In 1994 the Anchorage Icers Midget Hockey Team was invited to play in a tournament at ICELAND in Paramount, California. There photos are from that trip. As soon as more data is compiled a full story will follow.
Coach Lee Van NessJack Knue and Ronnie JonesRonnie JonesDavid JonesDavid JonesKen Hickman wrote this to Joleen because she was unable to make the trip.
Since 1940, Iceland has been a practice facility for many well-known skaters including Sonja Henie, Richard Dwyer, Peggy Fleming and Robbie Robertson, just to name a few. Many of its skaters have represented Iceland’s skating clubs in National, World, and Olympic competitions. The Arctic Blades Figure Skating Club members have excelled and won medals for many years and tragically the Club was also represented by five of its members in 1961 when an airplane crash claimed the entire United States World Team in Brussels Belgium. The DeMorra Speed Skating Club has also had exceptional skaters in National and International events. Bill Disney won a Silver Medal in the 500 meter event at the 1960 Winter Olympics and many members have won medals in other competitions. Iceland has gone through many renovations since its opening in 1940 and while it celebrated its 60th birthday in 2000, its appearance is modern and its amenities are designed to appeal to today’s customers.
“At dinner that evening, our server told us it wasn’t wise to venture outside the hotel after the sun went down.”
Washington Plaza Hotel
I was a decent speller throughout my school years. Most likely it came from reading lots of books. There were several times I won our classroom spelling contest. That’s as far as I ever got.
My son Gunnar took after his old man. Not only did “G-Man” win his classroom and school competition, but he went on to compete at the ACSI National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. I was the lucky parent going along as chaperon.
“G-Man” is a nickname we gave him. His mother and I also call him “Mr. G”, and “Big G.” It has to do with with the first letter in his name. The “Big G” moniker most likely comes from lines in a Cheerios commercial,
“Big G, little o, means Go Power!”
I’m sure my son is more than elated his name doesn’t start with o.
Our daughter also has a unique nickname. Miranda to this day is called, “Panda Miranda.” Joleen nicknamed her after a bear and not Panda Express. Pardon me for drifting off subject. Time to get back to the spelling bee.
The year was 1992. Gunnar and I flew from Anchorage International Airport to Washington National Airport (now Ronald Reagan National Airport). I recall walking to a taxicab loading area, and seeing all kinds of expensive cars lined up in a reserved parking lot. There were BMW’s, Jaguars, Cadillac’s, Lincoln’s, you name it. I assume those vehicles belonged to politicians away on business. That left a bad impression on me.
Our taxi ride was another unsettling experience. The man driving the cab wore a turban. That in itself is not unusual. What was discomforting was that he was one of the most unfriendly people I’ve met.
I tried to start a simple conversation, yet he offered nothing in return. It was easy to see that he either didn’t care for his job, or he resented us. I’m a pretty good judge of people and this guy put me on edge. When he glared at us in the rear view mirror, I made it a point to stare his direction as well. I’d been taught that eye to eye contact is good. In this case it eventually stopped him from watching us.
The route this man took to our hotel had me mortified. We drove past parks and derelict buildings where inebriates lined the street. Some of them lay on benches while others were propped up against walls. Garbage was everywhere. The picture was not pretty. It definitely was not something I expected to see in Washington, D.C.
Our cabbie dropped us off at the Washington Plaza Hotel. This was the designated hotel for all spelling bee participants. I made sure to tip the guy in spite of his rudeness. The Washington Plaza Hotel is a great place to stay. Everything was spic and span, with grass and foliage well taken care of. Compared to the Motel-6’s our family generally stayed in, it was quite fancy.
Gunnar and I checked in and were taken to our room. I wasn’t used to anyone carrying my bags. This was the first time I’d come across such. Once again tip money came in handy.
“Mr. G” goes to Washington, D.C. – 1992
That evening we ate a specially prepared dinner with other students and their parents. We were given tickets to ride a bus the following day to areas of interest.
Gunnar and I chose a bus taking us to Arlington National Cemetery. While at this place of homage, we visited President John F. Kennedy’s grave site and The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. From a distance, I could see Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s stately mansion called, “Arlington House.” Large white columns were visible in foreground. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to take a tour.
