bone chilling cold, at least minus ten degrees Fahrenheit or colder. We were dressed appropriately, wearing Arctic parkas, thermal lined pants, bunny boots, and facemasks. Bunny boots are military grade rubberized boots with an air chamber built within to hold the heat. They are white in color, thus I believe that’s where their unusual name came from.

We were a couple of miles in the woods, away from any noise besides our own making, and the Northern lights were dancing like never before. Multicolored ribbons of light jetted back and forth as if perfectly choreographed. All they needed was music to complete the show.

Bob suggested that we stop and turn off our machines. Listening closely, we heard a sound much like that of static electricity as you remove a nylon garment. It was quite pronounced. Some might say the crackling resembled a bowl of Rice Krispies after milk had been poured on top.

We sat there for several minutes listening to this peculiar crackling before deciding it was time to head home. The year 1971 had arrived in most spectacular fashion.

I only hope that 2023 repeats the same here in Arizona, in the way of a colossal shooting star with shimmering white tail. One thing I won’t be doing, is wearing a parka and bunny boots while watching for it.

Happy New Year!

During the last thirty years, at Christmas time, I tried writing the most crazy and bizarre Christmas letters and cards of all. They were sent to select family and friends. Some were borderline genius if I may say so, while others crashed and burned. That’s the way it is in writing humor. Like standup comedians, there are those compositions that fall flat on their face.

This year for Christmas, I decided to do something different. Three stories were composed about my friend, Jeff, and myself. As far as I know they’ve never been told, at least not by me. This is the third and final one. Much like the storyline, working through ailments has placed me a bit behind schedule. I’ve been writing day and night to get things finished.

*****************************************************

My friend, Jeff Thimsen, decided on a career as a carpenter and contractor early on in life. I believe a major part of his choice revolved around Jesus Christ having done the same, including good family friend, neighbor, and mentor, Maver Roth. Jeff worked with Maver on several construction projects throughout high school and after graduation. Roth taught Jeff many of his tricks of the trade.

Eventually, Jeff headed out on his own, doing framing and other related projects under the name, Thimsen Construction. I was one of, if not his first hired employee. A framing contract awarded to Jeff by CAPP HOMES out of Washington State required the assistance of at least one laborer, mainly to help set heavy walls into place.

The project was at Mackey Lake in Soldotna, Alaska. We’d be staying in a tent and roughing it so to speak. It sounded like a camping trip to me with pay so I was eager to get started.

Electricity was provided to the site, but all other amenities were up to us. Thankfully, Solid Rock Bible Camp was but a short distance away. We were able to obtain a hot meal, sandwiches, and water from the camp counselors, most especially, Steve Larson, one of Jeff’s good friends. Not being moochers, we left a donation to the facility for food. Solid Rock also let us bathe in the cold waters of their adjoining lake via bathing suits of course.

When I first saw the huge pile of wood at our construction site, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. It was hard to imagine that amount of material being handled by two people. Jeff’s simple response was, “One piece at a time!”

By the first day we pretty much had the floor down, this accomplished by working well into the night. Using flood lights, and with help from the almost never setting sun, we motored along until well past midnight. The tap, tap, tap, of our hammers echoed like gunfire across the lake. Someone on the other side started yelling for us to stop, but we kept on going, figuring there was no noise ordinances in rural Soldotna.

The third day, Jeff accidentally stepped on a nail putting it through his right heel into bone. His foot swelled like a baked persimmon, and we deemed it best to go straight to a doctor. This was after he tried working in pain for a couple of hours. We made a quick dash to Anchorage where my friend received a tetanus shot plus thick bandages. There was a short time schedule for getting this job done so back to Soldotna we headed.

Needing to make up for lost time we worked once again to midnight, hearing the same profanities coming at us as the evening before. In our way of viewing things, the guy doing all the screaming could’ve simply put in earplugs if our noise was that irritating.

Trying to erect the first large wall, Jeff and I found that we didn’t quite have the umph to get it all the way up. Steve Larson came to our rescue once again after we picked him up. His strong back and brawn came in handy numerous times after.

The roof pitch was a steep 8/12, so it took me some getting used to being up there. If I fell, on one side there was soft dirt, the other end was where the lake met damp earth. It was quite a drop into cold water at that point. Initially, Jeff worked with a rope tied around his waist while I held tight on the other side. Eventually, scraps of wood were nailed down for foot support.

