Author: michaeldexterhankins

For the past several years (it actually goes back further than that), I’ve been attempting fill in the blanks where my early life was concerned. Being the child of an Air Force serviceman, our family traveled from base to base every three years. Because of this, good friends that I made were left behind. That was typical for military kids before social media came along.

I made a concentrated effort to reconnect with not only them, but former teachers as well. I was successful in my endeavor; through the assistance of many people, especially my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

My purpose in doing such was to write a story or stories that I could share with my grandchildren. I wanted them to know more about Grandpa Michael’s life, than what I recall of my own grandparents.

Just recently I told my wife, Joleen, that I believed I was finally finished with the project. There are over 100 short stories plus three times that amount of newspaper and magazine articles. It’s time for sending this info to a printing company to be made into five books; one for each grandchild.

Joleen asked me if I’d ever written a story on how we met. I told her that I hadn’t. I’ve been publicly open about my past while she’s much more private with hers. Only the family and close friends know how we got together. Getting her permission to compose this missing chapter as I call it completes my mission.

In my perspective, how I met my wife is quite different than most. I suppose every couple believes that. It began with our family moving to Alaska. My mom, dad, brother, and I lived on the east side of town. Jim went to East Anchorage High School while I attended Clark Junior High. The mascot for East High is a Thunderbird with the mascot for Clark being a falcon. This was most fitting for an Air Force brat. Most likely only those with Air Force connections would understand why.

When my family eventually relocated to the south side of Anchorage I was supposed to attend Dimond High. Because all of my friends would be going to East I talked my parents into letting me do the same. That took some finagling. I had to use our old eastside address as my current address. Thankfully, I was able to purchase a 1961 Mercury Comet before 10^th grade began.

During the years 1969 – 1972, I commuted each and every school day via the Comet at first before upgrading to a 1954 Chevrolet. After school I worked for my dad at his Texaco service station. There was no time for sports or belonging to school clubs. My English teacher tried to persuade me to write for the school newspaper, but I sadly had to turn her down.

A poem written as part of an English assignment was published during the freshman year. I was afraid my pals might see it. They would’ve thought it funny or bizarre. That piece of poetry was officially my first recognized composition.

After graduation, one of my activities each weekend like many teens was to cruise Northern Lights Boulevard. This was a favorite place for young people to hang out. Being into Hot Rod cars it was the perfect form of entertainment for me and my pal, Jeff Thimsen. Both of us were car nuts.

One evening as we aimlessly drove around town we came upon an orange 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. It was a T/A 340 six-pack model (3 x 2 barrel carburetors). There were two girls inside and I tried to coax the driver to punch it. Soon after our encounter my ‘68 Dodge Charger developed a flat tire.

As Jeff and I sat alongside the road swapping tires the girls drove back by and honked. I believe it was the next weekend that we bumped into them again. This time we talked for a bit and I found out the passenger, Joleen Freeman, lived less than a block from where I once did (by this time mom and dad had moved again). Had I attended Dimond High as the school system intended I would’ve rode the same bus as her.

Asking Joleen for a date she accepted. We went to this offbeat little place called “The Bridge Restaurant”. The only food item on their menu was Mulligan stew, with apple cider or water being the two beverages. How could anyone forget a dining experience like that?

The following day I took Joleen on a long snow-machine ride through the back country of Anchorage. That seemed to impress her. On a Friday night (it was summer and the sun stayed up ‘til midnight), we drove to Bird Creek and walked the railroad tracks near Beluga Point. Scenic Turnagain Arm sat like a portrait in the background. I impressed her on my skill to walk on a single rail without falling. Things really clicked for us after that.

We went together four years before getting married in 1977. I have a good feeling that had I went to Dimond High, Joleen and I would’ve added another four years to our relationship. Unfortunately, my having to be an East High Thunderbird took precedence over such.

Joleen and I have been married 41 years now with the number growing each September 19th.

In a nutshell that’s how we came to be one. We’re sticking by this life journey till death do us part!

Approximately 30 years ago I was thumbing through my mother’s old pictures.  In a musty seafoam-green album, there was a group shot of 8^th grade students. The children were posed in front of a brick school building in Vernon, Alabama.  A date written on the photo showed it to be 1944.

Asking mom who the kids were she could only recall a few.  She pointed out a couple of female friends including several boys.

“You always remember the good looking guys!” she laughed.  My wife Joleen agreed with her.

Mom went on to say she wished she’d written down classmate names as soon as she received the photo.  My mother became disciplined at labeling pictures later in life.  Most of her family photographs have distinctive handwriting on back. This bit of data identifies who the people are plus photo location.  She drilled it into my head to do the same.

I had my own group photo taken at Southside in Selma the schoolyear 1962 – 1963.  It’s my third grade class.  I remember the teacher Mrs. Wood, including two girls, Glenda Dennis and Janet Adams.

I always wondered who the other kids were and what happened to them?  In trying to determine such I sent out several letters with no replies.  You might say I ran into a brick wall.  Understandably, former classmates no longer recognized my name.

Approximately 10 years later I had good fortune of coming in contact with Jeff Maddox.  Jeff was heading up a Southside School Alumni group.  He was co-sponsoring a Southside get-together in Selma each summer.  We got to e-mailing back and forth discovering several things in common.  Not only did Jeff attend Southside, but his father was assigned duty at Craig Air Force Base like mine.

Jeff was an accomplished writer while I was merely trudging along.  We both loved and owned Harley’s.  In mentioning the old photo, Jeff asked me to forward it to him.  He thought it might be fun to help ‘fill in the gaps’.  Evidently he saw it as a puzzle of sorts.

Jeff placed it on his online Southside website and before long started getting hits.  People wrote in saying that was them, or they knew someone in the picture.  In one instance he discovered a student that I recalled as being deceased.

Jeff asked me how, after so much time had passed, had I remembered two girls and no one else.  Thinking back to what mom said I replied,

“I suppose fellows always remember the pretty gals.”  Jeff concurred with that.

