Author: michaeldexterhankins

It’s rare that I hear the word barber anymore. It seems to have gone the way of stewardess or waitress. Stewardesses became flight attendants and waitresses were renamed servers for whatever reason?

I prefer barber over that of hair stylist. I’d never tell friends that I was going to the salon and have my hair styled. Sissy comes to mind here. For many years I went to a barbershop and still would if I had enough on top.

That remaining hair is now cut by my own hands, using two mirrors and rechargeable clippers. In a way, I’ve become an unlicensed barber of sorts. If I were applying for a job, I’d put that on my resume along with motor-doctor and chef.

Early on, I had several barbers. A friend’s dad in Selma, Alabama named John Dennis cut my curly locks a few times. “Jimmy the Barber” in Vernon, Alabama did the same. For the most part, with Dad being military, my brother and I visited the local base barbershops. That could be a frightful experience.

Generally, a base barbershop had at least eight barbers lined up each Saturday morning. After walking in, I immediately took a number from a stack hanging on the wall. It’d take an hour or longer to get called, because there were always oodles of people ahead of me.

The waiting room reeked of cigarette smoke, Old Spice cologne, and talcum powder. I believe military barbers used talcum powder back then to soothe cuts and nicks.  It was guaranteed that I’d end up with several each trip.

One barber in particular had clippers so dull that they randomly pulled hair instead of cutting. I remember this like it happened yesterday. The man apologized, saying that he needed a new set of blades. After that harrowing and bloody experience, I cringed each time I went in, praying that I wouldn’t get him again.

What I can still visualize regarding military barber shops was the amount of hair lying on a linoleum floor. Barbers took turns with a broom sweeping it into a huge pile. I’m talking large garbage bags full of the material. A friend of ours, Randy Coggins, claimed companies used hair to stuff pillows and mattresses. For years I believed him.

Flattops were popular during my era. My brother and I wore this style, using plenty of crew wax to keep them standing tall. Mom had to constantly wash our pillow slips because of the grease.

Mohawk haircuts were the rage for some guys. Only cool or vision impaired parents allowed their boys to have them. Some 101st Airborne soldiers during WWII sported Mohawk’s to try and intimidate the enemy.

When my brother came home one Saturday morning sporting a Mohawk, he was ordered to go back and have the stripe removed. Mom was especially mad because they charged him for another haircut. I believe that was seventy-five cents back then plus tip.

I noticed that we have at least six barbershops in Lake Havasu City. Good for them! There’s nothing more American than seeing a red, white, and blue barber pole hanging outside a building. I’ve always been mesmerized by the revolving colors.

Last week, I gave myself a haircut and was interrupted by a phone call before finishing. Late that evening my wife mentioned that I’d missed a section. Looking in the mirror it was precisely in the middle of my head. Mohawk came to mind.

I left it that way for a couple of days as an act of rebellion. Sadly, Joleen didn’t notice, or if she did, nothing was said. When I finally whacked it off, perhaps a teaspoon of gray hit our sink. I watched as water washed it down the drain.

Sooner or later a giant hairball will appear and Drano will be needed. It always happens at the most inconvenient time, like when we’re out of Drano.

I’ve used a homemade snake made out of a piece of wire on more than one occasion to remove this crud. I suppose that makes me a plumber. That’ll go on my resume as well!

I’ve had my share of neighbors over the years. Coming from a military family, like clockwork, we had new ones every 36 months. That made it tough as a child, making friends and then losing them to a reassignment. Neighbors and friends seemed to come and go like traveling carnivals back then. Perhaps that’s why I chose not to get close to people right away. Eventually, with time, I came out of that shell so to speak.

In later years, things improved considerably. Most of our neighbors hung around for a spell. One of them did meet an untimely fate shortly after we’d purchased our first home in Alaska. Grayson Maroney built many of the houses in Elm-Rich Subdivision including his own. I only briefly chatted with the man, finding him very personable. His sons and daughter went to the same school as me.