The hardest part of the whole job besides raising and setting heavy roof trusses, was installing a twenty-foot-long glulam support beam. Steve Larson again risked his life on this task. We tied a rope onto one end of the beam and lifted it into a precut slot. The other side was manhandled with young backs, long boards, and ropes. It took a while, but we were successful and uninjured.

Seeing that we could finish things in one more day and meet schedule, Jeff and I rose early that morning and worked until three a.m. Our friend across the lake cursed us incessantly until he evidently ran out of breath. When we heard what sounded like a gunshot, Jeff decided that he meant business. Having almost completed our job, it was wise to hit the sack.

No sooner did we fall asleep than headlights rolled up to our tent entrance. We had a handgun and I reached for it expecting the worse. A bright spotlight suddenly illuminated our tent, with a demanding voice coming across a tinny sounding loudspeaker,

“This is the state troopers. Is anyone in there. If so, come out slowly.”

I wisely slid the gun back under my pillow, with Jeff and I carefully crawling out in our skivvies.

The trooper wanted to know if we were the ones doing all the hammering. It should’ve been quite obvious to him that we were, because this was the only home being framed within miles.

After giving him our story about how the job needed to be done by a certain date to avoid penalty, and Jeff hurting his leg, he seemed sympathetic to our problem. The officer gave us a warning to not work past ten at night. What he didn’t make clear was on how early we could start, and Jeff didn’t ask. I wanted to say that we were workaholics, believing he’d find humor in such, yet my mouth had gotten me in trouble many time before so I kept it closed.

Needing just a few more boards nailed together and wanting to get out of that cramped tent for our comfortable apartment back in Anchorage, we were once again pounding nails in less than an hour. As expected, the man across the pond started yelling.

As a final coup de grace to the whole experience, Jeff tapped out that infamous door knock on a hollow bedroom wall, “Tap – tappa tap tap – tap tap.” At that point we quickly packed up tools and rolled out of town.

Jeff went to a successful building career, while I worked a couple of years with a friend owning C&K Construction, pouring concrete with some framing during the winter. I finally went into the automotive field finding that more to my liking.

There’s a section of roof truss in that Mackey Lake home having the following inscription written in pencil:

Jeff and Mike – 1973

I drove by that house a while back finding that it still stood tall. This was a testament to our hard work, blood, sweat, and boxes of sixteen-penny-nails pounded by hand, around the clock for a week, nearly fifty years ago.

Some stories are best left untold for many reasons. I have several that will always remain that way. I’m sure family and friends echo the same.

The following story was in my upstairs confidential file for over fifty years.

Rather than keep things under wraps until the secret’s lost for good, I decided this cat needed out of the bag. Tooting one’s own horn also comes into play before the battery goes completely dead. This tale can now be unleashed without harm to anyone.

One of the major class accomplishments of East Anchorage High School – Class of 1972 – was a mural in the senior courtyard. Our motto: Future Goals We Will Pursue – Senior Class Of ’72 was proudly painted on one wall. On the outside cinder block, this could be viewed from within through numerous windows.

After our graduation ceremony, I talked to a former classmate slated to graduate in 1973. He still had one week of school left. The guy bragged that his class had constructed a large banner with their own motto, The Guiding Light To A World That’s Free, Senior Class of ’73. They intended to place it over ours. That was overt disrespect in my mind, yet I bit my tongue and said nothing.

A few juniors went on the school roof late Friday afternoon, May 26, with permission, after classes let out, unfurling their Class of ’73 banner, totally obliterating our message. Students returning on Monday morning would see this for the first time, at least that was their plan.

After getting wind of such, I immediately called my friend, Jeff Thimsen. Telling him what I’d heard, he already knew about it. His girlfriend, Laura Kile, was behind the making of this banner. Telling Jeff what I wanted to do, my friend was highly skeptical at first, not wanting to cause any relationship problems.

I eventually persuaded him by saying I’d be the one doing the dirty work, and he’d merely be an innocent bystander. My television hero, Larry Mondello, came to mind when I pleaded with Jeff for assistance.

Around midnight on May 28, dressed in dark clothing, we scurried to the rear of this sprawling complex, stopping at a large electrical conduit secured to a corner wall. The pipe went all the way to the roof. Our car had been left in a mortuary parking lot down the street so as not to raise suspicion.

