Author: michaeldexterhankins

I’m in charge of all vacuuming at our house. I probably have as much vacuum experience as any person in the country, besides professional house cleaners of course. There’s a particular vacuum pattern in carpet that I strive for. It’s much like a crosshatch pattern in football or baseball field grass.

At my disposal is a central vac and an Oreck portable. The central vacuum is my favorite, yet can be a hassle when the hose gets kinked, which is often. Getting a nozzle too close to my wife’s dresser, I’ve accidentally sucked up a few valuables like one of Joleen’s favorite earrings. We eventually found it unscathed in the canister.

The Oreck portable is much handier. I’ll fire it up and be done in half the time as the other. What I don’t like about it are the small bags. Sometimes I forget to change them, and the machine quits sucking. If it’s early morning when this happens, I generally don’t notice. I merely go through the motions of pushing the vacuum around. As long as those crosshatch patterns are showing, I’m okay with the job.

Years ago, a door-to-door Kirby salesman stopped by the trailer park where my family lived. We only had so much carpet in our mobile home. Most of the floor was linoleum.

This salesperson did a superb demonstration on how powerful his vacuum was. First, he had Mom run her well-used Hoover over the carpet. He then cranked up his Kirby and rolled it over the same area. Opening up the bag, there was a sizeable amount of dust and dirt inside.

Dad and Mom were instantly sold on the machine. Mother claimed later on, little did she realize they could’ve replaced the small piece of carpet ten-times, for price of this machine.

A friend of ours purchased a Rainbow vac. Diane swears it’s the best vacuum she’s ever had. It even has a spray paint attachment although I doubt she’s ever used it. Upon learning price, I didn’t inquire further. A small fortune was needed to purchase one.

My daughter came to visit a few months back and watched as I vacuumed the living room. Afterwards, she said it appeared the machine wasn’t doing its job. I could see a nice crosshatch, and that’s all that mattered. Miranda suggested I get a new portable vacuum, one of those turbine-headed ones.

After Miranda left for Minnesota, I started searching the internet for a model like she’d referred to. The Dyson orbital was triple what our old Oreck cost. Deciding to take a plunge, I slapped it on one of our mileage-award credit cards.

After the first vacuuming, I was amazed at all the dust and dirt collected in its hopper. The Dyson doesn’t use bags which is nice. Even more amazing was the professional crosshatch it left behind. The pattern reminded me of New York’s Yankee Stadium before a game.

Much like hot rods, horsepower is king in vacuum cleaners. Good suction requires plenty of it and Dyson delivers. I’d line my Dyson up with Diane’s Rainbow, and my late Mom’s Kirby, any day of the week. As far as that Oreck goes, it’s choking on dust at the back of the pack. The poor machine doesn’t know it yet, but it’s about to become, “Homeless in Havasu.”

In the early 1970’s, I worked a couple of jobs in Alaska that for various reasons, I didn’t hang around long enough to make a career out of.  While attending automotive technology classes at Anchorage Community College, I moonlighted as a custodian for Excell Janitorial at the Montgomery Ward department store on Northern Lights Boulevard and Spenard Road. That gig lasted a week.

My job was to vacuum the whole complex while two other guys emptied trash cans and cleaned windows. This store had two levels. I got to know my cumbersome Sanitaire vacuum cleaner quite well, toting it up and down a silenced escalator.

The boss warned me that the last guy hired had been fired for stealing. He said that Montgomery Ward had a clandestine security guy working nights and mornings. This person was never observed because there were areas where he hid and couldn’t be seen. They knew he was around because the poor fellow couldn’t make it through a shift without lighting up a cigarette. My supervisor also told me this man often left bait in various places to try and nab someone.

I was vacuuming near the jewelry counter one night. There on a glass display case sat a couple of rings in their fancy velvet boxes. “How unclever!”, came to mind. I assumed the security guy was watching me closely.

“Hey!”, I called out loud enough for anyone to hear. “If you left these rings here on purpose, they’re not my size!”