When I learned that Grayson was killed in an auto accident not far from our residence, I was sad. This friendly gentleman always waved as he drove by. Simple gestures like that make for nice neighborhoods.

Some neighbors became lifelong friends. Bill Devine was our neighbor for close to 35 years. We’d visit and shoot the breeze almost weekly. When he became ill and eventually died, our ‘hood was no longer the same. That’s one of the reasons Joleen and I packed up and relocated. Our old stomping grounds became quite depressing with Bill, Grayson, and other old-timers gone.

I’ve had neighbors that moved, passed away, and last but not least, were hauled away. Thankfully, the latter only occurred once. This young man took out our mailbox with his car because of a constant inebriated condition. When police attempted to stop him one evening, he drove across numerous lawns and mowed down several fences trying to escape. The guy almost hit some small children in the process. He was immediately handcuffed and transported to the pokey. I never saw Tom again after that.

We’ve had more neighbors move away in Lake Havasu City than any other place combined. I’m told that’s because this is a retirement community. That might be the case, but nonetheless it doesn’t make for a happy neighborhood. Nine neighbors have disappeared in 15 years, and that doesn’t include those living in apartments. It gives me flashbacks to my former military brat days. For those never hearing such, military brat is the child of a service member.

We just recently learned that we’re losing another neighbor and good friend. I won’t mention her name, because I’m sure it’s as hard on her to leave, as it is on us seeing her go. All a person can do in cases like this is shed a few tears and wish them the best. I told my wife that perhaps we should pack up and follow her north. Having spent close to 50 winters in Alaska, Joleen quickly reminded me that she’d had her fill of ice and snow.

Having no particular place to go, it appears we’ll stay put in Arizona for a while longer. Joleen’s tempted to take an atlas, blindfold herself, and then stick a pin somewhere on the map. We’re not going to that extreme!

I recall a song about some exotic locale in Texas where folks migrate when life gets them down. I’m all for giving Luckenbach, Texas a try. It can’t be bad if Waylon and Willie say so. If them boys turned out to be our neighbors, hopefully they’ll stick around for a bit. I’d be ticked after moving there, finding that they’ve already gone!

For close to 18 years, my family lived in a mobile home. Dad, being in the military, towed it from base to base every 36 months. The way I viewed things back then, cars and trailer parks went together like Chevrolet and apple pie. Guys in trailer parks were always working on their vehicles, and I eventually joined them.

I was blessed to grow up during the muscle car era. With Dad eventually being part-owner of a gas station, the opportunity to drive many of the hottest vehicles Detroit offered came my way. This journey started in 1969. My passion for fast cars began a few years earlier at Clark Junior High, when I discovered Hot Rod and Car Craft magazines in the school library.

Another kid and I spent so much time reading automotive periodicals that the librarian removed them. She evidently didn’t consider them as educational material. While Dad was in the Air Force stationed at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, Alaska, he worked evenings at Marswalk Texaco, located on DeBarr Road and Boniface Parkway. Isaiah Lewis and Doug Sizemore were also employees of this business. I loved talking to these older guys about fast cars.

One afternoon, when I was hanging around the station, Doug Sizemore offered me a ride in his 1963 Ford Falcon. It had a built 260 V-8 under the hood with a 4-speed transmission. He banged all four gears while I held on for dear life. I was instantly hooked on hot rods.

A young military couple in the trailer park where we lived owned a 1968 Dodge Charger R/T. It was blue with white tail stripes. Most of the time, the wife drove this car. They were on my paper route. Her name was Gigi, yet I don’t recall the husband. Gigi was originally from France and was a very beautiful lady. At times, she was hard to understand, her thick French accent making common words sound totally strange.

When Gigi rolled by in her rumbling Dodge, she’d smile and wave at us guys. We’d always return the gesture. I’m sure the lady thought we were checking her out, but for me, it was mainly the car. I was in love and wanted one like it. Eventually, they packed up and moved to another base as military families always do, taking their precious Charger with them. I was heartbroken.

In 1969, my father, having retired from the Air Force, teamed up with Isaiah Lewis. The two men purchased Yeager’s Texaco on Taku Drive and changed the name to Wonderpark Texaco. I was hired at $2.00 an hour to pump gas, clean floors and windows, plus other assigned duties. It wasn’t long before I was changing oil, lubricating chassis parts, turning wrenches, and of course, taking the necessary test drives. Life was good!

Richard Watts was a fledgling employee of Carr’s Grocery in 1969. He had a ‘69 440-powered Plymouth GTX at that time, and must’ve been making good money. I idolized this young man for his vehicle and cool personality. To Richard, the GTX was just another mode of transportation, yet not to me. The Plymouth was like a flaming chariot of sorts.

One day, Richard stopped by to have his vehicle serviced. He had to work that morning, so “Lewis” asked me to drive him to the Carr’s grocery store on Gambell. I was elated finding I’d be piloting the GTX. It was a moment that changed my life. Most likely, Chuck Yeager felt the same when he first took the yoke of a jet fighter. I became addicted to Chrysler products because of that one driving experience.

A fellow named Tom owned a 1964 Pontiac GTO. It had a 389 with a single Rochester carburetor. Tom wanted three, two-barrel carbs installed like some GTOs came with. Lewis told me it was one of the man’s final wishes, as he had a serious health problem. Lewis made sure that happened. I got to test the car afterwards and found it quite peppy. Only a few years later, Lewis informed me that Tom passed away. I remember him as being a super nice guy.

Tom’s 1964 Pontiac wasn’t as fast as a 1970 SD-455 HO GTO owned by an Army soldier named Anthony. We called him “Bob” for unknown reasons, as it should’ve been “Tony.” I test drove Bob’s emerald green Pontiac on a damp, rainy day. Going about 50 mph on the Glenn Highway, I punched the throttle to see what this car would do. Bob’s GTO immediately went sideways. Thankfully for me, I was able to keep it under control and out of the ditch.

Months later, I got to drive Bob’s GTO on dry asphalt. To this day, I believe it was faster than Richard Watt’s Plymouth GTX. It’d smoke the tires at will. Dodge Challengers and Plymouth Barracudas were coming in for service all the time.

One 1970 340 Challenger belonged to a young fellow in Mt. View named Roscoe. I still remember transporting this car to a seedy trailerpark on the outskirts of Anchorage. “Cisco Kid” played the whole time on an 8-track tape player; seemingly, the song never ended. Yeah, Cisco Kid was a friend of mine as well. Only those having heard this tune will know what I’m talking about. This car was quick and would easily burn rubber.

Lewis said the young man was a dealer. At first, I thought he meant a car salesman like those working at Chevy or Ford. Lewis had to further explain things to me. “Oh,” I said, after hearing what the dude actually did for a living. That’s why all those pine tree air-fresheners hung from his rear-view mirror. I recall being nauseated by their sweet smell. It was sickening to be inside that Dodge, so I always drove with the windows down.

A customer living in Manook Isle Trailer Park owned a 1967 American Motors Marlin fastback. I believe it’s the ugliest car I’ve ever sat in. The owner informed me how fast his Marlin was, saying he’d beat a Camaro or two around town. I never believed him. American Motors Corporation tried to emulate the new 1966 Dodge Charger with their Marlin, but failed miserably.

I transported this slug to Action Locksmith on Fifth Avenue for new keys. The Marlin was absolutely gutless in the power department, with an engine not have enough horsepower to spin tires even on a wet road.

I cringed that day, thinking someone from high school might see me. This was the type of thing that could ruin a car guy’s reputation. It was common to drive through a trailer park and see automobiles and trucks sitting on cinder blocks in driveways. That’s exactly where this Marlin belonged and eventually wound up.

The ugly AMC sat there for a couple of years before being towed away for scrap; its metal undoubtedly shipped overseas. I suppose that Marlin’s still around, reincarnated as a Toyota or Nissan.

One important thing I learned regarding my gas station days is that I should never take my vehicle to a shop where young guys do the servicing and test drives. I’m sure that had Roscoe, Bob, Tom, and Richard Watts known how I’d treated their rides, they’d all agree!

My brother and I took golf lessons when Dad was stationed at Reese Air Force Base in Lubbock, Texas. I believe this was 1964. I would’ve been 10 and Jim 14.

The base Youth Activity Center arranged things and we were eager to participate. Dad and Mom weren’t golfers, so they had nothing to offer us where golfing tips were concerned. Reese A.F.B. Golf Course provided loaner clubs, while we purchased our own balls for good reason. Students were instructed to write names on them with a marker.

I was lousy at hitting from a wooden tee. Most younger kids had a hard time getting balls to merely sit on top of them, especially when the wind was blowing. The wind always blows in Lubbock.

This was mid-summer and Texas heat was unbearable. Reese’s Pro Shop had a dispenser on the wall next to a water cooler. The machine provided free, salt tablets. I believe those tablets were meant to keep golfers from sweating too much. Kids were downing the pills like candy until someone stopped them.

We were all lined up around a hole one day practicing putting. Our instructor was on the opposite side demonstrating the correct procedure. Jim dared me to yell ‘Fore‘ and then smack the ball. I drilled it all the way across the green directly into the man’s knee.

Some kids thought it funny, but our golfing instructor didn’t, warning me not to do that again. Fearful of being kicked out, the fellow didn’t have to tell me twice.

At the end of our weeklong practice session there was a tournament for different age players. Jim was in the older boys bracket and me in the younger. We were provided score cards and pencils. After numerous lame attempts to reach the ninth hole, some players resorted to cheating in order to win. I don’t recall their names, but it wasn’t Jim or me. Those self-determined winners probably went on to be successful attorneys or politicians.

I haven’t played golf since that time other than miniature golf in Phoenix and Colorado Springs. My wife, Joleen, golfed for a while in Anchorage, Alaska with good friend, Pam Franger. Our kids and their spouses play, as well as grandsons, Decker and Kevin. I’m happy they chose a sport that isn’t dangerous, unless of course you’re the instructor.

When Joleen and I moved to Lake Havasu City, we purchased two sets of used clubs from the local Hospice Store, along with vintage golf bags. Total for everything was $30.00 including several balls. We’ve never used them and I don’t intend to. I bought mine solely because the player’s names on some putters are now ancient history. One of my antique putters currently makes for a nice walking companion. I’ve carried it on occasion when my back’s out of whack.

I no longer look at them as clubs or putters, now viewing the relics as inexpensive canes. We have enough metal walking sticks to last us a lifetime!

I’ve been busted by the grammar police a time or two. It generally happens on Facebook or while arguing with someone on a political forum. English was my major in college, yet that doesn’t mean I’m Mr. Perfect where not making typos is concerned. Hey, even the great Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) wasn’t a word-perfect writer. A good many of my blunders unlike Mark Twain’s correlate to spellcheck software. I need a scapegoat and this is as good as it gets.

For the most part, Microsoft Word spellcheck is the police vehicle flipping on red lights. A friend calls it Microslop Word because their software isn’t totally mistake proof. I’ve found this to be true many times.

The other day I was writing something and was stopped short of finishing a sentence. I’d wrote that my hand held a bottle, and Microsoft automatically ran words together making things say, handheld a bottle. Each time I corrected this mistake the red error sign popped up. Other such incidents have occurred.

The word laundromat kept transferring to Laundromat. I don’t care what Google says, that’s not correct unless of course laundromat has a business name in front, like Havasu Laundromat.

Checking things out, Westinghouse obtained a trademark on Laundromat in 1930. Their trademark expired in 1957 and Westinghouse didn’t renew. Why some believe they still have to capitalize this word I’ll never understand. A laundromat to my friends is simply a place to wash clothes. If some English experts want to capitalize Laundromat, they might as well do the same for Washeteria.

Years ago, I was taught to add an apostrophe after a number merely as a separation point, not to show possessive. In the 1980’s, a group of English nerds evidently got together and declared this a problem. The apostrophe was dropped making 1980’s incorrect and 1980s the preferred choice. Being a Rebel in my own mind, I’ll continue writing 1980’s as a way of getting back at them, whoever they are.

Recently, I came across a clever poem written by author, Jerrold H. Zar. It deals with spellcheck problems.

“Ode to the Spell Checker”

Eye halve a spelling checker.
It came with my pea sea.
It plainly marks four my revue miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a quay and type a word and weight for it to say,
Weather eye yam wrong oar write.
It shows me strait a weigh as soon as a mist ache is maid.
It nose bee fore two long and eye can put the error rite.
Its rare lea ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it,
I am shore your pleased to no.
Its letter perfect awl the way.
My checker told me sew.

Eye do my best to compose accurate sentences free of mistakes. The way eye see things, if you can reed what eye just rote, eye’ve been successful. What more can a guess rider ask for!

An older mechanic once told me to treat my body like a vintage vehicle. “Never push things to the limit or it’ll break!” Martin Allen was actually referring to himself.

I was never Superman in my younger years, yet could do my fair share of chores in a day. It wasn’t unusual to work 10 hours and then come home to mow front and rear lawns, plus bag the grass.

Staying up into the wee hours of morning working on projects was routine. My father called this, “Burning a candle on both ends.”

Long Alaskan summers allowed for plenty of hiking and biking. Adding those events after a day at the shop amounted to a full workout. I could seemingly motor along without ever getting fatigued. Youth has it’s virtues.

I’ve slowed down considerably since turning 60. I can still do most of the same things as before but at a more leisurely pace. Mom always preached, “Listen to your body when it’s trying to tell you something!” I do that religiously after having an afib episode.

I don’t push myself like I used to. There’s nothing for me to prove these days regarding stamina or athletic ability. The late Jack Lalanne loved to demonstrate how many pushups he could still do at 90. This was partly because he was hawking books or selling his miracle “Power Juicer.”

If anyone should be called Superman, it’s Jack Lalanne. Regardless of Jack’s superior physique, the man died at 96. Cigar smoking, exercise-exempt, comedian George Burns lived to be 100. Go figure?

Everyone will die sooner or later. Some will outlive others and I suppose for a few there’s bragging rights here. I’m not one of those few. The important thing to me is that I made a decision back in 1973, on where I’ll go when my heart stops beating. Hopefully, Jack and George did the same.

My mother’s been gone a little over 12 years now. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her or Dad. I was looking through some paperwork in an old toolbox of mine, and came across a letter Mom wrote going on 41 years.

The envelope is slightly yellowed yet the letter inside is unblemished. I’m thankful we didn’t have e-mail or text messages back then, otherwise I wouldn’t possess this wonderful keepsake. Mother composed this while on the road as her and Dad searched for a K.O.A. campground to purchase. That was always my father’s dream.

In this correspondence, she mentions places they’ve been and seen, an episode with her little Shiatzu dog, “Trinket”, encounters with homeless people, folks traveling from Florida and California, and other humorous observations. Mom was always good at keeping us informed when they traveled.

On August 3, 1981, our son Gunnar was in kindergarten, while daughter Miranda was barely one year old. I was managing one of my folk’s automotive parts stores during this time, while Joleen was in charge of payroll at D.O.T.

I’ve transcribed things as written. This piece of family history went into my safe afterwards.

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

Page 1 Friday July 30th

We’re in Burns, Oregon. Good name for area – my whole body was burning time we stopped. We got into here after 2 p.m., didn’t think we could make Bend, OR. before late. High desert country – you can mark Idaho, Utah off my list. Pocatello was neat town but still in rolling desert land. We looked at K.O.A. campground for sale. Went on to Brighton, Utah to look at another K.O.A.. Both was nice and one at Brighton was more our style and price but so hot during day. Nite was hottest winds blowing, at Pocatello cool off at night. My headache about killed me and my nose was running like faucet – Must be bad country for sinus.

Page 2

Brighton was all Cherry Orchard, Peaches, Apples, Plum, Apricot, plus Corn, but all farms was irrigated. I didn’t realize Idaho, Utah was all desert land, so much bare land, sage grass, tumble weeds – kept thinking must see wagon trains, Indians on war path – really what reminded me of. Burns is desert also. Ontario, Oregon – Idaho (Border). H’way 84-20 – is Onion Country, never see so many onion acres in my life. Last nite we stayed at Mountain Homes, Idaho, met this young man traveling by Bike from San Diego, going Yellowstone, then on to Illinois – said had 18 gears on bike – still didn’t see how got up down some these Mt’s and passes. – today we was mostly in canyon –

Page 3

Talk about Alaskan H’way winding. H’way 20 got it beat. Did I write about Trinket and her water jar – well she ride in car so have to keep her water, started out with one Miranda baby food jar, then somehow switched to jelly jar. She refused drink til I poured into baby jar. She almost went to Doggie Heaven in Utah – guess heat really threw her loop. We’re headed into Bend, Or. – then down 97- We hope find cool spot and hold up while. Wheel seal going out on Ford – thinking of trading it for smaller car.

Sat. a.m.

Having car fixed

Page 4

Knew people were weird but sure met some variety – can tell some people not all there – peoples minds so confused just roaming around. Fla. people moving out because too crowded, Calif. too many people. Some just not knowing what they want. Really don’t know anything write. I’m ready find hole stay for awhile. Would like to go in some Nat. Forest for least a week. But that not Hank’s ball of wax. No need say I love you so very very much. I pray to Jesus every day for all of you. Give my babies a hug, kiss.

Take care.

Love,

Mother (Lola)

P.S. Didn’t see tater patch one all across Idaho.

I’m not a shoe aficionado like some guys. I wasn’t born or raised in Southern California so that probably explains why. A shoe to me has to look good and be reasonably priced, nothing more. Foot Locker is where I purchase my sandals; online of course. Foot Locker is an offspring of defunct, Kinney Shoes.

Not to sidetrack anyone, but I’ve been told by more than one person that sandals aren’t shoes, just the same as boots aren’t shoes. I didn’t argue the point because who really cares.

Lately, sandals are all that I wear in this town. My sandals are always worn with socks. That’s a style made popular by older Havasu residents, especially snowbirds. I prefer white Nike socks over lime green or canary yellow ones. Generally, only Minnesota visitors sport those two colors.

Years ago, I had foot problems, with a podiatrist informing me that my arches were falling. I call this, LBS, short for London Bridge Syndrome, an inside joke of course. You have to know the song to snag the humor.

My daughter was attending college and selling shoes part-time at Nordstrom eons ago. For those not recognizing this store, it’s a higher end retail establishment much like Dillard’s. Asking Miranda what shoe should I get for walking and arch support, she suggested a Mephisto Barracuda. I hadn’t heard of the brand. Seeing a price of $189.00 on the bottom made me wince.

I never paid more than $49.00 at Foot Locker for shoes and even that seemed high. Miranda insisted I take the plunge, and if I didn’t like them, Nordstrom would refund my money.

I’ve had those Mephisto’s going on 25 years now and they still look brand new, at least in my eyes they do. They’ve been to weddings, funerals, Hawaii timeshare seminars, and “Out on the Town” events. Out on the town events for me include trips to local restaurants, generally for birthday celebrations. The Barracudas are much too nice for everyday use.

Should my wife inform me that we’re going someplace, I often ask, “Is it a Mephisto worthy occasion?” That’s another inside joke of course. An excursion to the grocery store doesn’t warrant taking my expensive shoes down from their perch.

I believe those brown leather oxfords will last a lifetime. Are they burial worthy? That’s a question I recently asked myself. An equivalent Mephisto Barracuda now sells for $388.00 at Zappo’s. A bit rich to be planting in the ground, don’t you think?

I’m sure some serious shoe guy would be interested in my classic footwear. I’d only give them to a family member or friend that’s truly appreciative of where they’ve been. That alone makes them virtually priceless to me. My Mephisto’s have walked on some very sacred floors. To name a few:

Hussong’s, Bob’s Big Boy and Uncle Kenny’s, all former eateries of Lake Havasu City. Carriage Crossing Restaurant & Bakery in Yoder, Kansas, Double Musky Inn, at Girdwood, Alaska, Urban Egg in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and last but not least, Royal Fork Buffet and The Bagel Factory restaurant in Anchorage, Alaska.

I suppose in due time I’ll donate them to a worthy cause. The Hospice of Havasu Retail Store in London Bridge Shopping Center is my favorite. Like two parrots sitting in a cage, it’d be nice to see my Barracudas proudly perched inside their fancy glass display case.

Oh, if only those shoes could talk!

I’ve been a “bookworm” for the majority of my life. As young boys, my brother and I didn’t have electronic gizmos to entertain us, other than an RCA black & white television set. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. My father was always replacing fried electronic tubes to keep the thing going.

Saturday morning cartoons would be tuned in, including westerns like, Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, Have Gun – Will Travel, Rin Tin Tin, and Sky King.

I suppose Sky King wasn’t actually a western, yet the actors did wear cowboy style clothing. It was supposedly filmed in Arizona. In reality, the series was shot in Apple Valley, California near George Air Force Base. My family was fortunate to be living there in 1956 with George A.F.B. being Dad’s duty station.

For me, books have always taken precedence over TV. A Hardy Boys mystery book on the weekend was entertainment enough. I’d stay up late reading about Frank and Joe Hardy’s adventures hoping to emulate them some day. Many boys my age enjoyed the same, while girls read about teenage detective, Nancy Drew.

In fifth grade, at Lubbock, Texas, our local library held a reading contest for students. Prizes were to be given away for different age groups, with one special prize awarded to an elementary student reading the most books. Rumor had it the grand prize was a bicycle.

I don’t recall how many books I read that summer, but it was a lot. I was determined to win first prize. When my name was called, I proudly walked on stage in front of a theater full of kids to get my prize. A lady congratulated me before placing a copy of Kon Tiki, by Thor Heyerdahl in my outstretched hand.

I was disappointed as I’d desperately wanted a new bike. Looking back on things, it was the perfect award for a bookworm like me. I still have that prize.

Sadly, book reading amongst young people is rapidly declining. The National Endowment for the Arts released a study detailing such, titled, Reading at Risk. The following is a short excerpt from that report:

“The trends among younger adults warrant special concern, suggesting that––unless some effective solution is found––literary culture, and literacy in general, will continue to worsen. Indeed, at the current rate of loss, literary reading as a leisure activity will virtually disappear in half a century.”

I believe that reading promotes creativity and imagination in children. I don’t see where electronic gizmos do the same, although there are some self-professed intellects that’ll disagree. Of course, these are the same folks claiming that violence and graphic language in movies, games, and music doesn’t harm a child’s developing mind.

Switching directions for a brief second, kids these days don’t seem to have the personal interaction skills that older generations possess. I blame much of this on social media along with those “devices” that they’re always staring into.

There is a way to promote reading in children. Foremost, take unsmart phones away from kids over the weekend. Tell them to read a book instead. Public libraries and schools need to have reading contests like they did years ago. Give out a bicycle along with a book for the grand prize. It’s amazing what kids will do when a suitable award is dangled over them.

I’m thankful for growing up with a book in front of my face rather than an iPhone. I’m sure the Hardy Boy’s would echo my thought along with Nancy Drew.

Most older folks have heard a fish story or two. A good example being, Uncle Joe’s 10-inch carp, over time, turned into a 19-inch monster with shark like teeth.

Of course, another name for fish story is “yarn”, although you hardly hear that word anymore. There are car and boat yarns making the rounds in Havasu garages every day, with some of them surpassing even the wildest fish stories.

An acquaintance of mine has a 350 Chevrolet engine in his 1969 pickup. Each time someone asks Ed how much horsepower it makes, the number seems to climb. I believe it was 375 horses last January. It’s now 475, and amazingly, I’m told he hasn’t touched the thing with a wrench in ages. I’m sure Ed isn’t the only “Car Guy” good naturedly spinning tall tales.

Moving on to watercraft, I’ve never owned a boat. My wife and I live in the #1 boating capitol of America, Lake Havasu City, yet go without. Why?

For many years, we owned personal watercraft (PWC). A while back, I rode a 1995 Polaris SLT 700 with friends in Alaska. The Gulf of Alaska, Prince William Sound, Cook Inlet, Resurrection Bay, Talachulitna River, Yentna River, Big Susitna River, and Kenai Lake, are a few of the waterways visited. It was extreme and dangerous riding to say the least. A compressed spine is testament to such pounding.

My Polaris wasn’t the quickest machine on the water, yet made up for speed via excellent miles-per-gallon. By strapping an additional 20-gallons on back, it allowed for a roundtrip to Montague Island from Whittier. Jeff and Doug, riding more powerful Sea-Doo’s, had to siphon fuel from my rig on the return leg.  

Moving to Arizona, I relished hitting the warm waters of Lake Havasu on a newer and faster machine. The best part being, no clingy dry suit was needed in Havasu like the 49^th state. We purchased a Kawasaki 250X from now defunct Walt’s Kawasaki, and rode it often with close friend, Mike Jones. After our pal passed away, the supercharged machine was kept in mothballs. Joleen and I eventually sold it to a couple in Phoenix.

I’m amazed at all the knarly boats in town. An upcoming boat show on McCulloch Boulevard will showcase a good number of them. Many multi-engine machines top the million-dollar mark where price is concerned. I thought $13,000.00 for our Kawasaki PWC was high at the time, but that wouldn’t buy a week’s worth of race fuel for some of these beasts.

I’ve contemplated purchasing a real boat. My dream machine being a blown Sanger flat bottom from the 1970’s.  A friend of ours, Tom Gildea, gave me the scoop on that particular model. Tom and his wife Dodie are longtime residents of Lake Havasu City. Avid boaters, Joleen and I respectfully call them, “Boat People.” To be fair, friends of ours owning airplanes are referred to as “Propeller Heads.”

After many years of running the river, Tom told me that he’d observed the same type of boat I craved, sunk, more than all others combined. He explained that they tend to sink easily because of squatting so low in the water. Tom is the second person informing me that BOAT stands for: Break Out Another Thousand. Jeff Thimsen was the first.

I won’t take my friend’s advice on buying a Sanger, as sinking will never occur. You see, this boat will never float. Not only do Sanger’s look awesome sitting on water, but they’re mighty impressive parked in a garage. “A great conversation piece”, is how friend Jim Brownfield explained things. Jim’s comment is what kindled my idea.

For 14-years I owned a Harley-Davidson V-Rod motorcycle. During that time, less than 500 miles were put on the bike. When people asked why I kept the thing, my reply was short and sweet, “So I can say I own a Harley!” The real reason is that I love to tinker with all things mechanical. I had enough motorcycle riding in the younger years to satisfy my appetite.

With an 8-71 blown Sanger flat bottom boat someday parked in my garage, should someone inquire why I never take it on the water, I’ll have a much different yarn to spin than the Harley.

With straight face, I’ll claim that my Sanger is so fast, it was banned from the lake. Of course, “Boat People” will see right through this outrageous lie.  The real reason: I love the cackle of a supercharged Chrysler 426 Hemi through chrome zoomie headers. Firing her up once a month so that the neighborhood knows I’m alive and kicking will be priceless!