“Arlington House” from a distance (photo by me).
After several hours at Arlington, our tour bus took us downtown to the Smithsonian Museum. Gunnar was most thrilled in seeing their space display along with aviation exhibits. “The Spirit of St. Louis” hung from a ceiling. This was the airplane that Charles Lindbergh flew across the Atlantic in 1927.
What caught my interest out of all the displays, was the SWAMP RAT XXX dragster that drag racer Don Garlits drove to NHRA victory in 1986. I knew this car was at the Smithsonian, yet didn’t realize it held a spot of such provenance at the front door.
On top of the dragster’s cowling were the following words in large letters, GOD IS LOVE. There’s a poignant story a to why Garlits has that saying painted on each of his race cars. This bit of information comes from the Museum of History website:
“The dragster carries a Christian cross and the words “God is Love.” This reflects Garlits’ experience in 1959 when, after an accident, his system could not handle pain-killing drugs. In severe pain, he cried out, “Lord help me,” and his pain ceased.”
“Swamp Rat XXX.”.I took this photo a the Smithsonian – 1992
Seems I’ve drifted from the story line once again. I’ll try to keep things on my son traveling to Washington, D.C., to participate in the ACSI National Spelling Bee a bit more on track.
After a full day of visiting historical places including the Smithsonian, we returned to our hotel. It was starting to get dark, yet we decided to go outside and walk across the street to a corner pharmacy. While inside the store Gunnar and I received strange looks. A couple of rough looking characters seemed to quietly ask,
“What you doin’ in this ‘hood?”
Purchasing our goods, we hustled back to the hotel entrance.
At dinner that evening, our server told us it wasn’t wise to venture outside after the sun went down. We’d already figured that out.
Saturday morning was the beginning of competition. Gunnar seemed more interested in a female competitor than he did the bee. He’d met her during a group get-together that first night. I believe she was from Washington State.
When it was his turn for a word I was as nervous as anyone. I could see my son was too.
The announcer carefully enunciated,
“Firkin.”
Gunnar was allowed a repeat pronunciation including an explanation of meaning. He asked for both.
“Firkin. A pail or tub used in measurement purposes, such as a ferkin of lard.”
My son paused a second before attempting to spell the word. There was unsteadiness in his voice,
“F – E – R- K – I- N?”
“I’m sorry.” the announcer said. “The correct spelling is F-I-R-K-I-N.”
We flew home the following day. Gunnar was bummed but also happy in having made the trip.
I told him that I’d never heard of a firkin.
“My grandparents called a bucket of lard a bucket of lard!” I informed him.
Joleen’s Grandpa Schweitzer had a shockingly funny description for anotherbucket filled with different material, yet I kept that one to myself.
Firkin of lard
I saw enough of Washington, D.C. to last a lifetime. Other than not getting to step foot in Robert E. Lee’s home, I was happy. I truly appreciated the unlimited history of the place. What I didn’t like was the feeling of evil lurking within. I get this same queasiness each time I visit Las Vegas.
Ironically, some 24-years later, Gunnar moved to the Washington, D.C. area on a job assignment at the Pentagon with his wife Kaye, and their children, Kevin & Grace. The family, along with my wife in tow, were able to take a tour of Robert E. Lee’s home. I stayed behind taking care of our animals. The description Joleen gave me upon her return to Arizona was more than enough to satisfy my curiosity. I have no reason to go back unless of course, one of my grandchildren should qualify for the spelling bee.
*written mainly for my grandkids
“F-e-r-k-i-n?” No, this isn’t Gunnar. I didn’t get a good one of him up there.
“Someday you’ll find there’s good reason in God making you pink.”
Baby Gus the Octopus
In the Pacific Ocean, many years ago, Boris and Doris Octopus had a precious baby child. They named their tiny newborn, Gus, after Boris’s great- grandfather. Great-grandpa Gus, unlike other octopus in the ocean was born an off shade of white. Friends and family lovingly called him, “Albino.”
Little Gus, like his great-grandpa, was also different from the rest. While Boris and Doris were black in color, little Gus was deep pink. Regardless of this abnormality, Gus’s parents loved him just the same.
As Gus grew older, he was ridiculed by older fish and octopus. They made fun of him because he was different. Gus came home from school one day very, very, sad.