I uttered such out of humor, not caring what the consequences might be. Thankfully, the fellow never showed his face, or I would’ve asked him to take his nasty smoking habit outside. Later that evening, I detected tobacco smoke upstairs and knew that he was dogging me. I immediately started singing, Jimmy Crack Corn and Little Liza Jane. Those were the only songs I knew words to, having learned them as a kid in Alabama. I still sing the tunes in my garage when no one’s around; the lyrics greatly changed due to ever-worsening CRS syndrome (Can’t Remember Songs).

Towards the end of my first week, I glanced out a large window, spotting my friend, Jeff Thimsen, drive by. He was cruising around town in his ’65 Chevrolet as we often did together. Seeing such and being jealous, along with having that unnerving security guy watching my every move, I turned in my resignation the following Monday. Out of courtesy, a few more shifts were completed until a replacement custodian was found.

Approximately a year later, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, Charlie Hart, was working as a doodlebugger on a seismograph crew on the Alaskan North Slope. Doodlebugger is a nickname of sorts for field seismic employees. Charlie mentioned that GSI was looking for help, and the pay was great with a guaranteed 84-hour work week.

It was the end of the season for seismic crews and most of the seasoned employees were headed home. One of the oil companies wanted a final job performed before frozen tundra and ice started thawing. GSI was hastily trying to round up a crew to complete this mission, hiring just about anyone with functioning legs and arms.

I flew out of Anchorage via Wein Airlines on a 737 jet. We landed at Dead Horse Airport a little over an hour later. After disembarking, I was ushered to a small building close to the taxiway. Inside were other oil field workers bound for different camps; a lone pool table was constantly in use with a cloud of bluish smoke hovering over it.

The restroom was outside in another building. Toilets had electric grids within the bowl area designed to incinerate solid materials. I didn’t see the sign saying not to urinate in them, as that was strictly to be done in another part of the building. Noticing it much too late, some guy yelled at me, claiming fellows had been killed doing such. I thought he meant electrocuted. Turns out the electric grids shorted out with too much liquid hitting them. The ‘murder reference’ had to do with that poor guy having to change them. I apologized and quickly left.

After several hours of waiting, I boarded a DeHavilland DHC-6 Twin-Otter aircraft on skis bound for destinations unknown. We flew for perhaps 30 minutes before setting down next to what the pilot called, a “cat train.” This would be my new home.

The cat train consisted of a D-7 Caterpillar, hooked to five little buildings on skis. These mobile shacks made up the camp office, kitchen, living quarters, and a small, chemical-decomposing porta-potty. I can only imagine where they dumped the stuff. A diesel Snow Cat used for transportation sat next to the kitchen. Several guys were working under it using Visqueen and a kerosene heater to stay warm.

I was shown a cabin I’d be sleeping in and then invited to the dining car for dinner. Diners were expected to eat and leave as space was at a minimum. I shared a 20′ x 12′ dwelling with three other guys. They were all smokers. An instant headache resulted from having to breath their pollutants besides enduring a stinky, oil-burning furnace.

Eating breakfast the next morning at 6:00, I climbed into a Snow Cat with another “juggy” and the vehicle driver. Juggy was officially my new title. My assignment was to pick up seismic cables and geophones (microphones) that another crew laid out the previous day. Imagine a continuous string of Christmas lights with the bulbs facing down, because that’s what they reminded me of.

These devices are used by geologists to tell what’s inside the earth’s crust. The cables stretched out for miles across what I thought was frozen tundra. We had to bend over and grab each geophone separately. After bending and standing thousands of times a day, it was exhausting. They didn’t want us yanking them up by the wire as it could damage things.

Pete and I brought along a provided lunch including snacks and drinks of our choice. Thermoses of coffee were available, and we each took one on the first day. They were empty by noon. I had on bunny boots, thermal underwear, insulated pants, an Arctic parka, a fur hat, thick gloves, and sunglasses. What little sun there was to work under was blinding after it bounced off the white terrain. Polarized eye protection prevented snow blindness. We had no communication device which to me was most disturbing.

Our high-strung taxi driver left us there and didn’t return until around seven o’clock that evening. We’d worked well past sunset using flashlights and minimal light from a bright moon. It was unnerving to say the least. There were ice ridges everywhere and after a while they appeared to move. My co-worker and I began to think we were seeing polar bears. In actuality, being tired and cold, we were imagining such.