This class photo languished on his website for several years.  Every so often Jeff would come up with another missing part of the puzzle.  His goal was to identify ‘all’ unidentified students.  At that time he was contemplating writing a book about life at Craig.  I sent him bits of information including photos of the base.

Sadly, Jeff Maddox was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident July 4, 2015.  His Southside alumni website is now offline, the Craig A.F.B. book unfinished, identification of students in my photo no longer sought.  Thankfully Jeff completed a manuscript before his untimely death titled, “Meeting My Guardian Angel”.  He gave me a signed copy.

On an extremely positive note, three classmates in my 54-year-old photograph are now ‘Facebook’ friends; Janet Adams, Glenda Dennis-Turner, and Patrick Durden.  At this point the unidentified students will most likely remain nameless.

Being an antique nut, I run across photographs like that all the time in antique stores.  Family portraits make up a good portion of them.  It’s disheartening to see family treasures wind up as items for sale.  Did children or relatives not want these mementoes?  Precious heirlooms should be passed along generation to generation.  To me, an important element in safeguarding photos is making sure future family members see how the older generation looked. 

When mother died 6 years ago I inherited her photograph albums.  They’re safely tucked away from moisture and moths.  I’ve already advised the kids to find a nice dry place to store them.  Paper photos are going by the wayside much like tintype and daguerreotype photographs.  I’m afraid with the invention of the digital camera, ‘nameless faces’ will become the norm.

Just the other day my wife pulled out her iPhone showing friends our new granddaughter.  Watching such take place did not seem the same.  Proud parents and grandparents removing wrinkled photos from purses and wallets is the way I want to remember it!

I was never in the book, Who’s Who Among American High School Students. Many of my friends were. I remember an envelope arriving in the mail my senior year, soliciting information on what subjects and extra-curricular activities I excelled in. I believe every breathing senior got one.

As a joke, I wanted to send it back with a mile long list, but figured doing such would land me in hot water. At that time, I wondered if the book was on the up and up, especially with them mailing me an entry card.

While talking to other students, they said they’d filled out and returned the form. I never questioned their motive, knowing that these guys and gals were maintaining average grades like myself. I regretted not following through with my prank. Looking back at things now, it would’ve been over-the-top hilarious.

When my son, Gunnar, entered high school, he started receiving, Who’s Who Among American High School Students invites from the git go. That freshman year he filled out the form and plopped it in the mailbox.

Parents had to purchase a book if they wanted to see their child’s name in print. My wife ordered three that year. By then, I seriously saw it as bogus, but Joleen didn’t.

Years previous, I’d submitted a poem to a seemingly legit poetry contest. The company came back several months later saying I was one of the winners, and that my poem would be published in an upcoming book. This outfit wanted to know how many books I wanted at $25.00 a pop.

Well of course, I had to have one for my parents, one for Joleen’s parents, plus a couple for myself. Mailing a check in for two-hundred bucks plus shipping, a year went by with nothing happening. Eventually, I dialed a phone number on a copy of the entry form and was shocked to find it no longer in service. I’d been ripped off. It was all a ruse.

When Gunnar received his first “Who’s Who Among American High School Students” book, he was quick to point out text next to a couple of his pals. After reading their merits I would’ve thought they were on the road to Harvard or Princeton. What they wrote down was hilarious. I told my son I’d wanted to do the same twenty-four years previous.

During Gunnar’s senior year, another book submittal form arrived in the mail just like clockwork. Once again, I didn’t give it much attention, as that was always Joleen’s job to have him fill it out. When the senior edition of Who’s Who finally arrived, my son and daughter, Miranda, were looking at it with unshackled laughter.

Wanting to know what was so funny I walked over to see. Under Gunnar’s name was a mile long list. He’d included everything he could think of other than being a kitchen sink repairman. Roof jumping was hands down the funniest, with polo and square dancing being a close second.

Some parents might’ve been mad at their kid, but I wasn’t. Gunnar was a superb student throughout school and ended up Valedictorian of his class. Humor definitely helped get him through the oftentimes challenging academics.

The week before graduation, my son was meticulously working on his speech. He asked me if there was anything he could do to make it funny. I had to think for several seconds,

“Yes, yes there is.”

That graduation night, as he read off the names of people to thank which included God, parents, grandparents, relatives, and friends, he added one additional person to the list,

“I’d like to especially thank Governor Tony Knowles for being here!”

Of course, the whole auditorium began searching for that familiar face in the crowd, especially school faculty. Eventually, seeing that they’d been punked, the room broke out in laughter.

My son went on to receive a congressional appointment to the U.S. Air Force Academy. He says that his four years in Colorado Springs were some of the toughest he’s ever endured. Gunnar’s never outright told me, but I believe having a bit of the old man’s sense of humor helped pull him through some of the darkest days.

As far as the book, “Who’s Who of High School Students” goes, the company went bankrupt in 2007. By then, critics echoed the same sentiments as me. This business was more interested in selling books and associated products than advancing a student’s career. For many years they made a ton of money doing just that.

One enrollment officer at a prestigious university said that whenever she saw a “Who’s Who of High School Students” acclaim written on a college entry form, it meant absolutely nothing to her. Others echoed the same.

The following is a statement issued by a magazine reporter, regarding the academic credentials for someone being in that book:

“However, most admissions officers believe that the recognition has no such value, and in fact, some consider the “honor” to be a joke.”

When I read that I had to chuckle. It seems I hit the bullseye some 50 years previous.

“And it says here that he played polo. This student lives in Alaska!”

As a writer, one of the things I’ve discovered in pounding out words is the joy associated with such.  Not all of my writing has elicited positive response. Thirty years ago I composed a simple newspaper editorial, criticizing a select group of folks in Homer, Alaska. Homer is the town where Tom Bodette of Motel 6 fame once lived.  The pop singer Jewel also comes from there.