“What’s wrong child?”, his mother asked.
Between tears, the little guy told her what ‘Sid Squid’ called him at recess.
“Stinky pinky.”
Doris wrapped her arms around the child and gave him a tender hug.
“Don’t let that bother you.”, she told him. “I too was ridiculed by certain kids!”
Hearing this, Gus wanted to know more.
“Have you not noticedI have nine arms while you and dad have eight?”
Wiping tears from both eyes, Gus shook his head indicating that he hadn’t.
“Well, I was born with an extra arm and classmates made fun of me because of it. They called me an octofreak.”
“What did you do?”, Gus asked.
“At first I cried. After several years though, I found I could do more with nine arms than other kids could with eight.
“Like what?”, Gus wanted to know.
“I was champion at playing octowhirl. With that ninth arm I’d give the sea shell an extra twirl! I went on to compete in the Sea Olympics.”
Gus thought several seconds about what his mother said before replying.
“I don’t have an extra arm. I’m just a stupid color.”
Doris corrected her boy about using the stupid word.
“Someday you’ll find there’s good reason in God making you pink.”
Several years went by. Gus entered high school and was the brightest kid in his class. Teachers ranted and raved about how smart he was.
“That child of yours is a genius!”, Mrs. Brown told Gus’s parents. “Someday I hope he becomes a doctor!”
Gus did exactly that. He went on to medical school and graduated at the top of his class. Before long, he was the lead emergency room doctor at Orca Whale Memorial Hospital.
One night, a squid was brought to the hospital in serious condition. Two of the squid’s tentacles had been cut by a razor clam. The poor guy was close to dying.
Gus instantly recognized the patient. It was the same Sid Squid who’d called him bad names throughout school. That didn’t stop Gus from operating on him.
Sid Squid
It took several hours before Dr. Gus Octopus along with his helpers fixed Sid’s hurt tentacles. The squid would be okay.
Later the next morning, Gus swam over to his parents to tell them what happened. His father, Boris, was out playing a round of golf with some sea mackerel. Doris Octopus was at home cooking. Gus excitedly told her about saving Sid Squid’s life.
“I’m so proud of you son. I always knew that God making you pink was a blessing.”
Gus wasn’t sure what color had to do with things until his mom finished her statement.
“Being pinker made you a thinker but you’re still my little stinker!”
She then gave Gus a big octopus hug along with a slice of freshly made seaweed pie.
I asked my wife where she got her most satisfaction. Joleen’s answer without hesitation was,”Being around the grandchildren!”
If someone was to ask where I get personal satisfaction these days, I’d say in the garage. Many of my older male friends would echo the same.
I find no real satisfaction in writing. It’s something I do to keep busy, but otherwise the time could be better spent elsewhere.
Many hours can be burned composing a story, article, poem, or whatever. The feedback for this is generally minimal at most. For me, writing isn’t about receiving accolades or attaboys. I do it strictly to keeps the gears turning upstairs.
I asked, Renee Reeves, owner and Publisher of “The Lamar Democrat” newspaper, how she knew if readers liked the junk that her columnists wrote. She had a most interesting reply.
“It’s kind of strange. If subscribers are okay with anarticle, they’ll remain quiet. If they disagree, you’ll know in an Alabama minute!”
She didn’t actually use the words Alabama minute, but the terminology Renee used did equate to such.
Aunt Dora worked on crossword puzzles most of her 99-years and she was an expert at it. I’m not sure Dora did so out of enjoyment or merely to keep her mind sharp. Perhaps it was a little of both?
In my garage, I create things that get raves amongst the mechanical crowd. There’s something uplifting about fixing up an old car or truck, and then driving it somewhere to have someone give a thumbs up. This silent applause can be long lasting.I suppose artists get the same high whenever they see a crowd gather ’round their artwork.
I asked my wife where she got her most satisfaction. Joleen’s answer without hesitation was,
“Being around the grandchildren!”
I could utter the same but our little ones are a thousand miles away. I asked the same question again, this time informing her that I meant personal satisfaction during the time the grandkids weren’t close by.
It took her a bit longer to answer this go-around. After a few minutes of pondering, she narrowed it down being outside in the fresh air while walking Simon, and afterwards, quietly sitting out back watching and listening to wildlife.