Telling our driver about the eerie sightings on the way back to camp, he laughed, saying they could’ve been polar bears, being that we were working on top of the Beaufort Sea. That was the first time we learned that land wasn’t under our feet.

Evidently, the oil company hiring GSI desperately wanted this area explored for possible oil and gas reserves. Being at the bottom of the totem pole, Pete and I weren’t privy to such information. It simply leaked out via the Doodlebugger grapevine.

Back at camp, things weren’t any better. After a late dinner, my trying to sleep while three roommates hooped and hollered didn’t allow for adequate rest. The druggies had at their disposal, pot, cocaine, and booze. Back then, drug testing wasn’t heard of amongst oilfield workers. Sadly, our Snow Cat driver was one of the dopers.

This routine went on for a few days before Pete told me he’d had enough. He said I’d most likely be working by myself until they finished the job, as help was hard to come by. Being alone in the middle of a vast frozen field of ice , with no radio, gun, or survival gear was a bit unnerving. Knowing that I had to rely on a pothead driver to pick me up was the worst nightmare. For safety reasons, I elected to quit as well.

We rode for a full day in the back of the cat train, trying to catch up on lost sleep. They sent us home the following morning on a slow loving, single engine Cessna airplane. It was headed to Anchorage for repairs. I think it took us close to four hours or longer as we had to refuel along the way. Never was I so happy to get home.

Looking back on things, I’m glad I got to experience such. I found out quick that being a “juggy” wasn’t meant for me, even with the decent pay. Things somewhat changed for the better after I left. Substance-abusing employees were no longer tolerated by the company. Urine tests took care of most of that problem. A major downfall being that the fat paychecks were virtually cut in half because this company and others started hiring out-of-country employees.

Prudhoe Bay is still supplying oil to ships in Valdez harbor. I can proudly say that for a brief spell, I had a minuscule part in making such happen!

I’ve never held a professional title of any kind, other than perhaps, Shaker Plant Expert (SPE). According to unreliable sources, there are only two of us in the world. Rod Steiner is one and I’m the other. This honor is self-bestowed; some would question its authenticity.

The State of Alaska – Department of Transportation & Public Facilities – Maintenance & Operations section was experimenting with using glacial sand for winter road use around 1990, give or take five years. Light, imported sand currently being spread on snowy and icy roads was quickly blowing off the slick asphalt as soon as it was put down. Someone came up with the idea of mixing heavier, and sharper granulated glacial silt in with the light. It seemed like a perfect plan.

Because this glacial sand was laden with boulders and rocks, a shaker plant was needed to separate things. DOT purchased a portable one and installed it beside a tributary creek of Portage Lake. This creek was some distance off the Seward Highway and in a beautiful setting.

A shaker plant works much like a mechanical sieve. Stones and gravel are dumped into a hopper, where it then goes to a vibrating screen of sorts. The fine sand drops down through metal grates, while a conveyor carries the heavier material to a designated pile or piles.

A counterweight on a long shaft, driven by fan belts makes the device, shake, rattle, and roll as Rod and I liked to say. We falsely told people that we invented the term, but actual credit goes to 1919 vaudeville performer, “Baby” Franklin Seals. Baby’s use of it I’m sure had nothing to do with making sand.

It was middle September, and a call came in from Larry Bushnell, Girdwood Shop Foreman, that their shaker plant had lost a couple of bearings. The machine was no longer operational. Larry needed it up and running and like right now.

For whatever reason, our boss, Ray Henry, chose Rod and me to drive down and repair it. I believe Ray thought it would be an easy fix with us on the job. Perhaps it was punishment? Weather was as bad as it gets in the Portage Valley area. Wind was blowing icy rain and snow near sideways. Even with Carhart’s and raingear on it was brutally cold.

The machine needed a complete, unbalanced flywheel shaft plus bearings. All essential parts were overnighted. We worked from the bucket of a Case loader in most difficult weather. Rod and I took turns thawing out in the always-running service truck. A thermos of hot coffee wasn’t enough; hypothermia was a snail’s tail away.

It took us four days to complete our mission. The drive from Anchorage to Portage and back was two hours alone. After the mission was complete, we were able to bask in the glory of our success. We wore our imaginary shaker plant expert badges with honor.

