Author: michaeldexterhankins

I’ve met several people over the years that named their vehicles after people, animals, or other things. My wife and I did the same with one of ours. It’s a white, 2009 Chevrolet HHR panel that we affectionately call, “Casper.” The namesake came about in a most unusual way.

Casper has been in the family since 2009. He was purchased new at Alaska Sales & Service in Anchorage. HHR’s are modeled after early 1950s era Chevrolet pickups for whatever that’s worth.

The Chevy stayed in Alaska less than a year before being shipped via truck to Seattle. Prior to it leaving the 49th state, I constructed a special rolling-wood-platform for placing a heavy gun safe on. That cumbersome honeycomb device was loaded in the back of Casper and securely tied down. It took me and another guy significant effort to load things because of the weight.

My platform was manufactured using wood screws and will easily hold 2,000 pounds with its special oversize caster wheels. There’s 3/4-inch plywood on both top and bottom, thus the inside is hollow except for diagonal 2″ x 6″ braces. That’s where the honeycomb design comes into play.

Somewhere at the Alaska / Canadian border an inspections officer deemed the apparatus unusual and ordered this box removed and inspected. There was an official customs statement stapled to the plywood attesting to such. We discovered it upon picking our car up in Seattle.

I’d used torx head screws to hold things together and evidently those bumbling border agents didn’t have a special bit to fit them. It was apparent they tried using a Phillips screwdriver instead, because some of the torx screw heads were stripped. Undoubtedly, they never physically got inside, because someone’s blood was on a section of wood. Even if they’d removed screws, I glued things together for added strength. I’m sure they x-rayed the contraption before loading it back in.

During removal from the HHR’s rear door, agents scratched up the plastic bumper protector after all four caster wheels rolled over it. Thirteen years later those marks are still there. Back then, I made sure to call and complain but only got the usual government runaround. My wife advised me to not go further, saying they’d have Michael Hankins pegged as a troublemaker next time he crossed the border.

That’s how the car’s name came to be. Casper sounds a lot better than Caster. The round automobile design does remind me of Casper the Friendly Ghost, especially with its frosty white color.

Casper is approaching 112,000 miles. He was slated to be sold but with fuel prices approaching $5.00 a gallon, I believe he’ll be around for many years to come. With a 2.0 liter, 4-cylinder engine, this little Chevrolet gets excellent fuel mileage.

Each time I see the damage, I wish there’d been a camera and microphone inside my HHR, capturing the exact moment and words uttered when scratches were made. Casper knows the pain someone went through, yet unlike the cartoon character, he isn’t talking.

As far as that safe goes now sitting on top of the platform, there’s a story behind it as well. My Papa Haynes had an old trunk next to his bed that most everyone wanted to know what was inside. He kept it locked. The older cousins believed it was stuffed full of silver dollars and other valuables. When Papa died, his pirate’s chest as we called it was finally opened.

There were silver dollars within, but all newer ones and not vintage 1800s as everyone thought. Not knowing this all of those years made things special for me. I wanted to duplicate the same mystery and excitement for my grandchildren.

There’s nothing of real monetary value inside ours, other than some old family photos and books that I wrote for each grandchild. With added skull and crossbones, it gives the safe a desired pirate look. That’s exactly what I was aiming for.

After Joleen and I are gone, our kids and grandkids can have fun opening it. There’ll be a little something for everyone, although nothing a real pirate would lose blood over.

On the other hand, should gasoline ever hit $10.00 a gallon and Casper’s still around, that car will give them something to fight over!

I sat in Walgreen’s parking lot the other morning watching an empty water bottle try to escape. The reason for it being there in the first place was unknown to me. Undoubtedly, some person had carelessly tossed the thing aside.

Cars and trucks were lined up in the pharmacy drive-thru and progress was slow. My radio was on, thus soothing music made things quite relaxing while waiting. A warm desert breeze enabled this bottle to quickly scurry across hot asphalt, yet it could never take flight and leave. A curb always seemed to get in its way. I knew how that felt, having five metal obstacles in front of me mounted on rubber tires.

For a good ten minutes this bottle danced around with no particular place to go. Several vehicles missed hitting it on their way out. The plastic container slowly rolled past a store employee pushing a cart, but the fellow seemed fixated on his own thoughts and never looked down

Finally getting my meds and starting to exit the place, I spotted the bottle lodged against a brick wall. That would be its permanent home until a sweeper came by and sucked it up. From there, it’d go to the city dump with other trash.