It took some effort to climb the pole with my needing assistance from Jeff to get over the edge. Crouched down while running, within seconds the senior courtyard came into view. It took little energy on our part to free the newly constructed banner and send it gently to ground with barely a rumple.

Thinking all was cool, a custodian evidently mopping floors was near this area when the sign came loose. It must’ve startled him as I could see the guy staring out a window, fixated on the collapsed banner below us.

We stepped back and sat quietly for several minutes as he walked outside and lit a cigarette. It’s a known fact that smokers will seize any given opportunity for a fix and this fellow proved such. It seemed like an hour passed before he finally reached total nicotine satisfaction.

With him taking one last drag before closing the door, we quickly scurried back to the area we’d climbed. A Loomis private security vehicle slowly rolled around the building at this time performing a nightly security check. Many such employees were moonlighting military service members back then. Evidently this guy, half asleep, wasn’t very observant or he would’ve spotted our silhouettes against the bright moon. It would’ve then become a race to escape.

Thankfully, the Loomis employee soon wheeled back onto Northern Lights Boulevard having completed his mission. With hearts pounding, we quickly slid halfway down the pipe and then jumped the rest of the way to expedite things. From that point we hightailed it into adjoining woods for a short spell.

I never heard what the students putting that banner up thought when they came to school Monday morning. Most likely, like that lone janitor, they blamed it on wind. There’s an old song titled, They Call the Wind Mariah. On that night, the wind was named, Jeff & Mike.

Our class motto undoubtedly remained in view for one more day because of this symbolic act. That was our first pursued goal after leaving school with bigger ones yet to follow.

Looking back, it was a good thing we were the ones doing the pursuing that evening, instead of being the pursued!

It was Friday, June 2, 1972, and school was finally out for the summer. Big things were planned to take place that afternoon. Not since that day has this ever happened again in Anchorage, Alaska, and probably never will without quick response from law enforcement.

Organizing our own personal parade, was the last thing left unaccomplished on an otherwise stellar year of innocent juvenile hijinks. Leading forty yellow buses down Lake Otis Parkway in my purple, 1954 Chevrolet “Hot Rod” was the ultimate touché for me and my pal.

Being seniors at East High, we’d graduated one week earlier. Our celebration for twelve years of imprisonment was a late-night meal at Leroy’s Pancake House, along with dessert at Flapjack Jim’s right down the street. We needed a more grandiose farewell than that.

Buses leaving our school parking lot each afternoon went different directions on their way out. Our carefully planned parade unfortunately wouldn’t work there because of such. This wasn’t the case at Service High.

The buses at that facility formed a one-mile line down Abbott Loop Road before most of them turned onto Lake Otis Parkway for another five-mile jaunt. We decided Service High was the perfect place for our celebration to begin.

The day before, things were surveyed to see exactly how and when the vehicles departed. They all exited from the same turnout which made things easy. Friday afternoon, several minutes before the last bell, we positioned ourselves on Abbott Loop Road just beyond that point.

As the buses started rolling, Jeff wheeled in front of them. The plan was to never leave first gear which made for a maximum of 20 MPH. My old car was a stick shift.

Within seconds, we were “Grand Marshals” of a parade far bigger than some found in rural American harvest festivals. As we slowly led the convoy, Jeff and I waved to those watching. The sight was definitely something to behold.

For what seemed like an eternity we led our entourage with tears rolling down both faces and cheeks. I was afraid to turn around and look but my compadre gave me constant updates. Some twenty minutes later we arrived at Tudor Road. That was where our parade ended, or at least we thought it did.

Changing seats, I dropped Jeff off at his house and headed home. As I rolled into my driveway a police car was already there. Mom was standing at our door talking to a man in blue. We’d cleverly concocted a story just in case this happened. When the officer asked me what was going on I innocently informed him,

“Something’s wrong with the steering.”

He didn’t buy my story and pressured me into telling who the other person was in my car. I was then given a ticket for impeding traffic. Evidently, that’s all they could legally hang me for. Thankfully, there were no vehicle safety inspection stations in Alaska back then, so my Chevy was off the hook.

Jeff had the same experience and also received an impeding traffic ticket. My pal told the policeman the same fabricated tale which sealed the deal in that respect. Being juveniles, we were instructed to have our parents accompany us to court. Jeff’s dad came with him, and my mom chaperoned me.