Afterwards, whenever the shop phone rang, Rod and I would be on imaginary edge claiming it was another call for our expertise. That never happened for good reason.

Throughout that winter, automotive glass shops in Anchorage, Seward, Homer, and Soldotna were kept extremely busy. The heavier sand had worked just fine. It stayed on the roadway. It also took out countless windshields and headlights in the process. People complained and the operation was immediately placed into mothballs.

I’m told by unreliable sources that this shaker was purchased by a gold mining operation in Girdwood. I can’t verify such, but perhaps, Parker Schnabel, of GOLD RUSH fame can.

At times when I pick up the home phone, I flash back to that inside joke at DOT, expecting an imaginary voice on the other end to call out,

“We need a couple of shaker plant experts, and we need them right now!”

That always brings a smile to my face!

My parents, early on, claimed that once they moved away from the small town in which they were born, they couldn’t move back. As a kid, I never knew what my folks meant. Dad and Mom didn’t explain things for my still developing mind. In spite of what they preached, both relocated to Vernon, Alabama some 40-years after they’d left. Their residency only lasted a year.

Mom said that Vernon hadn’t really changed, but most all of her friends had traveled on to other places. Both Dad and Mom’s parents were dead, with siblings now relocated to the bigger cities of Mobile and Birmingham. During their short Vernon tenure, they visited the graves of deceased family and loved ones, including driving around the countryside looking for places remembered. They discovered many of the old homes no longer standing. What Dad and Mom felt afterwards from doing all this was complete sadness. I now know how they felt.

For close to four years we resided in Selma, Alabama. I can’t say that Selma would be considered a small town. Population of the city is around 18,000 people. I believe when we lived there, and Craig Air Force Base was still active, nearly 30,000 residents called it home.

The last time I visited Selma was in 1974 with my brother, Jim, and soon to be wife, Joleen. That was eleven years after Jim and I left for Texas. Everything looked the same. The base was still open, and businesses appeared to be flourishing. My brother talked about moving back some day. I echoed the same. Joleen was impressed with the plantation style homes in Selma. She thought it’d be neat to live in one.

The years clicked by and that Selma dream still lingered in my mind. I was even looking at historic homes on the market. Joleen wasn’t so sure at this point about wanting to head south, after hearing reports of all the storms. She grew up in Kansas and seemed to have no fear of tornadoes. Go figure?

I reconnected with some former Southside School classmates, one still living in Selma. She told me that the town had really suffered after the military base closed. It was depressing to hear that news. I talked with the local Selma-Times Journal newspaper publisher, Dennis Palmer, and he reiterated what Glenda said. Dennis said that the base closure was brutal economically speaking. With abundant military revenue gone by 1977, many businesses were forced to close their doors. I’ve since researched the economic downfall this had on the community, and it was extensive.

In 2002, my son and some of his Air Force co-workers were undergoing training in Montgomery. I gave Gunnar a list of several places to check out in and around Selma. They headed over on a Saturday to take a look. He sent back a three-minute long video, of a trailer park we lived in from 1959 – 1963. It looked to be remnants of a battle zone, showing what few trailers that remained in bad shape, cardboard replacing windows, clapped-out derelict cars sitting in yards. It was nothing like when we resided there.

My son and his pals were quick to leave when three young male residents began suspiciously heading towards their vehicle. The newbie officers didn’t feel comfortable hanging around any longer. It was the smart thing for them to do. Several places on my list of things to see couldn’t be found. Watching Gunnar’s video made me sad, and I hadn’t even made a move back to Selma to see for myself.

Selma, Alabama still has a lot to offer. The town’s history is rich and deep, with many early plantation style homes still standing. Unfortunately, in my research, I place blame directly on politicians for letting crime get out of hand. It appears they held back the police from doing their job. Criminals were coddled instead of being dealt with in a proper fashion. This has had a negative impact much like the closing of Craig.

Vernon, Alabama went through a financial downfall of its own sixty years ago. The cotton gin permanently closed taking valuable revenue along with it, and several years after that, their garment plant closed. My mother at one time worked in the clothing factory. In spite of such, Vernon appears to have weathered things much better than Selma. I applaud government leaders for finding a new direction. As an infant, I lived in Vernon for perhaps one year, so technically speaking I’m a former resident.

A while back, I had a dream that Joleen and I were living in one of those white-pillar, Civil War era, Selma mansions. The dream went downhill quite fast. This fantasy home had bars on doors and windows much like a jail. Instead of being there to keep criminals in, they were needed to keep them out. A tall fence around the grounds was built to dissuade potential looters from entering. Some might say that was a vision or an omen. I wouldn’t go that far although it does make me wonder

With Selma out of the picture I could easily move back to Vernon, but finding a suitable house for sale seems hard to do. There are very few listed. A historic, 1854, antebellum home in Columbus, Mississippi is up for grabs. Moving it the 31 miles to Vernon might be a futile undertaking. I guess you could say this is more of a pipe dream than anything else!

I was reflecting the other day on how different my life would be, if I’d been totally honest with family, friends, and strangers in all areas. I’m talking about not using little white lies in everyday situations. Bald-faced lies are much different. I make a choice not to go that far. A white lie according to several online references, is an innocent lie designed not to hurt people’s feelings.

These same sources show that a bald or bold-faced lie is much higher on the fib scale. Bald-faced is blatantly obvious/and or impudent truth, one in which the liar does not attempt to cover up their mendacity. I had to look up mendacity having never used that word. Turns out it’s a fancy name for lying and untruthfulness. Why does it start with men?

I can think back to perhaps the earliest white lie I told. Our 4th grade class was having a cakewalk and parents were asked to supply a cake. Mom baked a yellow one with vanilla icing. I participated in this event and won. Rather than take mom’s cake as a prize, I chose an all chocolate version made by another lady. My mother was upset, delicate feelings hurt.

When asked why I didn’t choose hers I had to think fast,

“Because yours was the first one taken!”

That was a winning combination of untruthful words. I’ve been on a roll ever since!

I’ve told food servers in restaurants that their food was good, when it wasn’t. I informed ill family and friends in the hospital that they looked good, when they didn’t. I’ve lied about clothing, hair, and age more than anything. I don’t know how many car salesmen I’ve fibbed to over the past 30-years.

“Mr. Hankins, what would it take for me make you keeper of the keys?”

When I should honestly should have said, “Hit the road Jack, with that price it’s not gonna happen”, I resorted to a well-rehearsed and untruthful line, “Let me think about it some more, I’ll get back to you.”

Hopefully none of those poor folks are still waiting for my call. I did this so as not to hurt their feelings, at least that’s what I told myself. In actuality, it was to get them off my back. I’m not one to endure high-pressure sales tactics. Regardless, it’s still a borderline white lie on my part.

Years ago, I worked with a guy that had severe male-pattern-baldness. He was very self-conscious of the problem. Art (not his real name) came to the shop one day wearing a shaggy toupee. He asked what I thought. What’s a fellow to say in situations like this?

“Looks good!”

Most everyone in the building commented the same as I did. Whenever Art wasn’t around the jokes flew.

“Looks like roadkill to me!” one mechanic laughingly informed a group of us.

The other day I told someone working in a grocery store how old I was. Her polite response back to me was,

“I would’ve never guessed that!”

I’m not sure how I’d felt had she honestly said,

“Man, I pegged you to be another ten-years older.”

I’m glad this gal didn’t tell the truth, because the mirror does an excellent job of that each morning.

From my research, the Bible makes no mention of any type of lie as being acceptable. Webster’s Dictionary on the other hand defines white lies as being okay. Interesting, because Noah Webster was a Christian. It’s a confusing subject for me. I don’t like spinning white lies, yet on the other hand, upsetting people with the blatant truth can be hurtful on both ends.

Had I been absolutely honest with people over time in delicate areas, I’d most likely have no friends. My family would stay away, with strangers proclaiming that Michael Hankins is a crass old man. I don’t want that label.

I don’t mind folks telling me a little white lie where my age is concerned. On the other hand, should I ever stoop to wearing one of those silly rugs on my head like some guys, please be upfront and honest in your opinion. Save me some lingering embarrassment and grief by crying out,

“Looks like roadkill to me!”

There’s a new gas station / convenience store breaking ground within walking distance of where I live. I’m talking the Sweetwater – South Acoma area. Huge, yellow, Caterpillar dozers and a road grader are trying to bust through the concrete hard, boulder infested property. Most likely, dynamite will eventually be needed.

Several years ago, the late John Ballard told me, “That’s some of the hardest ground in all of Lake Havasu City!”  John would know, because for over 20-years he installed real estate and political signs throughout town.  He ended up using sandbags to hold political signs upright in this area. What’s totally ironic is that the side street going by this development, Ballard Way, is named after John.

Some people in the neighborhood are okay with this project, while others are not. Having lived in close proximity to a strip joint plus numerous seedy bars in Alaska, I have absolutely no problem. Back in the day, gas stations had obnoxious bells to advise service station attendants that cars and trucks needed fuel. Thankfully, those noisy devices are no longer needed. I might not be so upbeat about this new facility if they were.

I see this as mere progress. There was a time when south Havasu lacked in amenities like the ones in middle town and the northside. Those days are quickly coming to an end. Stores and offices of all flavor are moving south. The Havasu Riviera development has definitely made it desirable for new businesses to locate here. Evidently, Maverik, Inc. saw a golden opportunity to expand and jumped on it.

When I look at all the pluses in having them within walking distance of my house, one major benefit pops up. When it’s 120 degrees outside, and I need a brain-freezing cherry slush, “my fix” is less than 200 paces away. How many people can claim that up on Cherry Tree Boulevard!

As a youngster, I often wondered why some older folks copped an attitude over the littlest things. Dad would get upset if the morning newspaper was not there before he left for work. Had I analyzed things by TV wisdom alone, I would’ve guessed a lack of Geritol led to his irritability. Geritol’s rarely mentioned anymore for whatever reason?

Back in the day, this bottled elixir was constantly being touted on television as a cure for iron poor blood, anxiety, and irritability. Mom served plenty of collard greens and red beets at dinner, as an alternative means of pumping up our blood with minerals and nutrients. That’s not all her cooked vegetables produced. Ethyl is slang for what I’m referring to. Younger readers will have to look it up. Now that I’ve reached senior status, I understand the root of irritability goes much deeper than lack of iron or sleep.

Early on, I was taught responsibility by my parents. That meant taking a bath, brushing my teeth, household chores, homework, keeping the lawn mowed, picking up our dog’s poo, along with other assigned duties.

Once married, I had to be responsible to my wife, children, employer, and people I didn’t even know. My pastor told the congregation that we needed to be responsible to the man upstairs. When he mentioned we, he meant me in that sense.

Over the years I’ve worked hard and did my best to provide for the family. I believe I’ve succeeded in this area. We never lived at the top of the hill yet managed to survive just the same.

Throughout time, I incurred many tasks that I did not like. Paperwork is one of them. To this day, I do not like having to constantly fill out forms of any kind, especially mortgage refinance papers.

I was in a medical office last week, and the receptionist claimed that I needed to update my personal information. When I told her that nothing had changed, she handed me an electronic clipboard just the same.

Starting down the list, they asked if any of my medications were different, did I have covid at any time, or come in contact with someone that did. Was I having any new issues? It was the usual array of questions that every doctor’s office wants answered, including needing to know if I was white, black, or brown.

I really didn’t fit any of the 3 colors offered. White to me is a defining color like those huge pillars standing in front of the White House. In the movie “Powder”, the lead character was what I’d call white. I’m definitely not black nor brown at this stage, although early on I turned light brown in the sun. These days without sunscreen I remain a reddish hue much like an almost done steak.

The question that had me most confused was the gender one. It asked if I was male, female, bisexual, transgender, and the list seemingly went on and on. I can’t remember them all. A choice of other went with this inquiry; explanation needed if you chose it. At this point I became a bit irritable, yet not enough to intentionally harm myself.

Had I ever considered harming myself was actually one of the questions asked. My body does ache from a bad back and arthritis, but that pain isn’t intentional on my part. I ran out of time before I could answer everything. The nurse practitioner called me back to her examination room, saying I could finish up before leaving.

Getting back to my truck, I remembered that I hadn’t stopped at the counter to complete things.

“Whatever!”

Next trip in I’m sure they’ll make sure I finish all empty blanks. I have 3 answers ready for blastoff:

1. New problems: Irritability
2. Color: Medium well
3. Gender: Cyborg

Before closing, I found that the late actress Betty White hawked Geritol in the middle 1950’s as a cure all for many ills. Everyone knows that Betty was always cool and calm, never appearing irritable or hostile. The lovable Betty White lived to be 99. Maybe there’s something to this Geritol after all?

My wife and I are addicted to McDonald’s coffee. We generally share a medium size cup each morning. I can’t say that McDonald’s coffee is the best in town, but the price is right. The well-organized crew working Swanson Boulevard McDonald’s drive-thru makes it even better.

I did some research to see where McDonald’s gets their coffee beans. Some company named Gavina is their supplier. I can only assume that Gavina purchased their beans from Juan Valdez at one time. Old-timers should remember Juan. He represented the Columbian Coffee Growers Association and appeared in numerous commercials with his pack mule.

Juan Valdez was actually a fictitious name. The fellow playing this part was Carlos Sanchez. Sadly, Carlos passed away on January 14, 2019 at the age of 83. He was one of those instantly likable characters, always wearing a smile. I give Juan partial credit for getting me hooked on java.

While sitting in the drive-thru line waiting for our Cup O’ Joe, I always make a mental note of things going on around our car. There’s never a dull moment it seems. I have a running bet with my wife on which drive-thru line will be fastest. I generally choose the left and her the right. It’s always a toss-up. We’ve been doing this for a couple of years now and no one line is consistently faster.

Joleen and I have seen some interesting things during this time. Early one morning, an older fellow in front of us was snoozing. I suppose he hadn’t had his coffee, either that, or the guy was just coming home after a wild night in Laughlin. A light toot on my horn got him moving.

We’ve observed folks order and then keep on driving when it was time to pay. I suppose leaving a wallet or purse at home accounts for most of those wasted trips.

A lifted Ford truck pulling a large boat tried to squeeze through the right hand line. After barely getting past the order board, this driver found that he couldn’t make the turn. He ended up having to back out with help from several other young guys, along with assistance from a McDonald’s maintenance man.

Texting, totally unaware that the car in front has moved forward, sets the pace for most incidents. Never mind that the person behind them has to wait. We’ve watched irate drive-thru customers honk and then yell to get these rude individuals moving.

Some folks have taken five minutes or longer to order just a couple of items. After one woman moved ahead, I saw on the screen that she ordered an Egg McMuffin and Coke. I suppose she needed to know exactly what’s in the breakfast sandwich, along with how many calories and fat grams.

We’ve seen impatient drivers lay on their horn hoping that’ll speed the process up, including a couple of guys smoking their tires on the way out. I suppose those clowns were running a bit late for work. They couldn’t have been retirees like us, could they? I mean, why would any retired person be in a hurry unless they need to get to a hospital.

So far, the biggest order we’ve observed was $139.00. That was a guy in an expensive Mercedes sedan with California plates. Undoubtedly, there have been bigger orders. Perhaps the funniest thing I observed was a burly fellow like me dropping his credit card at the pay window.

Cars were stacked up behind and in front of him. Being so close to the building, the poor man couldn’t open his door to retrieve the card. He had to crawl across the console and exit through his passenger door. There still wasn’t room for him to squeeze between the vehicle and wall. By this time he was sweating profusely. An employee finally handed the fellow a broom and he was able to snag it. I’d bet the McDonald’s workers have witnessed even funnier things.

Birds of all type are generally in the parking lot each morning. I’m sure they come to take in the drive-thru action, plus have a snack on the side. Just as Havasu locals get a kick out of watching out-of-state boaters attempt to back down a launch ramp, I believe those seagulls, blackbirds, and pigeons get a chuckle out of watching caffeine depraved humans nearly lose it each morning.

The small price we pay each morning for a Cup O’ Joe is well worth the money, especially since the entertainment going with it is free. I’m sure the late Juan Valdez would agree!

Thirty-seven years ago, while living in Alaska, my wife and I were given an opportunity to go on a weeklong cruise of the Hawaiian Islands.  Republic Automotive picked up the tab. Our group consisted of perhaps forty people, most all connected to the automotive parts industry. Transportation was provided roundtrip out of Anchorage.

It was January and brutally cold. Our plane departed around one in the morning, and I was never so glad to be out of there. A lady sitting behind me with no connection to our group was sniffing and coughing. She must’ve felt guilty because I heard her remark to a flight attendant,

“I planned this trip a year ago and nothing’s going to stop me from going!”

At the time I didn’t think too much about what this woman said. A day later when I was sick, and just about everyone else in our party had the crud, I remembered her statement. Coming down with the flu while on a ship is not the most pleasant experience. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch came to mind here. Undoubtedly, had this woman wore a mask she could’ve spared some of us her misery. I doubt that even crossed the gal’s mind.

This woman who I nicknamed, “Hacking Harriet,” was selfish enough to be totally unconcerned about spreading her germs to others. All she cared about was getting to Maui. There are millions just like her out there. Today, many of them use the term “freedom” in justifying just about anything they do. Ignoring the speed limit, tailgating, setting off mega-loud fireworks where they’re prohibited, cursing loudly when children are present, littering, not picking up after their dog, the list goes on and on.

The other morning, I was in a local industrial store to purchase some hydraulic fittings. A customer standing in front of me was coughing and hacking.  He looked absolutely horrible. I instinctively stepped back a couple of paces with flashbacks of Hacking Harriet coming to mind. Thankfully, the store door was open, and a small breeze pushed all of his germs the opposite direction of me. A store employee standing downwind wished the fellow luck on getting better. The sick customer’s response was amazing,

“I should’ve never come to work.”

I almost blurted out, “No kidding buddy!”, yet bit my tongue.

A couple of days later I was back in this store and noticed several faces missing. Asking an employee, I was told a few guys called in sick. I pretty much predicted that’d happen. No one in the building had on masks except me. Thankfully, I sported one the previous trip as well.

With the callous and carefree attitude of so many people, this covid virus will never go away. There’s now talk about letting medical workers come to work ill, just like that guy I encountered in the industrial store. It doesn’t take a huge amount of smarts to see how that’ll turn out.

The Hacking Harriet’s of this world will continue to do as they do. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, they lost a few marbles. I’m thankful with mounting years, that I still have mine, plus a few that I found.

Found

Perhaps my biggest pet peeve, is another driver flashing their brights at me believing that mine are on. It happens quite often. I suppose that’s because I keep my headlight lenses clean. It’s either that, or people with severe glaucoma or cataracts sit behind the wheel of an oncoming vehicle.

The worst stretch of road where this occurs is at the exit past Needles, California, on U.S. 95 north heading to Laughlin and Searchlight, Nevada. There are a bunch of dips in the road along that route making it appear high beams are lit when they’re not.

It also takes place quite often in this town. Some city streets are inclined as they cross Highway 95, thus, directing vehicle headlight rays upwards. I’ve sat at numerous redlights at either South Acoma, Swanson, or Smoketree, and had a disgruntled driver shine their high-beams at me. When I flash mine back, they generally get the message. Sometimes they don’t. That happened the other evening.

I was on Smoketree stopped at the light heading west. McDonald’s restaurant was my destination. Across 95 from me was a small car going east. The guy flipped on his brights and left them that way. I blipped my headlight switch. He obliviously didn’t get the message.

Reverting back to blind you status, I kept mine on high-beam as payback. It turned into a showdown of sorts. We sat through the first light with neither car budging. There were no vehicles behind either of us, so all was good. I wished at that point I had aircraft landing lights.

My wife glared at me asking, “What are you doing?” I didn’t answer because it was a man thing, and she wouldn’t understand.

After sitting through one full light, we entered another segment of the standoff before a truck rolled up behind the guy. The man reluctantly crossed 95 giving me an angry stare as he drove past. It was another old geezer like me. I’m sure the fellow noticed I wore sunglasses. I never leave home without them.

Some might say that this was childish behavior on our part. Police would claim such events can lead to road rage. Both opinions hold merit. Regardless, it was obvious to me that I came out the victor and that’s all that mattered at the time.

My wife wasn’t happy, yet I believe Sheriff Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday would’ve been proud. I suppose if it happens again, and it will, I’ll simply put my sunglasses on and look away like so many times before. That would be the smart thing to do. I’m sure Chief Dan Doyle of the Lake Havasu City Police Department would agree.