Turning around, I drove close to the container then walked over and grabbed it. Unceremoniously, I tossed it on the passenger side floorboard. It seemed like the responsible thing to do. The container had no name as its label was missing.

Once I arrived home, I had two choices on where to stick it: the garbage bin or recycling. I’m not a philosophical kind of guy, and the choice made was not symbolic on my part. I chose recycling just because plastics are supposed to go there. I knew that bottle would someday be turned into another useful entity, perhaps a plastic syringe used to help save a life.

Later that day, I thought back to my uncharacteristic gesture and sensed something even deeper. People that we come in contact with on a daily basis are much like that bottle. Some are trying to escape an unfortunate situation without being able to do so.

Sometimes, all it takes to set them free is a simple helping hand. We can play a part in making sure their lives go to recycling, rather than to trash.

I’ve been writing long enough to get a few attaboys from friends, family, and strangers. I don’t write strictly for such, yet it’s nice to hear from readers time to time, when a composition’s funny or interesting. Writing is a form of therapy and nothing more. If you were to put me on a strict writing schedule, my brain would short circuit. I’m not adept at composing stuff under pressure.

The only accolade received for a piece of my literature is an honorable mention certificate. The Anchorage Daily News gave it to me 34 years ago for a non-fiction piece titled, “Fishin’ With Mike.” This story’s now in my new book and one that Mom despised. There’s a valid reason behind her disgust, but you’ll have to read Ordinary, Average Guy – Uncensored Memoirs of a Trailer Park Refugee to see why.

In September, I’ll get a truckload of compliments although not literary in nature. I’ll be taking my vintage 1950 Chevrolet pickup back to the McConnell Air Force Base Air Show in Wichita, Kansas. Four years ago, we made the trip with over 250,000 people attending. I have photos showing droves of attendees standing around admiring the relic. Doors were left unlocked, with many parents seizing the opportunity to place their kids inside and have pictures taken of them.

I didn’t build this vehicle for attaboys either. Like my writing, working on it is a form of therapy. All alone in the garage with radio playing, I’ll tinker with the Chevy while thinking up new story material at the same time. My wife checks on me quite often to make sure I’m still in one piece. Several times Joleen’s discovered hands and knees cut and bleeding, but nothing serious.

I’ve developed thick skin where my writing and criticism is concerned, including having calloused skin on hands and fingers from turning wrenches. I overheard one fellow at the last airshow negatively remark,

“Looks as if this thing was yanked out of some farmer’s field and hauled here!”

What the guy didn’t know was that I took his statement as a compliment. Four years were spent trying to make it look that way. If he’d poked his head underneath the man would’ve noticed powder coated high-tech chassis components. Just like people judging a book by its cover, he’d done the same with my truck.

To me, it’s a piece of art, yet in a strange kind of way. It took 72 years for nature to create the finished product. To car guys and gals, we refer to such as patina.

Glancing in the mirror, I see my hair and skin having patina of its own. Sixty eight years has given it plenty of different hues. An old Chinaman named Proverb, claimed that wrinkles are lines of wisdom. If that’s the case, then I’m a walking, talking, encyclopedia.

Mr. Proverb couldn’t have given me a better compliment if he tried!

In the late 1960s, Jim Morrison and The Doors released a song titled, “Light My Fire.” I’m positive lyrics to the popular tune had nothing to do with lighting a campfire or gas stove.

Dad sang a similar tune yet with different meaning. Whenever someone was pokey and not doing their job, he’d bellow out for all to hear,

“Someone needs to light a fire under their butt!”

If the person was horribly slow and he became lit while waiting, my father exchanged butt for a harsher word starting with A. The old man had little patience with incompetent workers.

I was parked beside a fast-food, drive-thru speaker the other morning. It took several minutes for an employee to finally acknowledge that anyone was there. Ordering two cups of coffee and a couple of egg biscuits, nothing was said by the clerk in return.

Waiting for perhaps another three minutes, I softly whispered to Joleen,

“Earth to worker. Earth to worker. Come in please!”

That’s a favorite line of mine. I generally replace worker with first names whenever friends don’t respond back to a question.

The gal finally spoke up, asking if I’d decided yet. Looking at Joleen and smirking, I whispered that perhaps this person needed our coffee.

