Author: michaeldexterhankins

WRITER’S BLOCK

Thirty years ago, Professor Michael Burwell, told our creative writing class should we ever develop “writer’s block,” simply jot down things that happened in our life the day before. He said that would help get the creative juices flowing. Writer’s block happens when a writer is unable to think of anything to compose. Fortunately, I never had this problem until the other morning. Deciding to give Professor Burwell’s suggestion a whirl, the following is what occurred in my life on Friday:

Waking up at seven, I had the urge for a fresh Bavarian cream donut and iced coffee. A discounted box of glazed donuts I’d purchased one week earlier at Wal-Mart was empty. I knew I should’ve bought two boxes.

Bashas’ has a donut special on Friday where you get 18 for the price of a dozen. I didn’t need 18 donuts yet overweight people in front of me did. Who am I to be talking.

I wanted to cut line and stick my arm in real quick like, grabbing a couple of pastries like another fellow did, yet out of courtesy I patiently waited my turn. This was most difficult because the lady in front of me was having a difficult time making her selection. She’d brought along two grandchildren and they weren’t sure what they wanted either.

Finally making it to the front of the line, I pried the last two chocolate Bavarian creams from a green plastic tray. One donut had someone’s thump print on it, but at this point I didn’t care. My wife, having bad eyes, probably wouldn’t notice.

On the way to McDonald’s for coffee, going the speed limit and holding up traffic, I slowly rolled to the stoplight at Mulberry & 95. A young female driving a black BMW pulled up alongside my car, showing me her middle finger. I was flattered by the extremely brazen offer, yet being a happily married man, shook my head and politely declined.

A few minutes later, sitting at the drive-thru intercom at McDonald’s, an employee asked if I’d be using my mobile AP? “Say what….. my C PAP?” Those fast-food speakers can be extremely hard for us older folks to understand. Actually, I was messing with this person because they tossed out the same question each morning. By this time, you’d think they’d remember I didn’t own an AP.

Driving back home, I picked up my wife and our little dog, taking them to Rotary Beach. We go there quite often to drink coffee, chat, and watch all the different variety of birds. No, we didn’t let “Simon” do his business on the grass like others.

As Joleen fed several obese pigeons panhandling outside her car window, I noticed two middle-age gals wearing what I assume were their daughter’s much-too-small bathing suits. They struggled while trying to place a large kayak on top of a Toyota automobile.

For a brief second I thought about walking over to help, quickly deciding that allowing the show to go on was a much wiser decision. There was another senior couple in a red truck observing the same, and I’m sure they wouldn’t have appreciated me helping bring this act to a sudden end.

Back at the house, I thought of all the chores that needed done, then took a nap. Dr. Oz says that older folks should take regular naps to lengthen their lives. If that’s true, with all the naps I take, my carcass will be around for another 50-years.

Not much else happened on Friday worthy of mention, other than I thought for the first time, Sheriff Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke might give “Miss Kitty” a kiss she’s been craving for 635 episodes. Evidently, the man’s a bit frigid because he didn’t follow through.

I ate a Lean Cuisine that evening, read a Hot Rod magazine, then it was lights out by ten, knowing that come Saturday morning, I’d be doing much the same all over again.

As a fledgling sophomore at East High School, I signed up for an aviation science class taught by Mr. Herbert Niemoth. Bob Malone was in my class along with a girl named Mary. I had a crush on her from day one. Mary was a senior and the smartest person around, besides being beautiful.

I told my friend, Rod Sanborn, that I was thinking of asking Mary out. He knew her well because Rod was also in the twelfth grade. My pal laughed, telling me that Mary’s parents were both doctors. That’s the first time I’d heard such.

“Do you really think she’d go out with you?“, he teased.

Before I could answer Rod reminded me that I lived in just a trailer and drove “Comet Cleanser.” That’s the name friends labeled my powder-blue 1961 Mercury Comet. I’d just recently purchased the 2-door Merc from my brother.

I gave up the plan immediately after being slapped with my pal’s uncalled for advice. Mary and Bob tied for high grade in Niemoth’s aviation class that semester, with me coming in third. I was planning on using this class to go for my private pilot’s license like my brother, yet finding out I had vertigo nullified that idea as well.

I had zero time for girls during high school anyway. Working for dad at the gas station after school used up the clock. The one thing I could’ve offered Mary besides my own wheels, was a decent meal. I’d put quite a stash of cash away by 10th grade.

I still think back to what Rod told me. The folks and I didn’t reside in just an ordinary trailer at this point, we’d moved on up to a double wide. Would that have made any difference? I’ll never know.

• excerpt from my new book: ORDINARY AVERAGE GUY – Uncensored Memoirs of a Trailer Park Refugee – copyright 2021

I’ve been working on a book about my life for several years. It’s close to being finished. When I told a friend he remarked,

“You’ll be lucky to sell 100!”

Of course the man was trying to be sarcastic and funny all in one. I took it in stride. Regardless, I intend to prove him wrong. My goal is 101.

This conversation all came about when I mentioned my family first coming to Lake Havasu City in 1981. He stepped up to the imaginary microphone proclaiming that he did the same in 1977, as if it were a contest on who got here first.

