Author: michaeldexterhankins

I have friends on each side of the fence, with valid opinions on whether masks work or not where covid and omicron protection is concerned. None of them are experts on the subject. Those same friends have their own ideas regarding vaccinations. Most, if not all, get their information via television screens, reading books and magazines, neighbors, or through Facebook and YouTube self–proclaimed experts.

It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out that if masks didn’t work, doctors and nurses wouldn’t use them. Are they 100% effective at stopping germs? No, but it doesn’t take Albert Einstein to see that some protection is better than none. How about vaccinations? I’m thankful my parents didn’t believe that polio and smallpox shots were acts of government overreach. Partially due to Dad and Mom’s wise medical decisions early on, I’ve lived a healthy disease-free life up to this point.

Imagine being in a sinking boat with 999 other people. All passengers have an empty milk jug to help bail water, yet each jug has a small hole in the bottom. Two-hundred people right off the bat refuse to bail when asked to, saying that it infringes on their freedom. They sit back taunting those doing the bailing.

No matter how fast the others bail, a small amount of water still escapes from their jug back into the bottom of the boat. In spite of such, the vessel’s still afloat and headed to safe harbor.

Before long, many people start complaining about the jugs not being 100% effective. They see it as wasted energy on their part to continue. The freedom crowd cheers them on. This do-nothing group works hard at persuading folks to drop their milk jugs and join the carefree party.

Hours later, the ones still continuing to bail can’t keep up. Water eventually reaches the top of the hull and the boat sinks. That’s exactly where this country is headed in areas of infectious viruses like covid and omicron.

I’ll end my New Year’s eve spiel with a line from famous American philosopher, Forrest Gump,

“Stupid is as stupid does!”

Referring back to my hypothetical story of the sinking boat, it’s quite easy to see who the stupid ones are.

I’ve never written a Christmas story. It’s not that I don’t have good memories of events leading up to Jesus’ birthday. No siree! I have so many recollections that it’s hard to pick just one.

I was blessed to share Christmas with a loving dad, mom, and brother. Not everyone is that fortunate. There are dozens of unique events I recall from celebrating Christmas with my family in a puny trailer home. I’ll leave those for another day. For now, I’ll opt for this short one:

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The year was 1964. My family lived in Lubbock, Texas where I was a ten-year-old fledgling Boy Scout. Our troop had an annual Christmas tree sale, with scouts expected to man the fort for two weeks. When I say fort, I mean a small camping trailer on a dirt lot. Trees came in on a flatbed truck and were offloaded by hand. I still recall the strong smell of spruce and sap. The sticky goo wouldn’t wash off my hands and clothes without using ample amounts of Pinesol. That cleaning agent had its own pungent aroma.

My shift consisted of the last two days of the sale. By then, all of the good trees were long gone. We had perhaps ten specimens left and they were quite homely. The prices were marked down accordingly. Surprisingly, folks still came by to save a buck. My scoutmaster showed me a clever trick to help get rid of the last sickly few.

“These guys were dead on arrival.”, he mentioned, while shaking his head in tearless sympathy. “Let’s pretty them up!”

I don’t remember the scoutmaster’s name, but he carried in his car trunk, a drill, small hand saw, and some clear glue. It was much too cold outside to perform surgery, so we hauled ailing trees inside the trailer where a propane heater was going. A folding table served as our operating platform.

The fellow showed me how to drill holes in trees that were missing limbs, cut good limbs from a donor tree, dab glue on a branch end, and then twist it in place. Dr. Frankenstein couldn’t have done better. Once the task was complete, that tree went back outside and another took its place. After finishing up, my mentor replied,

“They’re now on life support!”

We sold almost all of them, with no buyers noticing the surgery. When it came time to close shop around noon on December 24th, there were three trees left. Those were the donors minus numerous branches. They were good for burning and nothing else. I never forgot my scoutmaster’s tree-trick. Several years later it came in handy.

My family had a gangly looking artificial tree with several places on it void of limbs. Somehow, my son and I were able to scrounge up a spare. I believe it was an old one that mom had but can’t be sure. Holes were drilled in the trunk of the good one, with limbs from the donor tree removed and inserted into them. It was a flashback to 1964. That artificial tree lasted us for at least sixteen Christmases.

I still recall three things learned in the Boy Scouts, with Christmas-tree-restoration being the most useful next to tying square and granny knots.

Coherent geezers from my generation should remember the song, “Dead Man’s Curve” by Jan and Dean. This popular tune reached number eight on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1964.

Lyrics tell about a Corvette and a Jaguar racing on the street late one night. When they arrive at Dead Man’s Curve, unfortunately, the driver of the Jag can’t make the turn and skids off the highway. Evidently the guy didn’t survive.

When I lived in Alaska, we had our own Dead Man’s Curve in Anchorage. I had several encounters with that stretch of road: some intentional and a couple of them accidental. Our deadly curve was on Jewel Lake Road close to the airport.

The speed limit on this curve was 35 mph. Friends of mine attempted to double that speed going through it, me included. The closest I ever came was 60. I suppose a Corvette or Jaguar could’ve easily done so at 70. Mercury, Chevrolet, and Dodge automobiles I drove back then didn’t have great handling ability.

I witnessed quite a few collisions at that location. Most of them were in the winter with drivers losing control and hitting the guardrail. That protective barrier on the curve was always battered and had to be replaced often.

In 1977, I was managing my father’s automotive parts store in the Jewel Lake area. I received a call from the police that our parts runner, Helen, had been involved in an accident. Quickly heading to the area, firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars were blocking lanes both directions. Parking my vehicle, I walked a half-mile to get to the wreck. It was directly in the middle of Dead Man’s Curve.

The small Ford Courier pickup that Helen drove was sliced into two large pieces. The front cab was in one location, and the bed with rear tires was in another. Parts destined for my store were scattered everywhere.

A large car had t-boned her after it lost traction. Helen was carefully extracted from the carnage. It was a good thing because later on I learned she had a broken back. Police said it was a miracle the young woman wasn’t killed.

At this time, it was the most serious accident I’d come across at this locale. I was told by a friend, years previous, that the graphic name came from several individuals having been killed there over time. Little did I know I’d be witness to another.

My wife worked at a building perhaps three miles from Dead Man’s Curve. Often, I’d pick her up on my days off and we’d go to lunch. In September 1985, Joleen and I were cruising to Godfather’s Pizza in Jewel Lake. I remember it being cold and drizzly.

As we came upon the curve, I saw a truck out of control sliding our direction. The driver was desperately fighting for control of the rig. I hit the gas and we went sailing across a ditch just before the guardrail began.

A Chevrolet Chevette in front of us wasn’t as fortunate. It was in the apex of the curve and this metal guardrail allowed it no escape.

Our Chevy Blazer bounced before coming to a stop. I checked to see if Joleen was okay, before jumping out and running towards the other vehicles. A lifted, 3/4-ton Ford nailed the smaller Chevette square center. I was first to reach the automobile and found its driver dead. Others soon arrived and removed him. There was nothing paramedics could do. The teenagers in the truck were shaken up but okay. Had Joleen and I not left the road, this truck would’ve struck us as well.

Approximately one year later, I was called to testify at a court hearing. Attorneys for the deceased had large photos of the accident scene to help in their wrongful death lawsuit. I was asked to show the court the place where I first spotted this pickup out of control. When I pointed to an area well before the curve, an attorney said that would’ve been impossible.

“Trees would’ve obstructed your view!”, a lawyer chimed in.

The man was right. All I could say to him was,

 “That’s where I saw it.”

Over the years I’ve told several people this story. A few mentioned that we were lucky that morning. I politely listened to them, but in my mind, I knew it was a power much greater than luck, giving me the ability to see for a split second through those trees.

• Because of so many terrible accidents, the radius of this deadly curve was eventually changed for the better.

I recall this first happening in fourth grade at Reese Elementary School in Lubbock, Texas. It has since been repeated thousands of times.

Mrs. Hagan instructed our class that if we came to a test question we didn’t know the answer to, it was better to “guess” and take a chance, than leave things blank. That hit home with me because I was leaving more blanks than anything else.

On our next quiz I did quite well. I don’t remember the amount of questions guessed, but I was correct on a majority of them. I got an A on that paper and verbal accolades going along with such. The grade wasn’t as significant as discovering that guessing was exciting, and in a strange way, made learning fun. It was much like a television game show without the expensive prizes.

I tried to completely guess the next couple of tests without studying and failed miserably. I wasn’t the only kid picking up this poor educational habit. After several weeks, students were re-instructed by Mrs. Hagan to leave things blank if they didn’t know the answer. At this point, I couldn’t return to my old ways as I was hooked. Several boys in my class had the same addiction. I suppose my pastor would say it’s akin to gambling, although I didn’t view it that way back then.

Throughout life I’ve used guessing in many areas. If I didn’t know the direction to a specific location, I guessed on which road to take. Sometimes I was right yet the majority of time I was wrong. I didn’t have a problem with being lost, because I saw things along the way that I’d never come across otherwise. Unfortunately, GPS took care of that problem if you can call it that.

I’ve guessed on driving test questions, employment applications, financial questionnaires, which line to get in at the drive-thru pharmacy, what grocery store checker was quickest, which wrench or socket to use, how old a person is, and the list goes on and on.

I don’t guess as much as I once did. These days I pray about what to do when an important decision is needed. Prayer isn’t used in areas unimportant. On those occasions, I turn to Honest Abe Lincoln to make my decision.

Do I want a Hobo omelet for breakfast or blueberry pancakes? Abe not only takes care of that decision, he becomes part of the tip.

A friend told me that some California schools are thinking about using two-answer multiple choice tests, instead of three and four. Students will only have a choice between A or B. I suppose this is to give underachievers like me a better chance on guessing the correct answer.

Had that been the norm in 1963, I’d be asking my teacher come test day,

“Mrs. Hagan, do you have an extra pencil and a penny?”

I’ve been asked numerous times,

“What brought you and Joleen to Lake Havasu City from Alaska?”

I’ll try to cram this lengthy story into a nutshell. My brother, Jim, was an air traffic controller stationed at Blythe, California in 1979. He invited us to visit him the following summer and we happily obliged. Our son, Gunnar, was two-years-old at this time.

After a day of taking in all there was to see, in and around the desert community of Blythe, Jim asked if we’d like to walk across the London Bridge. Joleen and I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He told us a story of chainsaw and outboard motor magnate, Robert McCulloch Sr., purchasing the famous bridge from the City of London, moving it thousands of miles to Lake Havasu City, Arizona, where the disassembled and numbered blocks of granite were then reassembled. When my brother told this tale it sounded more like myth than fact.

The drive from Blythe took us about an hour. We were impressed with not only the antique bridge, but cleanliness of the city as well. It helped that the outboard boat championship was going on that weekend along with a car show. Joleen and I decided at that point that Lake Havasu City was where we’d someday have a winter home.

After our tour with Jim was over, Joleen, Gunnar, and I headed back to Havasu from Blythe and purchased a residential lot, with the help of Realtor Diane Carlson. Our first piece of property was ironically on Injo Drive. “Jo” is my wife’s nickname. Friends and family laughed at our decision saying it was no place they’d want to live, and they doubted the idea was a smart one.

Our investment property was quite easy to get into. An older couple purchased the land from Robert McCulloch Jr’s. – Holly Development Corporation in 1972. In 1980, they no longer had plans to build on it. We paid $9,000.00 with ten percent down, amortized over 30-years. The monthly payment was basically nothing. That following year, Joleen and I bought an adjoining lot for almost the same price.

Starting a partnership with Joleen’s brother, Calvin Freeman, we accumulated more inexpensive lots through the help of Realtor – Randy Randall. We weren’t high rollers like so many rich investors from California are. Calvin, Joleen, and I were working-stiffs, investing what spare money we could scrape together for down payments. No crystal ball nor financial expert was needed by us to see that Lake Havasu City property would someday spiral upwards in value.

Several more years went by before the old police station on London Bridge Road was vacated for a newer structure. We purchased it and quickly went to work with the assistance of, Ron Claspill, in removing all heavy steel jail bars and doors. In three-short-months we turned the old block building into a triple-unit commercial rental. Over time, our low-budget investment group called AZAKS LTD. accumulated 200 consecutive feet of commercial frontage on London Bridge Road alone. AZAKS stands for: Arizona – Alaska – Kansas.

When retirement rolled around it was time to unload all holdings. Realtor’s, Suzannah Ballard and Richard Pagliero, took care of that for us. The money garnered from such went into a house project for Joleen and me, while Calvin used his funds to buy a home and acreage in Kansas. There was nothing financially complicated about what we did. Most of all, Rich Dad Poor Dad author, Robert Kiyosaki, wasn’t needed to instruct us on how to go invest our money. “It was so simple that a caveman could do it!”

I’ve told my children, friends, and strangers, that they should consider doing the same. My parents were the ones advising us to go this direction, and had they not done so, Joleen and I wouldn’t be spending winters in warm Lake Havasu City. Most likely, I’d still be shoveling snow, bad hips and all, in Alaska.

If I had another 40-years, I’d do the same type no brainer investment in Yucca, Arizona. Ten-years ago, I predicted property there would double, and that a truck stop would be built, with both visions now coming true. I have a gut feeling that something even bigger will happen in that area before long. People I know will laugh at this idea as well, yet I won’t be around to see them wrong this time.

All good things must come to an end they say. An ongoing joke for close to 30-years has finally reached that plateau.

My family has been fans of Anchorage radio and television celebrity, Marcus Lewis, since he first went on the air in Anchorage. Our son, Gunnar, attended the same daycare on Baxter Drive as Marcus’s daughter, Heather. This was around 1979. That’s where I first met Mr. Lewis. He was driving a new, shiny-black Camaro at the time.

Each morning, we’d tune our radio in to the, “Marcus in the Morning Show.” I can’t tell you how many years we listened. I believe my kids were some of the first to call Marcus when it snowed less than an inch, asking, “Is there school today?” Several hundred other children and adults soon followed suit.

In the early 1980’s, I won a free personal pizza at Pizza Hut on Muldoon Road through a KFQD radio contest. Marcus joined a group of us for lunch that day. He was a real hoot, and I observed that the man’s sense of humor was over the top. I won numerous other items from his show, with the best being a glass vial of Mount Saint Helen volcanic ash. I still have it, believing by the year 2525 it’ll be worth a fortune on eBay.

Coming in second were tickets to a Tommy Tutone concert. Of course, Tommy Tutone was a one hit wonder, with “Jenny” being their #1 money maker. Jennie’s phone number, 8675309, has never left my mind.

It was 1991, when a group of marijuana connoisseurs came up with a companion event to the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. They named their bizarro gettogether, “IDITATOK.” Marcus mentioned it on his show, saying that the idea was hilarious.

I dialed KFQD that morning, claiming to be “Rocky” from Talkeetna, desperately needing information on time and place. Marcus was quick-witted in his response, “I’ll have the proper authorities call you with that information!”

Each year around February, “Rocky” made it a point to call and ask Marcus the same IDITATOK question. Most every occasion, Marcus and his co-host, April, had this imposter on the air. My wife and kids covered their mouths to keep from laughing outloud and being heard.

Around 1992, I began working with a fellow named, Kurt Rogers. Not only did Kurt and I work together, we became good comrades. His sense of humor was top notch like Marcus, but on a dryer level. One day at break, Kurt told me that Marcus Lewis and his wife were friends of theirs. Kurt said that he often did remodeling work on the Lewis’ home.

When I told Kurt what I’d been up to, he busted a gut. Informing him that I was going to have to stop calling because of caller I.D., my friend insisted that I needed to keep the joke going as long as possible. We put our thinking caps on coming up with a plan. Kurt’s suggestion was that I send Marcus cards and letters each year, and write messages on them like a crazy person. For me, that made things simple.

Marcus has received a card or letter from “Rocky” for close to 30-years, describing what the IDITATOK veteran from Talkeetna had been up to. Family and friends living in various parts of the country helped out in this scheme, by mailing pre-written cards or letters from their home state.

In this correspondence, “Rocky” has been in and out of the pokey more than once, entered the radio business and was fired multiple occasions, sold used cars, dealt in “herbs”, was a professional gambler, musician, struggling actor, juggler, mime, Amway salesman, and a host of other things I no longer remember.

I always kept Kurt up to speed on the latest. Far as I know my pal never told anyone including his wife, Sharon. Sadly, Kurt passed away a few years ago. I’ve kept the joke going in memory of him, but time’s ripe for it to take a bow. I believe Kurt Rogers would say, “A joke well done!”

Hopefully, Marcus took things in good humor, as this is the first time I’ve disclosed such. I thank him for the many smiles he put on not only my face, but thousands of other listeners as well!

“Rocky” Peace! Out!

My 50th East High School reunion is coming up next year, and I was reflecting back on a graduation party I attended at Eklutna Lake Campground on Thursday night, May 25, 1972. For those wondering, East High School is in Anchorage, Alaska.

I was at this party with my best friend, Jeff Thimsen, in my purple 1954 Chevrolet “Highboy” Hot Rod. It was drizzling rain and very cold that evening, with newspaper archives showing 39 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, so it would’ve been below freezing when the sun went down.

A group of maybe five graduates was parked close to us in a VW van. I remember most of their names, yet shall keep them nameless.

A popular and attractive blonde walked over to our car, asking if we had any papers. Being quite naïve, neither Jeff nor I had a clue what she meant. Thinking the gal might be contemplating starting a campfire, I told her I had some newspapers under my car seat. With a puzzled look and Cheshire cat grin, she replied,

“That’s okay!”

The pretty partygoer quickly scampered back to her vehicle, empty-handed.

Jeff and I hung around for maybe an hour trying to figure out why the party hadn’t started. We were expecting a barbecue. Feeling hungry and finding no hot dogs, hamburgers, or Cokes, the two of us hightailed it to Leroy’s Pancake House. There we joined other stray cats from East.

I vaguely remember it being an all-guy endeavor. The atmosphere was lively yet somber. Clinking spoons and forks hitting cheap porcelain plates could be heard throughout the room.

Trying to liven up my own dampened spirits, I splurged and ordered ‘Pigs in a Blanket’. The breakfast fare was a favorite at Leroy’s and still is. After eating, a group of us decided to head to Flapjack Jim’s down the street for dessert.

Somewhere around 2 a.m., after consuming ample slices of apple pie à la mode, our basically mundane graduation party ended without fanfare under inclement weather. We were bloated from excess sweets and also very tired from doing nothing.

No pomp and circumstance played as we exited the joint, and the waitress didn’t even say congratulations. To her, it was just another night at the greasy spoon diner. For us, we hadn’t a clue what the future had in store.

By the end of summer, I’d wised up considerably where street smarts are concerned. I figured out by then what papers my former classmate was referring to. She must’ve been talking about TP. Evidently, the girl was too embarrassed to spell things out.

I’m sure those crumpled newspapers under my driver’s seat would’ve worked just fine. Why she didn’t accept them will always remain a mystery.

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Excerpt from my new book to be released in 2022, “ORDINARY AVERAGE GUY – Uncensored Memoirs of a Trailer Park Refugee.”

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.