It took another length of time before we were able to pay and get our food. Looking at a boldly printed logo in red ink on the paper sack, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Flavor Lit by Fire

I thought of Dad and what he’d say in this situation. Without doubt my father would glance at the bag and then remark,

“There’s something more than flavor needing lit in that place!”

A good friend once remarked, “I’d rather die than go to assisted living!” I wanted to inform him that he’s been on assisted living since day one. I held off, knowing that’d spark an argument. This individual loves to argue at the drop of a hat.

Being attached to an umbilical cord in a mother’s womb is the first level of assisted living. Without that early life support, my buddy, nor anyone else in this world would be here.

The air we breathe and water we drink are key ingredients in an assisted living recipe. So is the food sliding down our throats. Had I told this person such he would’ve scoffed at my ideology, saying that isn’t the type of assisted living he referred to. My short spiel would continue, nonetheless.

Automobiles transporting us from place to place, along with homes to live in are other venues of assisted living. Without them, we could survive, but life would be tough.

Medical help is another assisted living component. My friend sees multiple doctors all the time. He’s on blood pressure medication and cholesterol pills as well, including three or four other prescriptions. Those items are essential help mates in keeping his body functioning and mobile. A simple cane carried by many seniors does the same.

Anyone telling me they’d rather die than go on assisted living doesn’t have a clue. Next time my friend mentions this I have a good response,

“You’re already there pal, whether you like it or not!”

My latest book was officially released in April after several months of tedious revision. Covenant Publishing Company representative, Renee Barnhill, says it’s the most unique, personal narrative she’s had the pleasure of publishing. If that’s the only accolade received, I’ll be happy. I’m sure my manuscript didn’t follow etiquette on how personal narratives are supposed to be arranged. It’s definitely unorthodox in composition, totally intentional of course.

I didn’t compose this memoir solely for profit and attaboys. The project was designed for the enjoyment of friends, family, and especially those precious grandchildren. Ultimately, folks I’ve never met will read it more than anyone.

I tried to touch base on significant events happening in my world from 1954 thru 1974. Some of the occurrence’s will never be repeated because of ever changing lifestyles. Telephone party lines come to mind. Hopefully the contents evoke a laugh or two. There’s a serious tone as well.

When a friend asked if I thought complete strangers would want to read a biography about my life, I replied, “No, they’d be more interested in hearing what a trailer park refugee has to say about theirs!”

For some odd reason, many people having never lived in trailer parks are inquisitive about such. I believe the dogmatic stigma, trailer trash, provokes this curiosity.

A fellow I worked with years ago evidently thought there was something seedy and sinister about trailer park living. I say that because he used the words trailer park people in a demeaning fashion. This misinformed soul would’ve undoubtedly purchased my book for dirt alone. Oh, there’s dirt inside, but not of the sordidness he’d desire.

A micro definition for refugee is: to flee. Generally, it’s fleeing another country to avoid persecution. Some literary critics would claim I misused the word. My family lived in a total of seven trailer courts. One of them, Dad and Mom fled for increased trailer space rent. The other was vacated for sanitation reasons; raw sewage leaking into yards. Poetic license gives me authority to use refugee in each case.

My original title, ORDINARY, AVERAGE GUY – Memoirs of a Trailer Park Refugee, didn’t cut it.  The wording needed salsa to make things pop.

ORDINARY, AVERAGE GUY – Uncensored Memoirs of a Trailer Park Refugee, did the job. When Joseph Magnolia, Covenant Publishing Company agent first saw the title, he asked if my manuscript was full of obscenities. I had to chuckle, reassuring him that there wasn’t one cuss word inside.

Amazon, plus Barnes & Noble, have agreed to carry the paperback and digital (Kindle) versions. The company employs people that review new releases for racist, anti-Semitic, or other offensive criteria before accepting. Mine passed with flying colors. Other venues will offer it as well in the coming days.

Search engines will eventually key upon ‘trailer park refugee’. I thought this would take a couple of years or longer, but it’s already showing up on Google. Being that I don’t have the services of radio talk-show host Dennis Miller, or late-night television star, Jimmy Fallon to plug things, I had to be creative in finding a title that’d make folks voluntarily pick up a copy. Magazines do such all the time by using catchy photos on front covers.

My goal is to sell 101 books. That same friend asking who’d want to read my book jokingly informed me I’d be lucky to peddle 100. I want to prove him wrong. Uncensored in conjunction with trailer park refugee should nudge it past the century mark.