“Wow!”, I said, not mentioning that me, my brother, and parents first headed out this direction in 1956. Lake Havasu City developer Robert McCulloch had yet to even dream about his oasis in the desert. My friend was not even born when we rolled past the Site 6 turnoff, so I win.

Because I’m feeling lazy this morning, I’ll simply copy and paste a section out of my manuscript that talks about such.

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

“My family left Alabama in 1956 for California. Dad pulled a 30-foot house trailer down Route 66 for most of the trip with his 1949 Mercury. Several photos show this. It’s amazing to me that this low-power vehicle made the trip, especially through the heat of Arizona. Photographs show our black automobile loaded to the gills on roof and trunk with personal belongings.

Dad said somewhere near Holbrook my brother and I became deathly ill. It was 120 degrees outside and our car had no air-conditioner. A man at a gas station sold us blocks of ice and a tin baking pan. My brother and I took turns hovering over them until we hit cooler weather. That ice probably saved our lives.”

Dad’s new assignment was George Air Force Base in Victorville, California. General Chuck Yeager was 413th Fighter Group Wing Commander at this time. Photographs show us on Armed Forces Day ogling over glistening planes and helicopters. One black & white picture is identified as General Yeager’s F-100 Super Sabre fighter that he called, “City of Barstow.” The sleek craft was named for nearby Barstow, California.

Images show this jet with a mob of people milling around it. He was a celebrated individual up until his death. Chuck Yeager wrote a book about his exploits which I have a signed copy. It is dedicated to “Roy” with no last name. General Yeager’s wife and children placed their John Henry’s on it as well which is significant. I believe they gave it to Roy Rogers who was a family friend. Roy isn’t around much these days or I’d ask him.

Roy Rogers and his wife Dale Evans lived in the Victorville area along with Chuck and Glennis Yeager. Roy and Chuck were avid hunters and gun aficionados. They once competed as team members in a grouse hunting competition. Both were exceptional shots.

General Yeager and I share four traits. We were born, have a love of fast cars, respect the second amendment, and his kids were military brats like me. Other than that we’re world’s apart.

General Chuck Yeager is up there where my childhood idols are concerned. His life was as adventurous as they come. Unfortunately, after his spouse of 45 years, Glennis, passed away, General Yeager incurred a total family meltdown with his four children. That often happens when a new and much younger wife enters the picture. A lawsuit was eventually filed by Yeager against one of his daughters, accusing her of mishandling his estate.

Chuck Yeager passed away on December 7, 2020. Ironically, that’s the same month and day Pearl Harbor was attacked.

MOVING ON UP

For reasons that I don’t remember, dad sold our trailer after only a short time of living in it. We moved into the top floor of the Beaman Apartments on the outskirts of Victorville. Amazingly, that structure is still there. Jim told me that he remembers sun-bleached cow skulls in the desert not far from the place. I’m surprised he didn’t drag one home. Dad eventually purchased a slightly bigger mobile home than our old one. I guess my folks were tired of climbing stairs. We relocated to a place called, Pott Trailer Park. Such a catchy name!

Sonic booms from jet aircraft breaking the sound barrier were an everyday occurrence. They’d rattle dishes and break windows. Mom said she had several glass figurines destroyed after they committed suicide by diving off a high shelf. The explosions appeared without warning, often times late at night. After a while we got used to them. Evidently the figurines didn’t. Today, some folks would call sonic booms the sound of freedom. I’m one of them.

I barely recall dad being in a serious accident in a friend’s 1957 Corvette. This happened on Route 66 before the popular television series, Route 66 ever came out. I have photos of the mangled car. A friend told me these images would now be collector items for Corvette enthusiasts. I’ve shared them online but the originals will always remain with family. I often wonder if the ‘vette was fixed back then, and if so, who owns it now?

Dad miraculously survived this crash by being flung out of the vehicle into a pile of sand. His right leg was severely mangled. Doctors inserted a stainless-steel metal rod into one bone to strengthen it. He walked with a limp the rest of his life. Only close friends could get away calling him, “Chester.” In later years, the extreme cold of living in Alaska made his pain excruciating. I recall dad using Stanback powder to help relieve it.

The thing I remember most about living in California was the time our family visited Disney Land. This was right before dad’s accident. Disneyland first opened in 1954. Things seemed huge in my mind back then, especially the castle. When Joleen and I took our kids in 1984, those mental images suddenly vanished. The castle had mysteriously shrunk to the size of a Piggly Wiggly. For those not recognizing this unusual name, it’s a grocery store chain down south. My kids weren’t disappointed in Disneyland, but I was.

Riding the Teacups was my favorite. I say that because of a huge smile I have on my face in a photograph. Jim went for the more exciting rides which I no longer remember names to. There were some replica antique cars on a track moving slower than Grandma Moses. Those are my mom’s exact words. A photo shows us sitting in one with Jim turning the steering wheel on a curve. My father said my brother actually thought he was controlling the thing.

We also visited Knott’s Berry Farm and Calico Ghost Town while living in Victorville. I believe that’s where mom started buying Knott’s Berry Farm blackberry jelly. She never purchased any other brand. In one of the pictures at Calico, Jim and I are riding a train with Disneyland hats on. An actor hired to be a train outlaw demanded that we give our souvenirs to him. Jim obliged, but I started crying. Mom said the guy tried to calm me by returning Jim’s hat. Evidently it made things worse. He eventually gave us soda’s which did the trick. This train robber might’ve been the fellow getting me hooked on pop. I have to blame it on someone.