The judge wasn’t pleased to hear what happened saying that we jeopardized the lives of many people that day. I’m not sure Jeff and I went along with his analogy, but for the sake of not incurring further wrath, we agreed with him. Our fines were something like $15 apiece which was a bit steep.

Being Co-Grand Marshal of a parade lasted for a mere twenty minutes, yet I relish that title as much as any. Roy Rogers once led a parade I attended in Victorville, California. He rode his white horse “Trigger” and made quite a spectacle with fancy saddle and clothing. My brother said that people cheered him on.

Jeff and I did much the same as Roy Rogers while driving a purple ’54 Chevrolet. You know, when I think about it, I believe people were cheering for us that day. I’m sure the bus driver directly behind our rear bumper said a few choice words, and might’ve even given us a hand salute, minus four fingers of course.

I never thought I’d be writing a story about my own COVID 19 experience. I’m “Mr. Protocol” when it comes to following CDC guidelines where disease or virus prevention is concerned.

Masks are worn religiously into grocery stores, medical facilities, banks, you name it. Hand sanitizer is within the door pocket of my car along with saline nose spray. I use the spray on occasion although it’s not proven to stop the COVID virus. Far as I know these germs end up “bodysurfing” on the stuff.

I’m that half-awake guy you see pushing a cart when grocery stores first open, or right before they close to minimize contact with other customers. It’s amazing how fast things go when you’re the only person in an aisle. There’s a purpose for all this madness.

Not only am I high risk, but my wife is especially so. A former cancer patient now in remission, her oncologist deemed it best I do all the shopping and leave her at home. A majority of this is accomplished online and through picking up necessary items afterwards at a designated parking spot. All’s been hunky-dory going on three years now.

Early one Sunday morning as I sat at this computer writing a short story, I suddenly sneezed four times. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to block the first one with my hands. I chalked it up to those pesky Arizona allergies.

Later that day, as I watched the Miami Dolphins get spanked by the Los Angeles Chargers, I noticed a sore throat coming on. Whenever that happens, I automatically go on alert for bronchitis popping up. At least once a year right around the holidays, like clockwork, I experience such. Before going to bed that night, I gargled with warm salt water. Mom taught me that old Alabama remedy early on.

Monday morning my throat felt like a raw piece of meat. Having a runny nose, I was coughing with no fever. There was something different about this cough like no other cases of bronchitis I had. Immediately, I called my doctor, who I asked to let me begin a regimen of Azithromycin. Giving him all my vitals along with what I was experiencing, he obliged. It’s been the same ole routine for many years with several physicians.

Before venturing to the pharmacy, I decided to do one last thing. I arranged to have a drive-thru COVID 19 test performed at the same time. Thinking the worst about a swab stuck up my nose, this procedure was actually a piece of cake. Within two hours test results came back showing I was positive.

My next step was to call my primary physician and give him the updated news. He told me to follow through with the ZPACK for any bacterial germs that might crop up, along with drinking plenty of fluids and get sufficient rest.

Being an analytical kind of guy, I wondered exactly where I got the crud. It didn’t take long to reach a conclusion.

My wife and I were discussing this and remembered that she’d been sneezing three or four days previous with a unique cough. Joleen chalked it up to allergies or a side effect to the Prednisone she was on. Unlike me, she had no sore throat and felt pretty good other than being tired. Who isn’t this time of year!

When I suggested that she get a COVID test just to make sure, Joleen agreed. It too came back positive.

My wife had only been to one place the preceding two weeks and that was a lab here in town. I choose not to specifically identify it and you’ll soon see why.

When she returned home that morning I asked how many wore masks in the lab waiting room. Her answer didn’t surprise me,

“One other person besides me.”

Joleen said the staff all had them on. A sign on their front door advised those coming in to use masks but it was not enforced. I believe this is true of not just this place, but many other medical offices throughout the city. Masks aren’t totally designed to keep people from getting germs, but to keep folks from spreading them as well

Is this lab where my wife picked up her coronavirus and then passed it on to me? I’ll leave that up to the reader.

One thing I’d bet a hundred-dollar-bill on, if I had one, is that she wasn’t the only person leaving that place Monday morning with a case of corona, and I’m not talking beer.

The next time some medical technician asks if I’ve been around anyone having COVID the past fourteen days, I’ll reply with serious face,

“Undoubtedly, with some not even knowing they have it!”