Over the years, I’ve met several outgoing people in Lake Havasu City restaurants, banks, grocery stores, and other retail establishments. To some residents and out of town visitors, they were merely worker bees and nothing more. I viewed them on a more personal level.

Jimmy was employed at Basha’s close to our neighborhood. He was a short Italian guy and perhaps the friendliest person in the store. Jimmy always wore a smile and had a glowing personality. The man was at retirement age when I first started doing business there, so I’m guessing he was in his late 60s at that time.

I always made sure to go through the checkout line where Jimmy bagged groceries. It never failed that he’d say, “Have a nice day!” as I left. The tone of Jimmy’s voice showed that he truly meant such. When I learned that the man passed away not long after retiring it brought tears to my eyes.

Glenda worked at the local Ace Hardware right up the street. We chatted quite often on all kinds of subjects, as I was constantly in there picking up supplies. She was a believer like me, so talking religion wasn’t out of the question, including politics. Glenda knew that my wife had been through cancer treatment, never forgetting to ask how Joleen was doing.

When Glenda had serious health issues, Joleen and I took her goodies to eat while she recovered. The frail woman was most appreciative. When Glenda passed away, we attended evening services. I was sad, but also knew she was in a much better place. Southside Ace Hardware has a picture of her on a wall behind their cash registers. I always glance at it before walking out.

Linda worked at Basha’s like Jimmy. She was one of their senior employees and very proficient at her job. I don’t know how many times Linda helped me through the self-checkout process. I became an expert at locking this machine up without trying. Whenever I was able to use it without assistance, she high fived me with a grin.

One morning, Linda told me that she was close to retiring. Offering congratulations, I jokingly mentioned that if her retirement mirrored mine, she’d be much busier than she was now. The kind woman nodded in agreement. Several weeks went by and I hadn’t seen her, so I figured Linda’s exodus had started early. A co-worker sadly told me one morning, that she’d unexpectedly died weeks before reaching that goal. I was heartbroken.

Black Bear restaurant is a favorite place for many to eat. James was one of our favorite servers there. He carried around photos of his two granddaughters, and always brought customers up to speed on how they were doing. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more doting grandparent than this fellow.

Last week, we were in this restaurant for breakfast. This was the first time in two years because of covid, as well as the eatery suffering a major fire in November. Joleen and I quizzed a veteran server about what crew members came back after their reopening, and those that didn’t. When I brought up James, a lump immediately came to the woman’s throat. She could hardly tell us, that her co-worker and good friend died October 31 from a covid related illness. I couldn’t finish my meal after hearing that.

People that we encounter in routine day-to-day activities possessing bubbly character are becoming a rare breed these days. The four workers just mentioned were happy to have a job and it showed. I’m sure they had bad days like everyone, yet didn’t complain, at least not to me. Serving the public can be brutal. I know this from my own experience in retail sales.

If awards are posthumously given for excellence in service, while wearing a smile, Jimmy, Glenda, Linda, and James without question, each deserve one!

Living in Alaska could be tough at times for our family, where making out-of-state vacation plans was concerned. We weren’t exactly rolling in dough and airfare back then and four seats was expensive. We always had a tight budget to adhere to.

One year, my wife spent countless hours searching for the best motel prices including car rental rates. Sometimes, there was no way of getting around the high cost of plane tickets, although if purchased well ahead of time, prices would be somewhat lower.

Our vacation plans generally entailed spending a week in Phoenix, Arizona, as well as another in Lake Havasu City. Both areas offered sunshine and warm H2O, two entities that we craved.

Joleen said it looked as if we wouldn’t be able to go. After putting up with 7 months of snow, ice, and depressing darkness, I didn’t want to hear such. Begging her to make a concentrated, last ditch effort to find the lowest possible rates on everything, she obliged.

Our accommodations were to be at a Motel 6 next to the Golfland – Sunsplash entertainment center in north Mesa on Hampton Road. The popular water and miniature golf attraction was within walking distance of our room. It was as close to being a Disney World to the kids as we could afford.

A local, economy-car rental firm was to provide us with ground transportation, while air travel was via Alaska Airlines with long stopovers in Seattle and Portland. It was the best Joleen could do and the kids were elated to be going. So was I.

We left Anchorage on a red eye flight, and after all the layovers, arrived at the Phoenix Airport about eight o’clock that night. By the time we picked up our car, found something to eat, and crashed, it was going on midnight. We’d basically been traveling 24 hours straight.

Somewhere around three in the morning there was an argument outside our motel room door. The handle was jiggled as if someone was trying to get in. A few minutes later, something heavy struck the wall making a loud thud. I dialed room service for help yet getting no answer. Thankfully, all racket eventually quieted down after multiple police vehicles left.

The next morning, we jumped in our car and drove to Denny’s for a meal. Joleen had coupons from a travel brochure for Grand Slam breakfast platters. That saved us a few bucks. She also had discount coupons for Waffle House near by. On the way back to the motel we discovered our vehicle A/C didn’t work. Making a phone call to the rental agency, I was told to bring it in and trade for another.

The kids spent the rest of that day at the water park, while Joleen and I hung around keeping tabs on them. There were undesirables lurking about and we wanted to make sure they stayed safe. Even with sunscreen, after a day of being exposed I was burnt to a crisp. Trying to sleep that night was torture. Early the next morning I drove to a pharmacy to purchase some pure aloe vera gel. A lady at the motel desk said that’d help ease the pain.

Pulling out of the pharmacy parking lot back onto the street I noticed a shimmy coming from the front of our vehicle. I chalked it up to a wheel weight falling off and nothing to worry about. We were planning on driving to Prescott the following day which was Sunday, and I’d keep a close eye on things.

Going to Prescott, there was no problem, yet on the return leg a front tire exploded with a bang. Even with heavy traffic I was able to glide off the highway without incident. It was near 100 degrees outside and changing things made me soaked to the bone. Having jeans and a long sleeve shirt on didn’t help.

Looking at the tire, I noticed it was bald in one area. The vibration was evidently caused by our automobile’s frontend being out of alignment. Hot asphalt had scrubbed tire rubber down to steel core. Cautiously limping our way back to Motel 6, we stopped first at the car rental and once again exchanged vehicles.

Come Monday morning, we decided to hang around the pool and chill. There was no one there and all was peaceful and quiet. Joleen and I sat in lounge chairs, with me having plenty of SPF 80 sunscreen on arms, legs, and face. It was as close to white grease as one could get.

Two men suddenly walked by the pool and politely nodded at us. We returned the gesture. They disappeared up a stairway to the upper rooms. Several minutes later, a fellow dressed only in tight skivvies came running down the stairs with the two guys in hot pursuit. One of them had a revolver in hand. The man being chased was much younger, and thankfully for his hide, was able to outdistance both pursuers.

Police quickly arrived and we were interviewed. Evidently it was a case of an unfaithful wife, and angry husband catching her in the act. This much was told to us by the motel groundskeeper. He indicated that it was quite common around there. That’s when I learned another piece of valuable information.

The motel employee was adding lots of chlorine to the swimming pool that day, lecturing us that Monday’s were the worst for water on having high levels of E coli and salmonella.

“Kids pee in here all weekend long!”

We packed up our bags and relocated to Holiday Inn Express across the interstate. Our room was somewhat higher in cost but safety came first. The rest of that trip, including our Lake Havasu City leg was finished without incident.

Should you ask my adult children about their most memorable vacation, undoubtedly they’ll bring up this one taking place 32 years ago. Miranda and Gunnar wanted to know once we returned home, if those two guys ever caught the guy wearing underwear.

“I believe he’s still running.”, I told them. “By now he should be in Jamaica.”

My wife and I were sitting around talking about the old days as we often do. I asked her if she’d ever heard of a money cake. She hadn’t. Telling her what this cake was, Joleen said it must’ve been a southern thing, because it was unheard of in Alma or Grinnell, Kansas where she mainly grew up. I wouldn’t know money cake logistics, although I believe it only happened for me in Selma, Alabama.

Years ago, I attended at least two birthday party’s where someone’s mom baked coins inside cakes. I guess these days it’s still done although the change is enclosed in foil first. Back then, coins were dropped into cake dough unwrapped. Supposedly, 350 degrees took care of any germs.

We were told beforehand that pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters were inside, thus no broken teeth nor Heimlich maneuver ever occurred. Those party goers getting a quarter in their slice became the lucky ones. Twenty-five-cents in 1960 is almost equivalent to a couple of bucks now.

Another birthday game we played entailed dropping clothespins into a milk bottle while standing on a chair. I was good at that, because my brother and I practiced at home before going to a party. We kept a milk bottle and clothes pins on hand.

“Pin the Donkey On a Tail” was another fun game. Name is switched around here to make sure readers are awake. I was a pro at this, unless of course I was twirled around first before doing the pinning. At this point, nausea took over with me not knowing up from down. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered vertigo caused this. Merry rounds even gave me an extreme case of dizziness.

There’s one childhood game in particular I played, that I’ve never heard anyone else mention. Joleen says she didn’t take part in anything like it. I only went to one party where this event happened, and that was at Soapstone Creek in Selma.

Kids were given partially inflated balloons, and the object of this game was to sit on them until rubber popped. When balloons are underinflated that’s hard to do. The first participant popping their balloon wins the prize. I only recall this event because I couldn’t get mine to explode. Whatever adult having invented this game must’ve been tormented as a kid, and wanted some retribution.

Birthday’s have changed considerably since I was a boy. Children now play electronic games, along with tossing beanbags into round holes. In the south, that’s called cornhole. I’m sure it is in Kansas as well. There’s even an electronic version of “Pin the Tail On a Donkey.”

If I could go back in time and attend any one party, it’d be that one where we tried popping balloons using our behinds. Knowing what I do now, I’d take along a sharp pin to quickly finish things off, celebrating my win of course, with a slice of chocolate money cake, loaded to the icing with shiny quarters!

Years ago, a veteran mechanic I worked with used the phrase, “Righty tighty, lefty loosey” in our shop on a regular basis. I always assumed it was a subtle way of poking fun at younger technicians like myself. All was taken in good humor. Most nuts and bolts fasten this way and no reminder is needed. The popular saying doesn’t always hold water.

I was on a service call as a 16-year-old gas station attendant in 1970. A man called my boss asking for assistance on changing a flat tire. He couldn’t get the lug nuts off. Believing that I’d need a big cheater bar, it turned out the fellow’s car was an older Plymouth. The proper method for loosening nuts on this vehicle was righty loosey, lefty tighty. I had the nuts off in seconds.

The vehicle owner asked me how I’d accomplished such. He was easily in his 60s or perhaps older. When I told him about Chrysler vehicles being made this way he was flabbergasted.

“Now I remember!” he moaned.

I felt like an intellectual Arnold Schwarzenegger having been able to remedy this guy’s dilemma. It only cost him $5.00 back then for my knowledge and brawn. It’d be ten times that now.

These days, some 52 years later, I have the same problem as this fellow did. Stuff that I knew a few years earlier I’ve now forgot. Even simple chores oftentimes get messed up for no reason.

Today, I was at the post office to mail a package. The clerk looked at my box and then quietly remarked, “Where’s this going?”

Looking at the label, I noticed that I hadn’t included a physical address other than Eagletown, Oklahoma. Luckily, I remembered the house number and street and was able to pencil things in.

Asking the postal employee if this occurred often, I expected to hear him say it happened all the time.

“It’s quite rare.” the man answered. That didn’t make me feel good.

It’s fairly normal for older people to slowly start forgetting things. This doesn’t necessarily mean dementia or Alzheimer’s is on the horizon, but then again, it’s something to keep an eye on. My wife and I have slowed down and ritually go through a checklist of sorts before leaving the house.

Stove off?

Coffee pot off?

Curling iron off?

Doors locked?

Lights off?

Security system turned on?

Only after these things are mentally checked do we exit our garage. Sad thing is, we’ve driven away and left the garage door up. Only when the security company called and said they detected an open circuit did we turn around and correct our mistake.

I now use special caution when driving. I’ve caught myself a time or two ready to step out of a running vehicle without putting transmission in park. In this town, senior citizens all the time are hitting gas instead of the brake. Over the years, our newspaper has featured pictures of various cars and trucks on top of curbs and inside buildings. Thankfully, I haven’t reached that stage, yet.

I have friends that joke about senior moments. The older I get the less humor is found in their statements. Thinking back to Martin Allen and his joking around the shop regarding, “Righty tighty, lefty loosey,” perhaps Martin wasn’t trying to be funny after all. It might’ve been his way of mentally keeping things in perspective for his own good. He was known for telling the same stories over and over, yet no one wanted to say anything in fear of hurting feelings.

Should I ever resort to repeating the same ole tales like a broken record, it’s a given that things aren’t right upstairs. Only problem is, someone will have to tell me because I won’t know otherwise. Never mind the hurt feelings.

At that point, most likely other things will be hurting as well!