I don’t recall much else about Victorville other than it getting blazing hot during summer. Jim and I had a babysitter because of mom having to work. This lady took care of several more military kids besides us. On some days she’d take us outside to sit under a large tree. The woman used a garden hose in an effort to cool our bodies down which helped. Her little trailer had a contraption on the roof called a “swamp cooler.” Evidently it didn’t work because I remember being miserable at times waiting for mom to pick us up. She couldn’t get there fast enough.

As I mentioned earlier, television cowboy stars, Roy Rogers and his wife Dale Evans lived outside Victorville on a ranch. Jim and I watched their television show religiously each Saturday. Mom said someone told her Dale Evans shopped at a local grocery store on occasion, and that the celebrity generally had a basket full. Mom had a logical explanation for that,

“Those people have to eat too!

The only time I saw Roy was during a parade, and I was told that much by my brother. I don’t remember any parades other than one at Christmas when Santa tossed candy to me. Perhaps this was the same event? Jim claims I was there and I believe him. Roy Rogers was evidently the grand marshal because he was leading things. Basically, the only other thing I remember about parades besides Santa Claus, were the piles of poop that horses left behind. Why the marching bands always end up walking behind livestock puzzles me to this day?

I doubt 9 out of 10 people reading my book will even know who Roy Rogers and Dale Evans are. To Jim and I, they were our childhood heroes back in the day. Unfortunately, this couple faded off into the sunset like so many western stars did. Happy trails to them!

When we left California in 1958, dad once again towed a mobile home. This time it was behind a snazzy 1957 Galaxie 500. Our new car was also black and hard to keep cool like the Merc. One of my father’s favorite movies back then was Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum. Although the movie didn’t come out until 1958, I believe that sealed the old man’s passion for black Ford automobiles. In this movie, Lucas Doolin (Robert Mitchum) transported moonshine in his trunk, delivering it to select bars and taverns across the south. The police were always chasing him. My father didn’t go that far, although illegal whiskey did enter our lives soon after…”

Excerpt from: ORDINARY AVERAGE GUY – uncensored memoirs of a trailer park refugee.

I was initially going to write this piece solely about Sel-Mont Drive-In Theatre in Selma, Alabama. Dad was stationed at Craig Air Force Base on the outskirts of town. Drive-in theaters were a cheap form of entertainment for military families back then. I have enough material on Sel-Mont, including a complete history of its opening and closing to work with.

With memories of two other drive-in theaters my family visited over the years, and stories to go with, it seems appropriate to include everything in one composition. Theater history on its own would undoubtedly be boring to many people.

Selma, Alabama 1958 – 1963 Craig Air Force Base

The first movie I recall watching at Sel-Mont Drive-In Theatre was Bambi. This was the original 1942 version where Bambi’s mother is killed by a hunter. It left mental scars on me, including nightmares for thousands of other kids. The ending was eventually revised to be less traumatic. Even so, I hear that children and adults still cry after viewing it.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance starring John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Lee Marvin, and Vera Miles was released in 1962. We watched that movie at Sel-Mont. This might’ve been the time dad was in a hurry to leave at the end of the show. He wanted to beat the rush.

My father drove off with a movie speaker still attached to his window. There was such an onslaught of cars rolling out of the place, that my dad heaved speaker and wires to the asphalt like a hot potato. Much akin to the ending of Bambi, it’s a sight that never left my mind.

Often we’d stop at Jet Drive-In before a movie and pick up their burger special. There was a sign out front advertising 10 burgers for a specific price. I no longer recall the exact amount, but my brother Jim believes it was $1.00. That seems a bit unbelievable. Mom would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at times. We had our own popcorn. She always had a cooler for soda. My brother, Jim, said I spent a good portion of my time during a movie, swinging at the drive-in playground.

During New Years or Fourth of July, Sel-Mont had an early movie and then a fireworks display. One year the whole family went and I do not recall any problems. My brother echoes the same. The following year was a bit different.

Dad was sent to Korea for a one-year tour, leaving mom with me and my brother. I believe it was fourth of July, but at this point can’t be exactly sure? She decided we’d go to a movie and catch their firework’s extravaganza.

All went well until intermission. At this point, some young people took it upon themselves to light their own fireworks. Our windows were down and a bottle rocket went zipping through just missing mom’s head. It sailed out the passenger window striking another car.

With windows hastily rolled up, rockets began hitting our Ford like crazy. It was intentional. Within seconds mother decided it was time to go. We never saw the big fireworks display nor completed the second half of our movie. The next morning, Jim found burnt paint on the car door from direct hits. Mom told me much later in life, that people were heavily drinking that night. She was scared to death.

Lubbock, Texas 1963 – 1967 Reese Air Force Base

After moving to Lubbock, Texas in 1963, the Sundown Drive-In on Brownfield Highway replaced Sel-Mont where cheap Friday night entertainment was concerned. Sundown was originally called 5 Point Drive-In. I found an old 1947 ad for their grand opening. Of all things, they advertised a bottle warming service for babies.