“Rolling Stones” lead singer, Mick Jagger, sings a popular 1960’s song about not getting any satisfaction. The man has eight grandchildren and one great-grandchild. That should be satisfaction enough but evidently it isn’t.
I’m sure he’s not into doing crossword puzzles or writing junk, but he’s brilliant at composing music. That leaves me to believe,
“Mick needs a garage!”
There’ll come a day when I have to rely upon writing as a form of satisfaction. The glorious garage days won’t last forever. My back’s no longer able to do the things I could a few years ago because of vertebrae problems. Years of lifting and carrying heavy objects eventually weakened things. Pushing my luck on continuing to do herculean tasks could spell disaster.
The cliche, “Home is where the heart is!” holds merit. I added one final line to that age-old-saying.
“Home is where the heart is. A garage is where satisfaction begins!”
“Men and women who make three correct guesses consecutively.”
President Woodrow Wilson (Democrat)
I’ve been watching and listening this past month to self-appointed “experts”, as they point the finger at President Donald Trump for not doing things right during the Covid-19 pandemic. Many of these so called authorities have as much medical knowledge as SpongeBob SquarePants; maybe less.
A good majority of those critical of the president are Democrat politicians and left-leaning journalists. It might not seem wrong to some, but it does to me, that with an election close by individuals would use a national tragedy to try and garner votes.
During the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918, President Woodrow Wilson was in charge of the country. Although 675,000 American citizens died during this outbreak, I found no archived newspaper accounts showing where people criticized him for his actions, or lack of. By today’s standards, Woodrow Wilson was a complete failure as a leader during this crisis.
Had Woodrow Wilson been a Republican, I dare say those Democrats now throwing daggers at Donald Trump, would also be calling for the exhuming of Wilson’s grave. Some of them would go so far as to ask for a public hanging until the dead man’s bones were thoroughly bleached white.
I’m not an expert on anything! A while back I read where a gun collector mislabeled me as an authority on Sharps & Hankins antique weapons. I had to chuckle. Years ago I told this same man that I owned a few of the guns. If that makes me an expert, then the title is meaningless.
A friend gave me a perfect definition for expert:
“Men and women who make three correct guesses consecutively.”
Here lately, I watch less and less news because of all the hate and anger geared towards our president. Hearing such riles my feathers. I’ve always tried to follow the guidelines,
“Don’t knock a person when he or she is trying!”
There were times I’d like to reach into my TV and grab a complaining politician or news reporter by the hair. Bob Costa is at the top of my list.
Everyone seems to have an opinion on whether President Trump is doing things right or wrong. These are mere personal beliefs and there’s nothing wrong with such.
Most all Clint Eastwood fans should recall “Dirty” Harry Callahan’s rather crude definition for the word from his 1988 movie, Dirty Pool.
“Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one!”
There is serious problem in having an opinion on a subject, and attempting to come across as an expert. It seems some liberal politicians and reporters are trying to become experts at intertwining the two!
“Brother Hankins, I’m sorry we ran out of chicken and hot dogs. I see you haven’t partook of the goat?”
Looking in a rear view mirror to “The Great Depression” and other strange things.
My parents grew up during “The Great Depression.” Dad rarely talked about it, yet mom did until the very end. She always warned my brother, Jim, and I that it could happen again.
Mother told stories of harvesting the fields at her parent’s small farm in Vernon, Alabama during that time. Working alongside her older sisters, they picked cotton and helped tend a garden for food. Whatever produce they managed to raise in abundance, the family traded it to nearby neighbors for items they didn’t have.
Mom talked of going without where new clothes were concerned. The girls made their own dresses out of flour sacks. Hand me downs or clothing given to them was never questioned. In spite of bad times, the photos I’ve come across show them smiling and happy.
Some of the stuff she mentioned them eating didn’t sound appetizing to me. Squirrel, possum, goat, crow, chic peas, to name a few. I always figured mom was pulling my leg about eating goat and crow. She said if you didn’t eat what was on the table, you went without. There were no fast-food restaurants down the road for backup measures.
She mentioned how hard it was in getting to school. During her earliest years mother walked to a one-room school with her older siblings. In high school years, she rode in the back of a truck converted into a student transporter. Mr. Turner would pick them up at the bottom of Haynes’ Hill on Old Highway 17.
During one of those winter trips the vehicle became stuck in the middle of a muddy road. They had to sit and wait until a tractor came along and eventually pulled them out. It was bitter cold that morning. The students were all shivering by the time they reached their destination.
I loved telling my kids about my school days. Gunnar and Miranda went to a private Christian school. They had no idea about riding a bus because there was none. I try to interject humor into my recollections. Remembering mom’s tales of woe about school transportation, I added some literary spice to my experiences.
“We had to walk a quarter mile to the bus stop. During winter, sometimes the bus would be late. We nearly froze to death on several occasions.”
The tale somehow got back to my mother and she asked me about it. When I told her I was merely stretching things a bit to make things more interesting, she gave me that not amused glare. To this day I still don’t know which child snitched on me.
I recently came across an old newspaper article regarding the Free Will Baptist Church in Vernon. This is one that my parents attended including my grandparents and great-grandparents.
The church women were having a BBQ on Monday, a day after the Fourth of July. Back then, in most all Alabama towns, church services took precedence over any holiday should the festivity fall on a Sunday. Times seem to have changed.
Free Will Baptist public invite
Reading the aged The Lamar-Democrat newspaper invite, I was able to place myself at this event via a good imagination. In today’s world, we’d refer to such as a virtual visit.
********************************************
Pastor Warren: “Brother Hankins, I’m sorry we ran out of chicken and hot dogs. I see you haven’t partook of the goat?”
Me: “No sir preacher, I’m a vegetarian!”
Pastor Brown unleashed a piercing stare, knew that he’d caught me in a little white lie. Seeing the seriousness of my blunder, I quickly corrected things.
“Well…. at least I am today!”
**********************************************
I pray we don’t enter another great depression after this Covid-19 pandemic. That’d be a sour way to finish out these final years. That perhaps sounds a bit selfish on my part.
I do think this will be a good lesson for many young folks. Just as mom tried to teach my brother and me, some will now see fit to save money for rainy days, including put extra food aside for emergencies. Many will even learn to eat what’s on their plate without complaining, whether they like it or not.
Perhaps the appreciation of simple things like board games and mere conversation with family and friends will once again reenter people’s lives.
The smart ones will learn from this I’m quite sure!
“Smart students quickly learned to stay away from David , especially when we performed jumping jacks.”
Elementary school jumping jack session
I was never a Jumpin’ Jack Flash fan. The popular Rolling Stones tune surely has different meaning than my interpretation of the words.
During recess in elementary school we’d do jumping jacks. The routine shook milk money out of my pant’s pocket.
In junior high, there was one kid named David Cash (not his real name), who’d pass gas during PE class. Smart students quickly learned to stay away from David, especially when we performed jumping jacks.
During high school, Jeff Thimsen taught me a new version of the exercise. We’d stand at the very back where Coach White couldn’t see our feet. When other students were spreading legs, we’d only raise our hands. I suppose from up front it looked kosher enough.
Things went well for several weeks until our physical education aide, Ricky Bowen, caught us. With Coach White dictating the punishment, Ricky made us do jumping jacks the next day for the whole 30-minutes. Bowen was a good friend and whenever “Coach” wasn’t around, he’d let us slide by allowing the Thimsen method.
The lyrics to Jumpin’ Jack Flash are somewhat archaic, yet one word in it does relate to my jumping jack days.
“I was born in a cross-fire hurricane.
And I howled at the morning driving rain.
But it’s all right now, in facts, it’s a gas.
But it’s all right, I’m Jumpin’ Jack Flash.
It’s a gas, gas, gas.”
Whenever Mick Jagger bellows out the words gas, gas, gas, he has to be referring to David Cash. I wonder if Mick also went to school with him?
* The meaning of this poem is quite simple. There comes a time in our lives when we have to try a wee bit harder in keeping the buzzards away. Following our doctor’s advice in getting flu and pneumonia immunizations each fall is one way. Proper exercise and diet is another. Foremost in my making it one more year, is trusting that my Lord & Savior, Jesus Christ, will lead me there.
I like to write junk... 