Anyway, the residents I wrote about were enjoying themselves at taxpayer expense. They were accepting public assistance (welfare and food stamps) with no intention of ever working. I received my information from a friend that worked for welfare fraud. This state employee mentioned that Homer was ripe with welfare recipients. She said that most of them didn’t want to work.

I was besieged with negative response from several angry people. The mayor of Homer said I was trying to tarnish the town’s good image.  A local radio station begged me for an interview. Two television stations wanted the same. One man went so far as to offer a one-way fishing trip in Kachemak Bay.

One of my favorite songs is, “Michael – Row the Boat Ashore”.  The lyrics have special meaning in more ways than one. There’s something gratifying about getting back on ground safely whether it be in boat or plane. I generally whisper “Hallelujah” whenever a trip over.

That Homer resident’s thinly veiled threat was perhaps the worst response I’ve ever had. Let me tell you about a couple of positive ones.

Several months ago I wrote a story about two class photos.  One segment of the article dealt with mom’s 1945 Vernon, Alabama 8^th grade class. Another part related to my 3^rd grade class photograph taken in 1963, and subsequent search for former classmates.

I’m happy to report that I was able to reconnect with several people, most recently Glenda (Dennis) Turner.  Glenda and her husband Robert still live in Selma, Alabama. They raised three children and operate a successful business; Al’s Towing & Recovery.

I first met Glenda in 1^st grade where our teacher was Mrs. Doris Harris.  It turns out Glenda’s family plus mine attended Selmont Baptist Church. That goes back to pre-school days.  Glenda brought me up to speed on present day Selma, including our old school, ‘Southside’.  It was a pleasure chatting with her.  We’re now Facebook friends.  Who would’ve ever dreamed of something called Facebook in 1963!

I did not believe I’d get the same response regarding mom’s class.  Her group picture was taken in 1945.  That would make surviving students well in their golden years.  How wrong I was!  First of all I discovered one of the students in that shot is Howard Reeves.  The late Mr. Reeves was “The Lamar Democrat” owner and publisher.  He’s also founder of a newspaper column titled, “Off The Wall”, having written a book by the same title.  Howard’s wife Carolyn and daughter Renee saw this class snapshot for the first time when I submitted it.  They were elated to say the least.

Last Saturday I received a surprise phone call from Wyman May in Iowa.  Mr. May told me he was in mom’s class.   The man is a healthy 84.   Wyman identified several unknown faces. With excitement I jotted down their names.  In the front row of that old photo – to the far right – is a relative of mine, Elwanda (Wanda) Hankins-Logan. Wanda grew up to be a most terrific writer.  I’ve tried my best to emulate her style.  Robert Hankins is also in the shot.  I recall my father mentioning Robert’s name.

Turns out Wyman’s older sibling Lucille was best friends with mom’s sister Cazaree. I never had a chance to meet Cazaree as she died from Leukemia at 21.  On another sad note, I learned Wyman’s dad was the person driving my Uncle James Columbus Hankins to the hospital July 31, 1941 after a tragic accident.  J.C. as family called him was seriously burned in a fire. He eventually succumbed to his injuries.

I wrote about this event some time ago.  Wyman said his dad witnessed the incident as did my father.  It evidently left deep scars in both.  Neither would discuss it afterwards. Dad’s brother was only 10.  Grandma Hankins gave me J.C.’s little pocket knife to remember him by.  Before Wyman and I said goodbye, we promised to stay in touch.  He’s been most helpful in putting the finishing touches on this piece.

Writing has brought many blessings my direction including some chastisement.  I’ll never stop pumping out thoughts and opinions regardless of the response.  With that said, I doubt you’ll ever find me saying another word about Homer welfare recipients.

That stranger’s offer of a one-way fishing trip was more than enough warning!

Early on I never thought of girls as being tough. In my way of seeing things the word didn’t quite fit with the female anatomy.

“Sugar, spice, and everything nice”, was my ideology regarding the opposite sex.  I suppose I’d be considered a male chauvinist back then.

It took many years for me to realize toughness is more than physical ability.  Mental and spiritual strength are just as important as brawn; even more so at times. Mother Teresa possessed herculean toughness where spiritual toughness is concerned.

Many women I’ve encountered over the years have proven this. These gals include grandmothers, aunts, teachers, friends, and co-workers. I handpicked seven special ladies to tell you about.  Four of them are from my own family.  The following are people I believe greatly influenced my line of thinking on tough.

Michelle Barnes is the first tough gal I encountered.  She was a military brat like myself.  Michelle and I were good pals 4^th thru 6^th grade.  Unlike other girls, she wore her brown hair very short.  I suppose she looked like a tomboy although I doubt any kid said that to her.  Michelle could shoot marbles with the best of us boys.  She’d never back down physically if challenged.  I found out the hard way!

Michelle’s dad had been stationed with the U.S. Air Force in Turkey.  The whole family traveled there with him. One day Michelle brought very graphic pictures to school.  They showed Turkish criminals and what was done to them after they were arrested.  I remember viewing photos of men minus ears, fingers, hands, and even heads.

Like a disciplined teacher, Michelle explained to us that different crimes in Turkey called for different punishments.  A thief would have a hand cut off while murderers went headless.  We guys found that totally fascinating.  Most of the girls were squeamish at the sight except Michelle.

Our impromptu lesson was cut short when Mrs. Drake confiscated the photos.  Another classmate had evidently squealed.  This person was either jealous of the attention Michelle received or offended by the photographs.  Tattle tales were hard to avoid back then.

Michelle Barnes is the only girl to ever give me a black eye. It happened on the playground for whatever reason. In spite of such we remained good friends until parting directions.  Her father transferred to a new base with my dad doing the same.  I have a good feeling that this former classmate went on to be an instructor of sorts; either teaching criminal law or martial arts.

The next ‘tough cookie’ I encountered is also named Michelle.  I met her my senior year in high school.  Michelle Giroux is probably as competitive a person as any; a very smart and strong-willed lady.  I believe a lot of her competitiveness comes from competing against a brother with the same traits.  I remember Michelle talking about how close they were.  Michelle was outspoken and voiced her opinion.  I respected her for that but it also caused tension between us.  Neither of us was apt to change opinion on a given subject.  She’d ‘stick by her guns’ and I’d do the same. 

Best friend Jeff Thimsen and I concocted a plan one Sunday afternoon to put Michelle’s competitive nature to test.  We convinced her to go on an 8-mile hike with us late in the evening through the Alaska wilderness.  Jeff and I set the pace with Michelle never falling behind.

When our hike was over there was still an hour drive back to town. Michelle was behind the wheel while we dozed.   Jeff and I took the following day off to recuperate.  We found out later that Michelle went to work as usual.  After that enduring hike she’d easily proven her physical toughness.  Her mental strength was already known.

Suzanne Knudsen is a former co-worker and friend.  I wrote a cover story about her for the periodical “We Alaskans” some 25 years ago.  “Suzie” as we called her was a heavy equipment operator.  She performed the job better than most men.  An exceptional cross country and marathon runner, Suzie was mauled by a brown bear while jogging one summer morning in Alaska.  She survived with severe bites and cuts throughout her body.

Where overall physical toughness is concerned Suzie has it all.  She’s not one to take guff from any guy.  On occasion I still hear from her.  In spite of the bear attack Suzie continues to take long runs in the woods and climb mountains.  The mauling didn’t seem to faze her either mentally or physically.

I never realized how much stamina and toughness my own mother, Tallulah, had until she was gone.  Mom grew up on a small Alabama farm with three other sisters.  She picked her share of cotton and other crops along with helping out in the house. Mom raised two sons while holding down a fulltime job, including ironing people’s clothing for extra money.  I remember her being up in the wee hours of morning with her ironing board still unfolded.

Mom always said that raising me wasn’t a picnic. She gallantly battled cancer before succumbing to the disease.  Before passing, mom asked to be buried in a simple wooden coffin.  She had all her affairs in order and was not afraid of leaving this world.  Her faith in God and belief in life after death was as strong as Mother Teresa’s.

My mother-in-law Bonnie Schweitzer-Freeman followed a similar path as mom. She grew up on a small farm in Kansas with two other sisters and a brother.  Bonnie was awakened each morning by the rooster. She began her day by milking cows and feeding chickens.  During wheat harvest she’d be out in the field driving an old Willy’s pickup.

Bonnie reared five children while working outside the home. She, like my mom, also took in laundry and ironing to supplement income.  Bonnie fought breast cancer and eventually won.  She’s now attempting to declare victory over bone cancer. Bonnie’s strong German spirit plus ample determination to prevail has sparked a remarkable recovery.

My daughter Miranda Hankins-Stubbs has the same mindset as me.  That has caused us to bump heads many times.  Similar personalities sometimes don’t work well together.  She’s not afraid to offer her point of view; regardless that it might not be politically correct.

Miranda is more patient than me in areas of listening to the other side.  My daughter’s very open-minded. She is not combative which has kept her out of trouble.  One of her biggest facets of toughness is being able to persevere under pressure. She has what I call Hankins’ Drive in getting things done.  Miranda won’t quit or give up until the job is finished.

The strongest lady I know is my wife.  Living with me for 38 years has not been a strawberry sundae.  I’ll be first to admit such.  Many years ago, an older female co-worker told me I’d be a hard person to live with.  When I repeated this statement to Joleen some 30-years into our marriage she smiled before replying,

“That woman had good intuition!”

My wife successfully raised our children, took them to hockey and basketball practice, plus worked a stressful job.  Joleen incurred non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma several years ago, taking many rounds of chemo to fight it.  She continued to work during that time. Thanks to God’s intervention, and a tough spirit, she’s a cancer survivor.  Her will and determination to overcome the disease is an inspiration to me and others.

In a nutshell I’ve just described seven very strong women; eight counting Mother Teresa.  There are millions more out there.  Just recently, females in the military were granted an opportunity to serve alongside men in combat roles.  If you’d asked me 30 years ago if I thought this could work I would’ve laughed.  Since then I’ve picked up a bit more wisdom.

The old cliché, older and wiser definitely has merit.  I realize now more than ever just how tough women have always been! 

I can’t tell you the exact day or month it happened, yet I can pinpoint things down to the late 1950’s or early 1960’s. Much of what I’m about to tell you is pure speculation on my part. A good portion of this story took place many years ago.

Our family was visiting good friends, Luther & Margaret Hudspeth, in Selma, Alabama. It might’ve been Christmas, but then again, Thanksgiving is a distinct possibility; whatever the occasion, a large turkey, ham, or roast was about to be carved.

At this feast, Luther Hudspeth brought out a small box with his newly purchased electric carving knife tucked inside. I’d never heard of one and it was evident mom and dad hadn’t either. I tend to believe my folks hovered over the device oohing and awing like it was a newborn child.

When Mr. Hudspeth turned the thing on and began slicing meat with ease, most likely additional oohs and awe’s were uttered by my parents. I’m sure that was the precise moment my father decided he needed one.

The key word arising from that occasion is Sunbeam. Dad’s Craig Air Force Base pal, Sgt. Luther Hudspeth, told him he needed to get a Sunbeam, as it was the best electric carver on the market. I’m sure in pop’s way of seeing things, a utensil like that would only enhance his already well-deserved Master Carver title.

Flash ahead to the next big holiday. By this time my father had his own Sunbeam AW-100 in hand. This would’ve been its maiden voyage into freshly baked turkey.

Because the carver’s cord was not long enough to reach an electrical outlet in our small kitchen, mom grabbed an extension cord. For whatever reason, all electrical devices in early mobile homes required extension cords.

When my old man (I use those words with complete reverence) turned his magical knife on and began slicing, my mom, brother, and I stood back and watched. After a few chunks of meat dropped to the side mother couldn’t wait to ask,

“How’s it cut?”

The old man was never one to mince words. He was brief and straight to the point. Hesitating for a few seconds he spoke,

“Like a knife!”

That blunt response was representative of my father’s dry sense of humor. Mother understood his wisecracks and cackled. Evidently I didn’t see the remark as funny. Neither did my brother. The only reason I can accurately rehash this portion of history is because mother loved to tell this story.

Dad’s precious electric meat carver was kept in a special place in a bottom kitchen drawer. Jim and I were warned to keep hands off as our parents deemed the machine dangerous.

“It’ll cut a finger off before you know it!”

I had no use for the tool being somewhat afraid of it. Jim on the other hand, found it extremely handy in cutting excess plastic off airplane and car model parts. He was clever enough to place the box back in its exact spot, so that our parents would never know.

As time slid by the once invincible cutting tool became impossible to use. The blades were so dull they wouldn’t cut through even the tenderest of meat. My father tried sharpening both serrated blades with zero success. He blamed this failure on them being made with low-quality steel.

Jim and I were the only ones knowing the true reason. My brother had placed both blades over a stove burner to help remove imbedded plastic. Years later we learned that doing so took the hardness out of metal.

After perhaps a three-year lifespan this once invaluable knife was tossed in the trash. Dad returned to using his always dependable wood-handle model.

Several years ago my wife decided we needed an electric carving knife. Without asking what I thought of the idea she came home one day with a rechargeable Sunbeam. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

At Thanksgiving, Joleen and the kids stood around watching me dissect a ham. After a few pieces rolled to the side of a serving plate Joleen didn’t hesitate in asking,

“How’s it cut?”

Remembering dad’s crass reply to this very question, I decided to add a little panache’ to my answer. Shutting the knife off while gazing down at the meat, I attempted to come across as a wise person searching precisely for the right words. With unrehearsed choreography I paused at least 15 seconds before replying,

“Like a knife!

Gunnar and Miranda cracked up while Joleen’s face went blank. She quickly saw through the wiseguy humor and smacked me. It was obvious on that Thanksgiving Day – my children Gunnar and Miranda had developed the same dry sense of humor I’d inherited from dad.

Joleen’s electric carver is seldom used these days. During holidays we opt for spiral cut hams instead of cumbersome turkeys or roasts. Just recently I put the Sunbeam to good use in slicing up pieces of foam for an upholstery job. The handy kitchen tool saved precious time in my not having to use scissors. Several pieces of thick foam were cut into squares with perfection.

Not only did I inherit a unique sense of humor from my father, but I picked up his Master Carver skills as well!

In my younger days I did my share of stupid things like most adolescent boys. Some stunts I’ll admit to while others will remain secret.

Slithering like a snake through a culvert underneath Muldoon Road in Anchorage, Alaska being one bonehead move. I wasn’t the first or last kid to do so. Several of my friends completed the claustrophobic mission with no problem.

Looking back some 54 years later, I think Jeff Cloud made the journey before anyone. He generally took the lead on attempting dangerous things. Muldoon Road during that time was two-lanes. This particular culvert was near 30-feet in length.

“Piece of cake!”, boasted one pal after exiting the tube.

Several years later I heard tale of another kid trying the stunt and getting stuck. Only through assistance of the Anchorage Fire Department was he safely extracted. After that incident metal grates were placed on both ends to dissuade juvenile foolishness. When Muldoon Road was widened to four-lanes the lone culvert was removed.

Fireworks in Anchorage were available at several makeshift stands. My brother and I lived less than two blocks from one of the largest dealers. It was there that we purchased M-80 firecrackers for a quarter a piece. An M-80 is oftentimes equated to having the power of a quarter-stick of dynamite. I believe the comparison is overly exaggerated. They were powerful enough to take fingers off.

Many kids including myself found M-80’s the perfect propellant for homemade mortars. I’d take a piece of pipe, then hammer a good portion of it into the ground. A lit M-80 would be dropped in the open end with a round rock to follow. With a loud explosion the projectile would go flying completely out of sight. I always pointed my mortar into the woods so not to hit anyone. Because of misuse including serious injuries, M-80’s were eventually banned for sale throughout the country.

Going back to my first year in Anchorage (1966) I was intrigued by a place called Fire Island. To me it sounded like some mysterious location from a pirate movie. The small clump of ground rose out of Cook Inlet approximately 3 ½ miles west of the city. It was originally called Nutul’l’iy by Dena’ina Indians. They had a village there for many years there until an epidemic forced all residents to leave.

In 1794, Captain Cook and his band of explorers renamed it Currant Island, and then Turnagain Island. The Russians changed things to Mushuklhi Island in 1847. That namesake lasted until the U.S. began calling it Fire Island in 1895. The seemingly sinister title seems to have stuck.

During WWII, soldiers were stationed on the island to prevent Japanese submarine attacks on Anchorage. The military had a facility called Fire Island Air Force Station there from 1951 – 1969. During that time the grounds were off limits to civilians unless they had proper security clearance.

Rumors circulated throughout town about WWII Jeeps abandoned on Fire Island along with other wartime equipment. I desperately wanted to search for that treasure. My dream eventually became somewhat of a reality.

In the late 1960’s, I walked to Fire Island with my brother Jim and good friend, Rod Sanborn . We were told the feat was possible by an old timer as long as you moved quickly. It had to be done at the lowest possible tide at a breakneck pace. Even so, this person told us it was a dangerous trek if we didn’t time things just right.

Many folks have biked or ridden to Fire Island since then with no problem. A few unfortunates have drowned. Most likely those successful ones were smart enough to check tide schedules before starting. We didn’t do such, electing to use a roll the dice method instead. It was a spur of the moment decision for us to even go.

We had no problem hiking to the island. On the return leg the tide quickly came in drenching us with freezing water. We were fortunate to survive. None of us realized at that time the seriousness of our blunder.

I was never satisfied in having touched Fire Island’s shore and then promptly leaving. A burning desire had me still wanting to explore the place. That opportunity came unexpectedly 29 years later.

In 1998, Doug Harvey, Jeff Thimsen, and I decided to ride personal watercraft (PWC) from the Port of Anchorage to Kenai. Our plan was to spend the night on a Kenai beach and then return home the following day.

We made it just beyond Fire Island when gale force winds started blowing out of Bear Valley. We were hit with gusts 70 miles per hour and higher. At the same time, a powerful tide came roaring in with incredible fury. The waters of Cook Inlet resembled a giant muddy vortex. It was akin to flushed water inside a humongous toilet.

Deciding it best to turn around, we elected to hit the shore of Fire Island first. It appeared my long awaited exploration of the infamous locale was about to happen.

We secured our craft and quickly found a place to eat lunch. Doug saw two people farther down the beach. It looked as though they were salmon fishing with nets. The native couple paid no attention to our being there.

I wanted to search the mainland for artifacts while Jeff said I’d be wasting my time. He told me the Air Force had recently cleaned up all of the wartime junk. That news threw a blanket on my enthusiasm.

Fire Island is mostly owned by Cook Inlet Regional Corporation, while the remainder is government property. Permission is supposed to be obtained before going ashore. The last thing any of us wanted was to be arrested for trespassing. We basically ended up there by accident figuring property owners would understand.

Taking ample time to check out the surroundings, it looked no different than those ugly beaches surrounding Anchorage. Flat stones, mud, and gravel comprised the majority of shoreline. A fair amount of plastic bottles and garbage was visible.

Wanting some type of souvenir to remember the place by I quickly searched for a unique piece of driftwood. Finding none, I spotted a couple of round stones much different than all the rest. They stood out amongst flat rocks like black flies on a pumpkin pie. I carefully placed the treasure into my backpack.

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

It’s been 21 years since I last touched foot there. Whenever I hear the song, “Fire Lake”, by Bob Seger, I think of Fire Island. Seger’s timeless lyrics make mention of bronzed beauties lyin’ in the sun. I seriously doubt he was referring to stones.

My Fire Island refugees have turned a nice golden brown after relocating them to sunny Arizona. Since 2010, they’ve found refuge in my backyard along with other mineralized escapees from various states.

I tend to believe the stones were lobbed to Fire Island via an M-80 powered mortar. Some ingenious kid residing on the west side of town intentionally sent them that direction. In my twisted way of seeing things, there’s no other way it could’ve happened!

Jim Witherspoon is an unemployed rotary telephone repairman living in El Dorado, Kansas. An attempt at opening a convenience store in another town set him back financially, as well as physically. Because he’s no longer able to work, Jim turned to the internet for assistance.

Witherspoon discovered opinions galore. He had advice coming in from all walks of life. A farmer in Beijing, China recommended that Jim move to another country where rotary phones are still in use. That was an impossibility at this time.

Dot Mathers told Jim he should consider plastics as that’s where the world was headed. She urged him to purchase stock in her company, Plastics Unlimited. Jim deemed that offer as suspicious.

A tip that Jim thought highly of came from a fellow in Juarez, Mexico. Kim Sing told him that a person could make millions from home as an internet advice expert. For $99.00 he’d send out instructions on how to organize such a company.

Realizing that he couldn’t move from El Dorado just yet, Witherspoon coughed up the funds and mailed them off. He’s thankful that he did! Today, Jim operates a successful internet business called, “Ask Jim”. The small, one-employee company pays big dividends.

For a modest fee of $5.00, Ask Jim will give advice in all areas of life. He hands out financial advice, medical, interpersonal relationship, corporate, religious, and his specialty, legal. Jim Witherspoon pretty much covers all bases. Mr. Witherspoon will never refuse to give advice if money is sent.

Enclosed are some actual questions along with Jim’s replies:

Peggy Rainwater of Clearwater, Florida writes – “I’ve been going with a fellow for two years but don’t know how to tell him it’s over. He’s a real sweet guy and I hate to break his heart. What would you suggest?”

Ask Jim – “That’s a good question Peggy. Wish I had an easy answer. I suppose the simplest way is wait until he’s not home. Leave a message on the man’s telephone recorder or better yet text him. If you don’t mind could you please send me your picture?”

Bobbie Valhi of Pascagoula, Mississippi writes – “Is there a proper way to ask my boss for a raise?”

Ask Jim – “Do so in a threatening manner. Tell the person unless he coughs up more money you’ll begin a work slowdown. I’ve heard folks say that either works or it doesn’t. Let me know the results.”

Chance Smith of Baker, Utah writes – “I have a serious medical condition and friends say I should seek a homeopathic doctor. Do you agree with them?”

Ask Jim – “Homeopathic doctors are much like voodoo doctors. Personally I wouldn’t go that route, yet I see no reason why you can’t. Just make sure you have all your personal things in order!”

Howie Keller of Ruby, Texas writes – “My car shakes like crazy whenever I hit 65. It feels like a wheel’s about to fall off. Any ideas on what could be wrong?”

Ask Jim – “I’m no mechanic Howie. My suggestion is slow down. You’ll get much better fuel mileage. If a wheel hasn’t fallen off by now it probably won’t.”

Veronica Jacobs of Arlington, Virginia writes – “I have ten-thousand-dollars that I’d like to invest. What do you recommend?”

Ask Jim – “Excellent question Veronica – Ask Jim LLC is the safest place to put your money. I promise returns better than any on Wall Street. You’ll find an address to mail your check on my website.”

Peggy Lipton of Grover, New York writes – “I’m not sure who to vote for in the next presidential election. What candidate do you prefer?”

Ask Jim – “Peggy, I generally don’t make political recommendations, but since you paid $5.00 I’ll make an exception. A friend says to always vote for the tallest candidate and you won’t go wrong. I’d recommend you follow suit.”

Harley Downs of Tupelo, Mississippi writes – “I’m thinking about taking an out of country vacation. Do you have any countries to recommend?”

Ask Jim – “Personally I’ve never been on vacation and at this point probably never will. If I had to pick a country, Persia sounds great. I hear extradition from there is non-existent.”

If you’d like to know how to become financially independent like Jim by owning your own IAC (internet advice company), send a check for $99.99 along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope to:

Jim Witherspoon

C/O El Dorado Correctional Facility

P.O. Box 311

El Dorado, Kansas 67042

William “Bill” Devine

My family was blessed living next door to Anchorage resident Bill Devine for 35 years.  Both our homes were located within Elm-Rich Subdivision on the north side of Muldoon.  Bill joked about this name all the time.  He’d say there are no elm trees, and most everyone’s poor in this ‘hood.   Of course he knew Elm-Rich stood for joint military bases ‘Elmendorf – Fort Richardson’.

Bill was an exceptional artist specializing in Alaska related topics; dog mushing at the top of the list.  Most folks know that artists are ‘different thinkers’ with Bill being no exception.  I say that with upmost respect, because my friend’s insight and twisted humor on various topics kept us in stitches.

During the Anchorage Fur Rendezvous sometime in the 1980’s, Bill was crowned “Lord Trapper”. He had his beard trimmed to perfection and handlebar moustache waxed just right for the competition. He easily beat out the other contestants. From that point on the name stuck. People called him “Lord Trapper” up until the end.

There was one gentleman in our neighborhood going beyond the call of duty in keeping his lawn prim & proper.  Bill referred to him as “The Inspector”.  This fellow would get down on hands and knees holding what appeared to be tweezers.  The perfectionist would individually pluck dandelions from his perfectly manicured grass.  Early in the morning he’d walk the block inspecting our yards.

Of course Bill and I had more important things to do besides tend to lawns.  Neighbor Bill said one summer morning he looked out his bedroom window seeing the man, hands on hips, shaking his head profusely.  When Bill glanced down at his grass there were yellow pedaled dandelions everywhere.  The wind was blowing that day in a northerly direction towards this person’s house.  The puffy white seedlings were beginning to take flight making their 50-yard journey to greener pastures.

“That’ll give him something to do!”, Bill quipped.

Sgt. William “Bill” Devine was a true American patriot.  He served in the U.S. Air Force in both the Korean and Vietnam War.  I recall one poignant story involving Korea.  Bill was erroneously reported as killed in action (KIA).  That was because he was the only survivor out of his squadron after being overrun by communist troops.  All men were reported lost.  It was several months later when the Devine family found he was alive.  Bill said the news hit his mother especially hard, most likely taking a few years off her life.  His parents kept this tragic letter hidden away until their deaths.  Bill’s sister now has it.

Bill talked less of his time in Vietnam.  He briefly mentioned being part of a clandestine Cambodia mission.  He parachuted in with no personal identification, assigned an M-1 folding stock carbine minus serial number.  Bill never explained a reason for going there only saying he was fortunate to come back alive.  Sgt. Devine served with one other decorated Alaskan soldier during that time.  The late and great native leader Percy Blatchford was in one of Bill’s units.  Bill told me Percy was the toughest and strongest man he’d ever met.  The two war veterans remained good pals long after their military careers ended.

It was in the Air Force where Bill’s art career blossomed.  Even though he’d shown artful ability at an early age, his commanding officer took note of the soldier’s exquisite skill in writing; calligraphy for the most part.  From that point on Bill created special letters or bulletins for the muckety-mucks as Bill liked to call officers.  

Our neighbor was a good hearted and generous person.  He gave each of our children a vintage gold coin each Christmas.  This was when the precious metal was hovering around $300.00 an ounce.  Bill candidly told Gunnar and Miranda,

“Hang on to ‘em because someday they’ll be worth millions.”

Bill had considerable knowledge regarding valuable coins, stamps, and precious metals. He told me whenever he visited a coin or stamp shop, he was like a kid in a candy store.  Over the years I observed many people take advantage of my friend.  One incident stands out in particular.

Bill designed impressive patriotic eagles for a well-known Anchorage company.  A businessman from California saw his work, claiming he could make Bill a fortune by placing the art on clothing.  This man had connections to a huge firm selling motif apparel to Wal-Mart.  Plans were made for Bill to fly to Los Angeles and present his designs to corporate types.

Bill made the journey taking along several pieces.  After the meeting he was informed they’d let him know.  He left his artwork behind for executives to scrutinize.  Several months rolled by with him hearing nothing.  One day as Bill strolled through Wal-Mart something caught his eye.  Walking over to a rack of clothing there perched on a cotton tee was one of his eagles.  Looking through the rack he spotted several more of his designs.

“I was robbed!”, he sadly told my wife Joleen.

Asking what he did after learning such Bill shrugged his shoulders and replied,

 “What could I do? It would’ve taken thousands of dollars to fight those guys!”

He went on explaining how he quickly got over the blow.

“I figured if my work was that good, it must’a been worth stealing!”

That’s how ‘Neighbor Bill’ looked at things.  He knew in the end that nobody takes worldly things with them.  Had Bill derived considerable wealth from the clothing deal most likely he would’ve given it away!

Bill was especially known for his dog mushing ties. He was best friends to legendary Joe Redington Sr. and wife Vi.  The Redington’s would sometimes spend nights with Bill whenever they were in town. He had many dog mushing celebrities’ stop by the Fern Lane house.  It wasn’t unusual to spot Susan Butcher at his door; her truck of howling huskies parked out front. 

George Attla, Dr. Roland Lombard, and other notables dropped in to have coffee.  Bill designed many Iditarod trophies throughout the years.  The much celebrated sled dog monument on 4^th Avenue has Bill Devine’s name on it.  Another one of his works is the stately Joe Redington Sr. memorial in Knik.

As the years slid by Bill’s health took a turn for the worse.  A good pal of his and mine, Dale Myers, stepped in to help.  Joleen and I did what we could by shopping for groceries or bringing over food.  When it became obvious Bill was not going to make it, Dale was appointed executor of his estate.  About a year later Bill sadly passed away.  Elm-Rich Subdivision was no longer the same.  With my mom also gone Joleen and I decided it was time to move.

We think often of Bill and all the kind things he did. ‘Dollars for Dogs’   was a recipient of Bill’s financial support.  Many veterans groups either received monetary donations or his valuable time seeking them.   The Korean War Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C.  was a favorite.  Almost every worthwhile charity in town garnered some type of assistance.  Bill was a behind the scenes lobbyist, making sure our son Gunnar received appointment to the Air Force Academy.

Bill wanted a portion of his estate proceeds going to the Iditarod Sled Dog Committee.  At a special meeting Dale Myers presented them a check for $124,000.00.  Several days later Dale handed Joleen and I a substantial amount of money.

“Bill wanted you guys to have it!”

It was around 1996 when I nominated Bill for ‘Neighbor of the Year’ award.  When he was announced winner I wasn’t surprised.  The man was quite humble saying others were more deserving.  I told him if there were others, I didn’t know their names.

William David Devine left this world on January 16, 2007.  If dandelions grow on the other side of life’s fence, I assume Bill’s picked a few.  I’m sure he’s put their seeds to humorous use.

On our office wall hangs a marble plaque.  Bill Devine’s signature is etched on bottom along with the date 1982.  Artwork portrays realistic portrait of a bearded miner bent over a stream. The grizzled character is holding a gold pan and nugget.  Very few people know this:  Bill penned that scene in his own image.  My neighbor claimed had he not been an artist, he would’ve become a gold miner.

“There’s gotta be more money in it!”

I can only imagine with Heaven’s streets covered in the precious metal, Bill Devine’s staked out several claims!

When one thinks of a dynamic duo where crime fighting is concerned, Batman and Robin immediately come to mind. Many years ago, Lamar County, Alabama had their own legendary crusaders. Unlike the fictional heroes protecting Gotham City, Sheriff Murray Virgil Smith and Deputy Sheriff Herschel C. Smith were the real deal.

I decided to look into some of their more illustrious cases. There were plenty to choose from going through over 30 years of archived newspaper records.

Murray V. Smith began his law enforcement career it appears in 1923. Before that time he was in the military and most likely served in WWI.

Perhaps the most unusual case Sheriff Murray Smith solved was before sidekick Deputy Herschel came along. It involved of all things, stolen chickens.

A couple of  outsiders, Fred Felkins and Leonard Simpson, drove into Lamar County early one morning with near 200 of the birds in a truck. They attempted to peddle them to local farmers. The following excerpt is a word by word account taken from an October 1, 1930, The Lamar Democrat,

“Suspicious of the characters, Murray trailed both men back to a residence in Gattman, Mississippi, where he found signs of chickens recently handled.”

After a quick and through investigation it was discovered the chickens were stolen from six different farms in Caledonia, Mississippi. The chicken thieves eventually had their day in court.

Sheriff Smith, in January 1936, had to investigate a tragic hanging. A young girl of 18, Miss Laura Veal, was found by farmers hanging from a tree. With some believing that foul play was involved, Murray Smith, after investigating the scene sadly concluded that it was suicide. Over the years, Officer Smith along with his deputy had to look into several suicides in the county.

Murry’s younger nephew, Herschel Smith, started working alongside the veteran cop a few years later. During that time they flip flopped job titles a couple of times. The Lamar County sheriff position was voted for back then as it is today.

Archived newspaper accounts show Murray and Herschel Smith were well-respected officers. That explains them continuously being reelected.

On November 2, 1937, two strangers came wheeling into Vernon in a 1934 V-8 Ford Deluxe. This vehicle was akin to the one Bonnie and Clyde preferred in bank robberies because of its speed. For reasons unexplained, a fellow at the wheel lost control and crashed. Both him and his passenger were taken to a local Vernon clinic.

While Sheriff Murray Smith tended to them, Deputy Sheriff Herschel Smith poked around underneath the wrecked Ford’s seat. He located a suspicious amount of money.

Phone calls along with an investigation showed Otis Dickie and Charlie Owens had robbed The First National Bank in Huntland, Tennessee days earlier. Their fast getaway car was stolen in Russellville, Alabama. The on-the-run crooks were quickly tossed in jail, with news of their arrest spreading across the country. Both Lamar policemen were congratulated for their quick thinking.

Numerous moonshine operations in and around Lamar County were broken up by the savvy cops during their long career. One raid in 1939 netted 2500 gallons of mash. That was enough to create 1200 gallons or more of booze. Officer’s Smith & Smith succeeded over the years in pouring thousands of gallons of illegal liquor down the drain.

There are several archived newspaper articles showing where the infamous law enforcement officers solved robberies and burglaries. They were a team to be reckoned with when crooks came to town.

Sheriff Murray V. Smith retired from law enforcement in 1947. On February 8, 1950, Murray was strolling along a sidewalk near the Bank of Vernon when he dropped dead of a heart attack. His funeral was reported to have been attended by many.

Sheriff Herschel V. Smith continued in his capacity as Lamar County Sheriff. On August 8, 1951, the sheriff was helping Winston County lawmen search for a man named Taylor Peoples. Taylor was know as a violent person and had critically shot two Mississippi officers. One of them, Sheriff Clifford Peak, eventually died. Taylor People’s own family feared for their lives.

As Sheriff Smith walked through the brush, a shotgun blast rang out. Taylor Peoples had been hiding behind a bush. Herschel was hit in the chest and face by pellets. Even though unable to clearly see, Smith fired several shots back at the assailant from his service revolver. Taylor Peoples immediately dropped his shotgun and surrendered.

It seems that unfortunate incident ended Sheriff Herschel V. Smith’s career. A newspaper article right afterwards mentioned he might possibly lose an eye. A newspaper photo taken in a hospital bed showed Smith considerably bandaged up.

I found nothing about Herschel continuing to be in law enforcement after that incident.

Sheriff Herschel C. Smith died June 22, 1969. He’s buried at the Friendship Baptist Church Cemetery in Sulligent.

Batman and Robin Smith are gone, but other heroes have come along.

God bless all Lamar County Police officers and personnel continuing to fill Murray and Herschel’s shoes!