I don’t recall any spectacular events happening at Sundown like Sel-Mont. We came late one evening, finding there were only few parking spots left. Dad picked a vacant one and quickly discovered our speaker wasn’t working. We moved to the other side and all was good.

Throughout the first movie, latecomers would roll up to the spot we’d vacated, and then drive away. This went on the whole first show. Watching people’s faces and hearing some of what they had to say became more entertaining than the film. I don’t believe my father made that mistake again.

The old man ran out of gas late one evening after a movie ended. The car had just enough speed to wheel into a closed service station. I learned a trick that night which came in handy years later. Dad took empty pop bottles, and using outstretched pump hoses, filled the containers with what was left inside. Each hose contained a small amount of residual fuel. We ended up with enough gas to make it to another station.

Anchorage, Alaska 1967 – Elmendorf Air Force Base

After moving to Anchorage, Alaska in 1967, I figured my drive-in days were over. Lo and behold, the Sundowner Drive-In Theater was a popular haunt for locals, especially teenagers from East, West, and Dimond.

An unusual part of this drive-in was that each parking spot had an electric heater unlike Sel-Mont and Sundown. The heater fans were noisy and often times put out fumes smelling like burnt rubber. I believe mischievous teens placed rubber bands inside know what the outcome would be.

On one drizzly cold night, dad reached for a heater and was shocked. The water soaked unit had a short in it. After talking with a theater employee, my father found out this wasn’t unusual at Sundowner.

“You best touch them gently to see!“, the fellow advised dad. On one of our next visits it happened again.

This go-around, dad was shocked and lit at the same time. I’m talking enraged. Instead of moving our car to another spot, he deliberately ripped the heater off its mount and tossed it to the ground. I’m sure he was shocked time and time again during his rage.

Score one speaker plus one heater for the old man. All he needed for a triple was to back over a speaker pole. That happened quite often at Sundowner. Poles were bent every which direction. Thankfully dad never hit one.

During my junior high and high school years I attended movies at Sundowner more than ever. This was the first time I saw people popping out of trunks after parking. Generally it was teens trying to avoid paying . On one instance a car in front wasn’t let through. An employee wanted the vehicle trunk opened. Reluctantly, the driver did so and three high-school age students crawled out. They were all asked to leave.

The last movie I remember watching at Sundowner was actually not intended to be one movie, but three Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns played back to back. Fistful of Dollars, The Man with no Name, and, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. The reason I remember this, is because Eastwood only starred in three such Italian made movies.

I believe this might’ve been in April when it was still chilly at night. Jim, Jeff, and I took my 1954 Chevrolet. That was a big mistake because the vintage-car-heater barely put out at idle.

When the first movie began playing there were perhaps 50-cars total. We noticed right away that the actor’s words did not go with their lips. This made for an agonizing 90-minutes. We’d actually came that night to see, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Of course, theater management made sure that was the last movie to be shown.

When the second movie started, Sundowner’s parking lot was down to perhaps 15-cars and trucks. A few of them had steamed up windows. Most likely these folks hadn’t come for the movies, because no effort was made to clean glass.

I had a police spotlight on the driver’s side of my car. A friend helped me install a powerful aircraft-landing-lightbulb inside the housing. This was hooked to a 12-volt battery along with my 8-track tape player. The old Chevy was 6-volt at this time. Shining it on a couple of the fogged up cars got no response. A theater employee walked over asking us to knock it off.

Our little electric heater could barely keep up. The thick curly cord for this device poked through a window. Door glass could not be rolled up tight enough to keep the cold out. We tried stuffing napkins in the crack to no avail.

When our windows became fogged from nothing more than breathing, Jeff said it was time to go. He joked that perhaps someone we knew might see my distinctive car, and remember it as being full of guys that night.

“This could ruin our reputation!”, he said.

I knew what he meant. Years previous, we were sitting in Bob’s Big Boy restaurant on C Street with another friend, Tim Amundsen. Tim got up to use the restroom leaving Jeff and I on the same side of the table. Two girls started looking and smirking so Jeff quickly moved to the other side.

It’s fitting that the last outdoor movie I watched was at the Sundowner. The theater name seems appropriate. Sundowner permanently closed a few years after the Clint Eastwood series. I believe it was in 1979 or 1980. For a while after closing they used the grounds for special events. The complex was finally bulldozed.

It’s rare these days that I’ll attend a movie. Hearing the F-Bomb dropped every 10-seconds by an actor or actress doesn’t turn my crank.

A friend recently remarked after reading where someone was reopening an old drive-in in California,

“Perhaps some day these old theaters will make a comeback. With advances in speaker technology, it’d be a totally different experience.”

Jerry was right about speaker technology. The clarity of old vs new speakers would be 100 times better. Will a comeback ever come to pass?

I wouldn’t bet on it, at least not in Anchorage, Alaska!

Most of the time when I take pictures my camera date stamp is turned off. Thankfully, several photos my wife stumbled across have March 23, 1997 printed in the lower right corner. If this date wasn’t recorded, I wouldn’t have remembered specifics to this story.

March 22 and March 23, 1997 were two of those days when a person should’ve been arrested for having too much fun. I told my friend some 24-years ago, that somewhere in the future I’d write this article for posterity sake. He ordered me to make sure he was retired when I did so. The time’s now ripe before all trip memories turn to fog.

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

Dee Linton and I arrived in Seattle on Friday, March 21, 1997. We were there to attend a five-day automotive technology seminar starting on Monday. Checking in early Saturday morning with the seminar receptionist, we had the rest of that day free along with Sunday to sight see.

Having a rental car with unlimited mileage, sky was the limit as to where we could go. Stopping at a local Starbucks before leaving town, Dee snapped a couple of photos of me posing with a sign made out of cardboard.

Leaving Seattle an hour later, our ultimate destination was Astoria, Oregon, normally a four-hour trip. We turned it into 13, having to snooze in the car Saturday night. Someone told Dee there were beautiful beaches close to Astoria. I brought swim trunks just in case we had time for a swim.

The scenery was spectacular. Anchorage was dingy-brown from melting snow when we departed. Lush green trees and bushes captivated our eyes all along the route. We eventually came to a town called McCleary, Washington early Sunday morning. A large sign advertised it as being home of the Bear Festival. Dee had me stand in front of the weathered boards holding out my hand.

Stopping at a small convenience store, two teenage girls asked if they could help us. The youngsters appeared to be sisters.

“We’re here for the McCleary Bear Festival.”, Dee said with straight face. “We came down from Alaska.”

The girls started laughing but then quickly stopped, believing at this point my pal was dead serious.

“The Bear Festival isn’t until July!”, one of them apologetically replied.

Both Dee and I acted stunned.

“You’re not serious?”, I gasped.

About this time an older fellow stepped out from behind a food counter. He’d evidently been listening, and wanted to see what stupid looked like. Undoubtedly it was their father.

Dee looked at the man and asked in serious tone, “Is there anything else in town worth seeing?”

“There’s our county museum.”, the gentleman replied. “But it’s closed today.”

“I guess we’ll have to come back in July!”, I remarked, paying for drinks and snacks. I needed out of there pronto or I’d bust a gut.

“It’ll be worth it!”, one gal added as we exited the place. All three people stared out a front store window as we drove off.

We laughed all the way to Astoria, Oregon, knowing that we’d just made history in McCleary, as being the two biggest idiots to ever hit town.

Our first stop in the city was a McDonald’s restaurant. The place was jammed with customers. Walking up to the counter and glancing at his watch, Dee informed the young clerk,

“We’re from corporate. Doing a food turnaround inspection!”

Word traveled fast. Before long, employees were bumping into each other trying to hurry. I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing.

The manager quickly came out of her office asking Dee what he needed.

“An Egg McMuffin and coffee please! What do you want Mike?”

I could see the woman didn’t think our stunt was funny, yet she didn’t say anything, most likely still not totally sure that we weren’t from corporate.

Dee and I grabbed our food and scurried out. Employees and customers watched as we exited. Evidently word leaked out to them that professional pranksters were in their midst. I found it hard to eat my sandwich while laughing at the same time.

Our stop at a beach near Astoria was relatively uneventful. For whatever reason no one was there but us. Slight rain was in the air, so perhaps that kept the crowds away? A little precipitation didn’t bother us.

I found the water teeth-chattering cold. A jacket was needed and even that didn’t help. My legs and feet quickly went numb. It wasn’t until time to dry off that I discovered no towels had been packed. My shirt had to suffice. By then, Mr. Hypothermia was knocking at the door.

Our car heater quickly righted the situation. A cup of steaming coffee was just down the road. All was now good in Astoria.

Arriving back in Seattle late Sunday evening, Dee and I found a restaurant that served steaks. Being on the road for nearly 36-hours had wiped us out. Our eyes were bloodshot from little sleep. We were famished as well.

The next five days were spent hitting the books and listening to many guest speakers. I came back to Anchorage not only educated, but having memories that most likely will never be topped.

Where having fun with a friend is concerned, this trip was a barrel of hoots!

Note: Some day I hope to attend the McCleary Bear Festival. It’s on my bucket list. The country around that part of Washington is beautiful!

I’ve had numerous people over the years disagree with my line of thinking. It’s human nature and nothing wrong with it.

Whenever I disagreed with a friend, I’d tell them we’ll have to agree to disagree and leave it at that. There was never any problem.

Social media came along and all that changed. In the beginning, I didn’t mind putting all beliefs on the clothes line. After getting my head bit off by perfect strangers I began not being so open. This was a new experience.

There was no agreeing to disagree with these people. You either had to change your point of view, or out came their machete.

I had a good friend for many years. He was a co-worker. We never discussed politics as far as I remember. I could’ve cared less what side of the coin he was own. I’ve been a conservative Republican from the beginning of time. I’ve never hidden such.

On Facebook, whenever you like something for whatever reason it sometimes shares your like with others. I didn’t know this at the beginning.

On occasion this guy would pop up out of nowhere scolding me for liking things that he didn’t like. I laughed it off. Eventually he defriended me because I didn’t think exactly like him.

On my blog site I lay it all on the line so to speak. It’s my workplace for sorting out story ideas. I’ll put them on there incomplete and unedited. It’s easier for me to see how things should go after a week of rereading.

I’ve had several people that I don’t know from Adam criticize my mindset regarding political and religious viewpoints. I won’t argue either subject because it’s a waste of my time. Dad and mom taught me that. I have my viewpoints on both and I’m sticking with them.

The other day I let someone get under my skin which is rare. This person didn’t agree with my philosophy regarding public education. There’s an ongoing effort by NEA and progressive activists to change this country’s history via censorship in books. I think it stinks. This individual wanted to do nothing more, than tell me their point of view was the right one.

I wanted to counterattack but didn’t. They eventually went away taking their blog subscription with them. No biggie to me as anyone is welcome to come and go on that site as they please.

Before letting them off the hook I should’ve done one thing .

From the initial reading of their message, I wish I’d come back saying this:

“I hate it that you disagree with my way of thinking but hold on one minute, that switch is somewhere. Found it. Let me flip it.”

Of course they would’ve asked what was I talking about?

“Opinion switch!” I would’ve typed.

“At the flip of a switch I can change my way of thinking to yours. We should be good to go now!”

I learned to read using the Dick & Jane series of books 60-years go. Their sentence structure started out easy, and got a bit harder in second and third grades. They were great books to learn by. Of course, Spot and Puff were my favorites.

Today, some education experts claim that the series focused on white privileged children. In first grade, I would’ve never noticed that. I doubt any kid back then did.

Some progressives would now call for a black child to be Dick & Jane’s best friend, along with a Native Indian. Another progressive demands an Asian girl needs to be in the book. A Spanish progressive echoing the same.

Of course, the LGBTQ community would want a lesbian, gay, bi, transgender, and questionable represented. Women’s rights advocates would scream that Jane’s name go in front of Dick’s.

Educationally challenged folks would voice their opinion including different religious sects. Homeless lobbyists would rally for a downtrodden man or woman to be pictured on the book cover. The list goes on and on.

I was blessed, learning to read about Dick & Jane early on. Thank you, Mrs. Harris, my first-grade teacher. I feel sorry for children in public schools today, being bombarded with political correctness while struggling to learn.

We didn’t have to put up with that in 1960. This was in Selma, Alabama of all places, the civil rights capitol of the United States. Black and white kids alike learned to read from the same books.

I can only imagine a Jane & Dick book series designed by progressives for the developing first grader. The pictures alone would be totally confusing, especially new, unpronounceable character names.

Whereas, back in time these books were designed as tools to help students learn to read, the new version would do just the opposite. If I had anything to say to Dick & Jane, it would be this,

“Run, children, run!”

According to statistics, the average reading level for an American citizen is 8th grade. That might’ve been acceptable in 1954. Today, the 8th-grade reading level is equivalent to the 6th-grade level back then.

Using the word statistics in a piece of literature should now be avoided at all costs. This will eliminate confusion for the modern-day student. My opening line to this statement should’ve read,” According to some numbers,“

Sadly, this generation has pushed books aside for other venues. Education experts tell us that a majority of students now read online. Yeah, I believe that like a hole in my head.

I’m not sure what reading level I’m at. Most likely 8th grade based upon 1964 guidelines. Along the way, I’ve picked up books where a writer tried to impress me by using big words. I believe some authors do that to show their superior intelligence.

Whenever I come across a book chock-full of complex words, I shove it aside. There’s no way I’m about to read something while having to thumb through Webster’s at the same time.

According to another study, newspapers are written at an 11th-grade level. I have no problem reading our local paper. Of course, the 11th-grade reading level now is equivalent to 8th-grade back in the day. Our newspaper articles fit my reading comprehension level to perfection.

As a writer, I deliberately add typos, misspellings, and archaic sentence structures to make today’s readers feel more at home. There’s nothing more belittling, in my opinion, than to struggle through an article perfect in English composition.

Misspelled words can be a blessing to some folks. I substitute flim in place of phlegm when writing about medical issues.

Wednesday should be replaced by Winsday. That’s a no-brainer.

Leave the l out of salmon for goodness sake. It doesn’t belong there!

Lingerie should be spelled lawngiray. We aren’t from France.

Suttle is definitely more understandable than subtle.

Kernel and Colonel sound exactly the same. Let’s just go with the k version. Kernel Sanders sounds perfectly fine.

My list of such words is a mile long.

I don’t like using the word composition in describing literary structure, as it can be confusing to some. Putting stuff together is much simpler to understand.

Other examples of changes I make are:

Instead of inferior quality, I like to say Jerry-rigged. This is most likely an insult to the Jerrys of this world. I’m not politically correct, so I’ll continue using the slur. Someone undoubtedly down the road will label this statement as hate. Jury-rigged is the proper terminology, yet Jerry has more panache.

Where will the average U.S. reading level be in another 33 years?

Will the 8th-grade reading level of 2021 be equivalent to the 4th-grade level in 2054?

Hopefully, things don’t go that low, but you never know. Should that happen, fifth graders would just be finishing the exploits of Dick & Jane. That’s a scary thought!

“Help! Help! Run, Spot, Run!”

Spot better run as fast as he can if he knows what’s good for him. Puff too!

I’ve been working with vintage school yearbooks the past several weeks on a writing project. One thing I noticed in many was an abundance of NO PHOTO AVAILABLE boxes. Where were these missing students when photographs were taken? Did the school district send investigators to find out? Does anyone even care?

The class photo in this yearbook (see above) is from 1965. It shows Mrs. McWilliams’ eighth grade class at Frenship Junior High School in Wolfforth, Texas. Yes, Frenship is spelled that way. I picked this class at random to use as an example.

Where was Honey Flowers? For purposes of this hypothetical story, we’ll refer to her as Honey Ann Flowers. Keep that in mind. I believe it’s legitimate to assume Honey Ann had valid reason not to be there. Why didn’t the yearbook company tell us her whereabouts? It would’ve been easy for them to write boldly in her block: HONEY ANN FLOWERS WAS SICK.

Of course she could’ve been visiting relatives with her parents in Austin and didn’t make it back in time for photo day. That’s plausible.

Honey Ann might’ve been on a rafting trip in Colorado. Quite simply, the yearbook publisher should’ve printed for all to see: HONEY ANN FLOWERS WAS ON A RAFTING TRIP.

Miss Flowers might have developed a pimple that she couldn’t cover with Clearasil. There’s nothing more upsetting to a young person, especially girls, than having to view a photo of themselves with blemish on nose, cheek, or forehead. Back then photoshop wasn’t available. The yearbook company had no right to disclose that because it’s borderline personal.

Gut feeling tells me that Honey Ann stayed home that day in 1965 to take care of her brother. Loving parents, Todd and Margaret Flowers both had jobs. Mr. Flowers even worked two. Their babysitter called at the last moment saying she had mumps. With Honey Ann maintaining a straight A average, it was no problem for her to miss school. The unfortunate part being it was photo day.

Honey Ann was upset, but knew taking care of little Richard was the right thing to do. She had plenty of photographs in other yearbooks, so missing this one was not the end of the world. She was raised to help out that way.

The block with her missing picture should have read, HONEY ANN FLOWERS WAS BEING RESPONSIBLE ON THIS DAY.

Let’s jump ahead to 2021. We’ll use the same group of kids as an example. You’ll have to imagine them wearing modern glasses and contacts, because to me, that’s all that changed fashion wise. These 1965 students in the yearbook look very similar to kids today.

So where was Honey Lynn Flowers on photo day in 2021? The possibilities are endless with this new age flower.

Honey Lynn might’ve been out protesting some movement. It’s hard to say just which movement as there are multiple choices.

Perhaps she protested the opening of yet another big box store in her town. Many young people don’t like big box stores, but they love to shop there.

Honey Lynn very well could’ve joined a movement. The constant use by late-night comedians of the term, Ugly Red-Headed Step Child, enraged her including others. The degrading statement was considered a hate crime by several people Honey knew. They advocated the creation of a law making it such. A grassroots movement was begun.

She was possibly at a party celebrating the creation of a new freedom statue in City Park. Never mind the fact that she helped tear the old one down.

Honey Lynn might be missing from the photo because her smartphone was obsolete, and she needed to buy a smarter one at Wal-Mart. iPhones take precedence over most everything with the entitlement generation. The government helps pay for a good many.

My gut feeling being: Honey’s Lynn’s dad, Wild Flowers, convinced the sixteen-year-old that school photos are used by the government and police for conspiracy reasons. He advised her not to go on photo day and she obliged.

Of course some will wonder what a 16-year-old is doing in 8th grade? Well, the answer to that is quite complex.

Dad and mom took Honey Lynn out of school so many times for protests, sit-ins, smoke-ins, rallies, marches, and conspiracy theory seminars, that the youngster became comfortable with being educationally challenged. With her folks being career California hippies from Grass Valley, it’s no wonder that Honey Lynn missed school and her grades suffered.

According to historians, Honey Lynn Flowers’ parents were the first hippies in Northern California. Actually they were beatniks. The elder Flowers started wearing tie-dye shirts and colorful beads in 1954.

Each time Honey Lynn flunked school, parents viewed it as cause for celebration. The peace-loving family saw it as a bonus to them and their carefree girl. It meant free lunches for another four years. Free anything was good, especially herbs, grub, and money; in that order.

Sun Flowers went so far as to inform her teenage child that grades are highly overrated, except of course for eggs. Mom and dad both felt the same way about jobs.

Wild Flowers believes heavily in a conspiracy theories revolving around work, so he avoids the stuff like a plague. Wild seems to be THE role model for this new generation!

I decided to write this mainly because nobody else seems to have composed anything about Reese Elementary School. If they did – I never found it. For three years, this school was a big part of my life. The red and white brick building had to be for others as well.

This project will constantly be revised. The information I have took several days to compile. I own yearbooks from 4th and 5th grade, lacking a 6th-grade book because we left school early that year. They were supposed to mail it, but somehow the photo album never arrived in Alaska.

I’ll go ahead and publish unedited with flaws and typos on WordPress, as it might be several months before I get back to updating. Hopefully, someone out there having attended Reese will find it useful.

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My family moved from Selma, Alabama, to a small trailer park located on Reese Air Force Base in the spring of 1963. Mom told friends and family back south that we were in Lubbock, but actually Reese A.F.B. was a part of Wolfforth, Texas. Most of that summer was spent getting acquainted with things before school began. I entered fourth grade that fall.

Located just across from our trailer was a section of asphalt used for aircraft. Some nights and early mornings, airplane mechanics would bring the T-33 trainers out to that area to test engines. The on and off roar of jet engines would last for hours. I never got used to it. I’m sure not sleeping some nights because of this noise, along with staying up late at night reading The Hardy Boys mystery series, didn’t help in my studies.

One day, I came home from school, finding a big, ragged tear in our trailer’s sheet metal. It was just above my brother’s bedroom window. Base personnel came over to inspect. They pulled out a chunk of jet engine compressor. When the engine disintegrated during testing, it sent shrapnel everywhere. Our home became a pincushion for pieces of hot metal.

Mrs. Hagan was my fourth-grade teacher. I vaguely remember her as having dark hair with glasses. A photo of her kept this planted in my mind. I have nothing but good memories of this lady. She must’ve been patient working with me because I wasn’t the sharpest tack in class.

During recess, I played marbles with a group of similar Marbleheads. Keepsies was my favorite marble game. I ended up with a large bag, being quite adept at hitting the other kid’s marble. One of our younger players died during a routine tonsil removal. That was the first death I encountered of a friend.

We bailed out of swings and did the usual playground routine, including the merry-go-round and slide. There was a time I brought some tin foil to school. During recess, I took small pieces and wound them around cotton stalks in a field next to our playground.

Later that afternoon, when the sun hit it just right, there appeared to be fireflies in the daytime. It got the attention of Mrs. Hagan and the students. She finally put two and two together after remembering seeing me out there that morning.

It was in 1963 that President Kennedy was assassinated. I still remember Mrs. Hagan wheeling a portable television into our room. Students from other classes came in to watch. I didn’t know what was happening, but sensed it was serious by the tears from teacher’s faces. After perhaps thirty minutes, arrangements were made for us to go home early. I rode my bike to school, so that was no problem.

For three years, I rode a bicycle to Reese. It was perhaps a half-mile drive, so no biggie. Through rain, snow, sleet, and heat, I pedaled. There were some rare occasions when mom was not working that she’d take me. I walked the route many times as well.

Just as you came to the base entrance was a silver B-25 bomber perched on a pedestal. There was a gate located close by that WWII airplane that I used to exit the military installation and re-enter. On occasion, during base lockdown, I’d have to enter by the guard shack. The MP’s never asked to search me. That wouldn’t slide by these days.

Because there was no air-conditioning in the school, on hot days I would get sleepy and have a hard time staying awake. Other students incurred the same. Mrs. Hagan had a large fan that she used to try to cool things down. The constant drone of the fan motor only made things worse.

Larelia Sadler was in my class. I took a liking to her right away, as did George Roberts. There was some jealousy between us boys, but Larelia picked no favorite. She treated us both equally.

In a school Christmas play, I was Joseph, and Larelia was Mary, so ultimately I came out on top, at least in my mind, I did.

Other kids in my class that I’ve always remembered names of are: Michelle Barnes, Larry Grady, Todd Mold, Steven Maybe, Nicki McClure, and Thomas English. Of course, I could always refresh my brain by looking at the yearbooks.

A cotton field mentioned earlier sat next to our playground. I’d walk over some days to see how far the cotton had grown. A crop-dusting airplane sprayed it one time when we were in class. We weren’t allowed outside. Students watched him from behind classroom windows. This same plane crashed after school was let out. I was told the pilot was uninjured. The plane was still sitting there the following day.

Mrs. Drake was my fifth-grade teacher. I recall her having blond hair. Most of my classmates from the previous year were the same, as we were basically all military brats. There were a few new names, and some of our former friends were gone.

That’s the way it was in a military family. Ninety percent of the students at Reese had military parents. In our group photo, I was savvy enough to make sure I stood next to Larelia Sadler. That is special to me because she, like other kids, didn’t return for 6th grade. That was the sad part of being a military brat.

Mrs. Turner was my sixth-grade teacher. I really liked her. If I can ever say I was a teacher’s pet, it was in her class. Because I always got to school early, she let me clean the chalkboard. Sometimes I had help from another fellow who rode his bike.

At the end of the school year dad was transferred to Alaska. We had to leave nine days before school let out. Mom picked me up early that last day and told me that Mrs. Turner had tears in her eyes. I did too because I was leaving kids that I’d been close to for three years. That’s one of the reasons I decided a military career wasn’t for me.

Mr. Harper was the principal of Reese. He’d come into the classroom quite often to see how things were going. Thankfully, I never had to visit him in his office.

Where special activities were concerned, I belonged to a children’s choir. It’s not that I liked to sing. Larelia Sadler was also in there and prodded me into joining. That push on her part helped get me the role of Joseph in a Christmas play. Larelia was Mary. I have a grainy photo that Mom took of us on stage.

Sadly, Reese Elementary is no longer. The building is being used as an adult training center. Something tells me that air-conditioning was one of the first upgrades made.

Two out of three of my teachers have passed away. Mr. Harper, the principal, is gone as well. Logically, many former students have joined them. I’m no spring chicken.

I’ll never forget Reese, my teachers, Mr. Harper, and the majority of students. Something tells me that kids attending public elementary schools these days aren’t experiencing quite the same!

ALL PHOTOS FROM HERE ON TAKEN FROM MY TWO YEARBOOKS PLUS MISCELLANEOUS NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS