Author: michaeldexterhankins

During the American Civil War, Selma and Vernon, Alabama had one thing in common. Both towns were locations of foundries, used in the manufacture of essential war material needed by Confederate troops.

Selma’s blast furnace and smelter sat along the Alabama River. It’s referred to in most publications as the Selma Ordinance and Naval Foundry. This was a large operation, producing cannons, cannon balls, ammunition, rifle components, and the like. The facility was destroyed by Union soldiers on April 5, 1865.

The Hale & Murdock iron furnace in Vernon was constructed in 1859. A much smaller plant than that in Selma, initially it produced plow parts, horse shoes, and other farm related equipment. In 1861, production shifted to manufacturing bullet molds and cast iron products designed to help the war effort.

Remarkably, Union troops did not discover the Hale & Murdock location like it did Selma’s, sparing it from destruction. The facility continued to operate four years after the Civil War ended until finally going bankrupt in 1870.

Both the Selma and Vernon foundries were responsible for making components that killed thousands of federal troops. The precise number of deaths those items are responsible for, will of course, never be known.

Some 23 years after Vernon’s Hale & Murdock smelter shut down, one more fatality was added to the list. This one wasn’t due to an act of war. Thomas Ballinger Moore’s death was the result of a freak accident.

Mr. Moore was a much-respected farmer in Lamar County. He had a wife and several children. On July 24, 1893, he was at the abandoned smelter salvaging bricks. Most likely they came from the kiln.

Evidently some of the heavy bricks had sunk into mud. The old foundry location is close to Yellow Creek which is prone to flooding. Digging a trench to retrieve his treasures, Moore was standing near six-feet in the hole when a bank of dirt collapsed on top of him.

One of Thomas’s young sons, along with another boy, rushed over to brush dirt away from his face. Mr. Moore was solidly encased up to his neck. The children ran for help.

It took several men to extract Thomas from his unintended grave. He was upbeat during the whole episode, telling rescuers,

“I hate to see myself die!”

When they finally got him out there was no noticeable external injuries. It appeared he’d be okay.

Unfortunately, serious internal damage had been done. Four days later the much loved man passed away.

As it always does, remnants of war claimed yet another, in Thomas Ballinger Moore!

It seems each week I pick up the latest copy of, The Lamar Democrat, the front page has a photo of either a wrecked car or truck, or one stuck in a ditch. Is this phenomenon something new to Lamar County? I did a bit of research uncovering the following article from a December 14, 1927 issue of the newspaper. Perhaps someone in Vernon still remembers this event?

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Car Overturns into Yellow Creek

“It was nothing less than a miracle!”

This was the genera icencus of opinion of those who visited the scene of the wrecked Ford car, which left the bridge and plunged into Yellow Creek at the Turner Water Mill just east of Vernon, on the Vernon-Fayette Road, Saturday night, carrying with it three passengers, a young lady and two men, who escaped with no injury except a ducking in the icy waters of Yellow Creek.

According to a statement of Mr. Knight, of Guin, owner of the wrecked car, he was driving at about twenty-five miles an hour and when he struck the bridge, which is in a bad condition, he lost control. The car turned completely over and landed in middle of the creek.

Assistance was secured and with the aid of W.L. Turner’s tractor the car was removed from the creek Saturday night.

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Judging by this article it appears people have been wrecking vehicles in Lamar County since day one. The two things puzzling me most about this story are,

“Exactly who took a ducking and what’s a genera icencus?”

Honolulu, Hawaii has perhaps the world’s most remembered WWII memorial. Millions of people travel to Pearl Harbor each year to pay their respects. The U.S.S. Arizona is the cornerstone of that monument.

Lake Havasu City, Arizona has such a memorial, yet it’s unofficial, tiny in stature compared to the one on Oahu, and visitors annually trekking to the remote site most likely number in the hundreds; if that.

The location of our city’s memorial is known by very few, and most of those knowing the locale would prefer to keep it secret.

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On a stormy and overcast Saturday afternoon, August 11, 1945, five Army Air Corp personnel winged their way west towards Yuma, Arizona. They’d departed Las Vegas, Nevada on the final leg of a roundtrip combat training mission.

Just two days earlier the United States had successfully dropped a plutonium bomb nicknamed “Big Boy” on Nagasaki, Japan. Forty-eight hours previous to that a uranium laden bomb named “Little Boy” exploded over Hiroshima, killing thousands. After those horrific bombings WWII seemed to be winding down with the U.S. in total control.

Flight Officer Robert L. Laird from Laredo, Texas was pilot of the twin-engine B-25 Mitchell bomber that late summer day. The military identification number for his craft was 44-34201. Most likely, seeing that the war was coming to an end made the young officer happy, as it did the rest of his crew.

Robert Laird’s father, Colonel John Laird, was a distinguished military officer. Like any loving dad, the old man was probably elated in knowing his son might not see combat. Being a seasoned veteran he knew the dangers of such.

Flight Officer Juan S. Madero Jr. from Tucson, Arizona was co-pilot. His wife and two children remained in Tucson with Juan’s father, brother, and three sisters. Juan was a nationalized American citizen coming to this country from Mexico. A hazy newspaper photo shows Madero to be a striking and handsome young man in military uniform.

Juan was an all around athlete, becoming the starting catcher for the 1940 La Azteca semi-professional baseball team. Juan Madero was also an accomplished boxer. He’d taken a commission into the armed forces to help with the war effort.

Second Lt. William G. Winter and Second Lt. John R Winter were on the B-25 undergoing radar navigation training. They’d made history by becoming the first identical twins to be assigned to the same airplane in the Air Corp. The Winter brothers were from Towanda, Pennsylvania. They were star basketball players at Towanda High. Their dad, William Winter, fought in France during WWI.

PFC William F. Strange of Rockmart, Georgia completed the Yuma based crew. He was their radio operator. William “Bill” Strange had a wife back home in Rockmart. The small town in Polk County only had 3,700 citizens. PFC Strange was the only enlisted man on the crew.

Somewhere near the Yucca, Arizona Air Field around 6 PM, someone onboard the polished aluminum bomber, most likely Lt. Laird, radioed asking if anyone could hear him. Flight Officer Arnold Kast, in another B-25 identified by serial number, 44-86881, flying 20 miles south of Kingman acknowledged that he could.

“Roger, Out”, were Laird’s last words.

Several minutes went by before Flight Officer Kast unsuccessfully tried to regain contact with Laird. It was assumed by Kast that Lt. Laird was lost in the clouds and trying to get his bearings. Flying over the Mojave Mountains in stormy conditions even with instruments was risky.

When Lt. Laird’s airplane did not arrive in Yuma a search and rescue was initiated. The following day wreckage was located by aircraft near Crossman Peak. The B-25 had struck the upper part of a jagged mountain near the 3500 foot level. The medium size bomber disintegrated as it cartwheeled up and over the peak. Fire ultimately took care of the larger section of fuselage.

It took searchers some time to reach the wreck because of a lack of accessibility. Air Corp rescuers in Jeeps used an old mining trail to inch their way up. All five crewmembers were reported to have been killed instantly.

There’s been discussion amongst Lake Havasu City veteran’s the past 10 years, about placing a permanent marker on this site. From all indications that’s yet to happen. I searched for a place to donate funds finding none. I was told that there is a ‘sealed tube’ on the summit with accident information inside.

As patriotic and supportive as this community is towards our military, money cannot possibly be the object. From what I was told, it’s more of a government bureaucracy problem than anything. This is nothing a strong political leader couldn’t take care of. Hopefully someday a proper and permanent memorial becomes reality. It would be fitting tribute to those five brave men, and to Lake Havasu City for making sure they were properly honored.

I was asked by one former service member not to disclose the exact location of the crash site. His fears are that people will disturb what’s left up there. That information is already on the internet and has been for some time.

This person said that over the years, aluminum shards and broken parts from the plane have gradually disappeared. He believes it’s nothing more than desecration of a grave site although there are no bodies up there. Such acts would be considered sacrilegious at Pearl Harbor.

The accident took place exactly seven miles from my home. I’ve been to the foot of the mountain where the B-25 hit, yet never walked to the top. It’s rugged and dangerous terrain.

I’m able to stand in my front yard with binoculars and gaze up there. It’s hard to believe this coming August 11, the tragedy will be 74 years old. Had those fellows lived they’d be in their 90’s. There’s good chance a couple of them would still be around.

On any clear day look towards Crossman Peak and a tad to the left of it. In that general vicinity, five of our nation’s finest lost their lives on a stormy Arizona evening.

Although never seeing battle, they gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country during WWII.

I’ve been an avid bicyclist for most of my life. My love of bikes started at an early age. When I was 10 years old I received a 3-speed Raleigh English Racer for Christmas. My brother Jim got the same.

These bikes had thin wheels and tires making for less friction on the road thus more speed. Jim and I would burn around the neighborhood seeing who was fastest. Of course he always won being older and more physically developed.

One problem with the bikes was that they’d unexpectedly pop out of gear. That was no problem if you were sitting and pedaling, but standing on the pedals and going for it was a different situation.

Jim and I were blasting down the road one day in a show of speed. My brother was standing and pumping the pedals for all its worth when the chain came off. He immediately went down hard on the center bar.

I can still visualize him on the bike with both feet dragging ground, slowly drifting to a halt. At that point he fell over. The look of pain on his face was none I’ve ever witnessed since. My brother remained black and blue in that area for weeks. I don’t recall him ever standing and pedaling again.

My first combination road/trail bicycle was an Azuki 10-speed made in Japan. A fellow working at The Bicycle Shop in Anchorage, Alaska recommended it for my type of riding. He told me the bike would hold up well to rough Alaskan roads and terrain.

I purchased the Azuki in 1971 for $300.00 and the thing’s been ticking ever since. If I were to guess overall mileage I couldn’t. The number would be up there. What I like most about this bike is it’s name. I use my Southern laced Japanese accent whenever pronouncing it.

I rode this bicycle for basic transportation whenever my car was being repaired which was often. The bike served me in that capacity including camping trips and weekend jaunts along Turnagain Arm. The thin tires were eventually upgraded to thicker ones to survive rock punctures. This all took place before mountain bikes came along.

I’d come home from work, grab a quick bite to eat, and then pedal around Anchorage averaging 30 miles or so per trip. My route always took me through Russian Jack Springs Park which was basically a mile from our house.

On May 2, 1982, I was getting ready to ride when my five year old son Gunnar asked me to stay home and play. That request turned out to be a life saver.

At the precise time I would’ve hit the park, a mentally disturbed man, Charles Meach, shot four teenage campers to death along the bike trail. One boy tried running away with Meach hot on his heels. After shooting the kid in back of the head Meach quickly left the scene.

There’s no doubt I would have been in the thick of this massacre. Thankfully Charles Meach was caught a few days later. Had God not spoken through my son that evening I most likely wouldn’t be here.

My reliable Azuki racked up mega miles, yet a 1994 Delta V-1000 Cannondale became my favorite bicycle to ride. Made of aluminum; the chassis welds are tig and near perfect. The frame geometry is a work of art!

The Delta V-1000 has adjustable front forks and a solid rear suspension. It carried me all over Alaska including the top of a Nike missile site several times. The Cannondale’s considered old and archaic compared to newer full suspension mountain bikes, yet none will ever touch it in the looks department.

I was riding the Cannondale, when a Toyota pickup with a Russian professor behind the wheel struck me. It was July 3rd and pre-holiday traffic was extremely heavy. Attempting to cross a major intersection when the light turned green, the truck nailed me doing 40mph. That’s what the police report said. I was the one getting a ticket.

My prized bike suffered minor damage while I took the brunt of the collision. The professor’s truck suffered even worse. My hip and shoulder took out his side window and mirror plus dented the driver’s side door. It took several months to recoup from all injuries. My right leg still aches on occasion.

A Trek Y-5 full-suspension bicycle was added to my stable after this accident. It worked fine off-road but the Trek’s weight was a bit too much for long trips. Because of that I hardly use it. I keep it around mainly because parting with my stuff is hard to do.

My last and most likely final bicycle to purchase is an UGMO 18-speed fat tire special. It takes extra pedaling to keep the thing rolling because four-inch wide tires make for lots of friction. I like the bike because it’s extremely stable on uneven ground. UGMO works fine in sand and I suppose snow as well, although I have no plans of riding it in cold locales.

Years ago my wife began calling me “Mountain Bike Mike”. I found it amusing. The name was cool enough to use on my eBay account. I abbreviated the title to ‘mtbikemike’ for simplicity sake. Oftentimes people think the letters stand for Montana Bike Mike. I never correct them. That name sounds cool as well.

For several years I sold stuff on eBay like antique bottles and old car magazines. I had labels printed to make the shipping easier. The stick-on labels have my name and address along with a clever saying,

“Peddling is my middle name!”

There’s a silhouette of a guy on a mountain bike in the center of each. Because I no longer sell on eBay that often, Joleen and I I sometimes use the labels in sending Christmas or birthday packages to family and friends. It never fails that a recipient will erroneously claim I misspelled pedaling. I let them believe such, knowing that trying to explain things would take forever.

I should be doing more peddling and pedaling. There’s plenty of junk around the house that needs sold, including a few extra pounds on me that need whittled away. With 2,000 of those labels in a desk drawer, I can peddle until the cows come home and then some

I’ll always be a bicycle fanatic even when that time comes that I can’t ride. Having a bike sitting in my garage or living room will help rekindle special memories. I believe memories will be most welcome in the later days.

Most likely the bicycle I keep for memory sake will be my tried and true Japanese Azuki. If it could talk I’m sure it’d tell me,

“Omo-ide-woar-igatō”

That’s Japanese for,

“Thanks for the memories!

A friend of mine recently dropped by telling me he was cleaning out his garage.  When I asked why he replied,

“Because it’s time to let go!”

Believing I saw tears in the man’s eyes, he suddenly sneezed.  Through several attempts to unclog a plugged nose Jerry told me garage dust had rekindled old allergies.  I felt sorry for my pal.  Not so much for his sinus problem, but for having to get rid of precious junk.  I didn’t know how he could do it.  I was in that exact situation several years previous.

When we moved from Alaska to Arizona, Joleen and I had lived in the same house for 34 years.  Surveying my accumulation of treasure overwhelmed me.  I had boxes and boxes of car parts and tools, including plastic milk crates filled with “Hot Rod” magazines. I’d kept the magazines just in case I needed to reference an article.  Amazingly throughout the years I’ve never had to reference an article.

I wasn’t sure what direction to go in packing.  Calling for a huge dumpster, I knew a majority of the stuff needed to disappear. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t all mine.  Thankfully Joleen was in Arizona at that time with our dogs and parrots.  I received many calls throughout the two week separation, with her worried about me making the wrong decisions on what to toss.  I told her not to worry!

Much of the ‘stuff’ went to Salvation Army as well as Big Brothers – Big Sisters.  Those folks were eager to take kitchen items including an old frying pan I deemed unusable.  Thoughts of donating my precious magazine collection quickly disappeared. They were way too valuable to simply give away.

Since moving, the majority of our Home-Depot moving boxes sit unopened in a storage complex.  Joleen keeps asking what did I do with this or what did I do with that?  I tell her I won’t know until we open things.  Right now I’m putting that project on hold as long as humanly possible.  Unbeknownst to her, most of the boxes contain car parts and tools.

A couple of items she wants me to find is her wedding dress, plus an old frying pan her Grandma Schweitzer owned.  I imagine that griddle was put to good use by now.  I can mentally smell thick bacon frying alongside scrambled eggs.  Most likely the person owning it does not realize its sentimental value.

As far as Joleen’s wedding dress goes, I do remember packing it.  I placed it in a thick cardboard box with my digital torque wrench and micrometer. The problem is finding that exact box.   Looking back I should have marked ‘Digital Torque Wrench’ on the container instead of tools.  I could’ve used that instrument last month.

Standing in my garage drinking a Diet Pepsi, I thought of my friend Jerry and his gut-wrenching decision.  Tears came to my eyes yet not the sentimental variety.  Dust was especially bad that day because of the wind.  Gazing at a shelf full of oil filters and oil cans an important question arose,

“When do we know it’s time to let go?”

I called Jerry intent on asking that question yet quickly changed directions.  As soon as he picked up the receiver I instructed my pal,

“If you have more car parts and tools to give away, I’ll take ’em!”

* On a parting note: My wife says next time we move she’s doing the packing.  I’ll be the one traveling to our new destination with pets, while she makes the important decisions on what stays and what goes. I’m okay with that as long as she carefully packs my things.  Some of those electronic tools are delicate and fragile items!

I’ve wanted to write this piece for some time. I kept putting it off for whatever reason. Something told me to begin typing.

To most people, 911 signifies either an emergency, or a reference to terrorists striking the World Trade Center in New York City. That infamous number represents something a bit different to me. You see, my mother was born on 9/11. Each September 11th marks her birthday. Whenever I see the number 911 I think of her.

Mom was the type person always wanting to stay in touch. If my wife, Joleen, and I were on a trip I’d best check in each evening or else. She wanted to know that us and the kids were safe before she went to bed. Evidently it was something ingrained in mother and her sisters from an early age. Before cellphones and answering machines, mom and her siblings had a special code arranged to communicate in case of an emergency.

In our early Alaskan years, phone calls from Alabama to the 49^th state were very expensive. Should storms strike Birmingham or Mobile where the two sisters lived, they’d dial our house letting the phone ring three times before hanging up. This was a signal to let their younger sister know all was okay. If an earthquake or trembler hit Alaska, mother would do the same their direction. It didn’t cost a dime.

I tried doing stuff for mom but she was a very independent woman until the end. If anyone volunteered she’d generally refuse help. Most times I’d perform things without even asking. I worked on her vehicles on numerous occasions and tried to wash them whenever possible. One thing mom liked was a clean car. What I did for her was nothing compared to what she did for me.

When mom died, I was left with one less person to call whenever I needed help. Mother was great at giving me wisdom especially in areas of finance and spirituality.  Dad did the same where money was involved, yet his philosophy was less than conservative,

“Son, nothing ventured, nothing gained!”

Following dad’s financial roadmap got me in trouble several times. Mom’s advice was much more cautious and frugal.

“Always sock money away for a rainy day!”

One of mom’s comments to me whenever I became worried was,

“Things will be okay!”

Often times I called her just to hear those soothing words. My wife has now taken over the job.

On the day of mom’s graveside service I decided our Chevrolet pickup needed cleaning. Even though temperatures were well below zero, and truck door locks can easily freeze with water added to them, I knew doing so was was most appropriate. The vehicle’s white paint was exceedingly dirty with brown mud.

I drove it to one of those automatic touchless washes, waiting patiently for a car in front of me to go through. As I sat there thinking about what was still to come that day, I glanced over seeing a white hearse pull up at an adjoining stall. As it entered the wash bay a coffin could be seen in back.  Surprised at this I whispered out,

“Mom?”

Making note of the vehicle license plate, LEGCY1, I couldn’t help believe this was more than ironic. Legacy was the name of the funeral home we used. When I exited the carwash the hearse was long gone. Telling Joleen, my brother Jim, and son Gunnar about it, they said we’d know in two hours. The service was being held at Pioneer Cemetery in Palmer some 50 miles away.

We were the first ones to arrive, remaining inside the frosty truck to stay warm. Wind outside was howling making the chill factor -30 degrees or colder. In a matter of minutes a white hearse rolled up. It slowly backed to the recently dug gravesite. I was not surprised at all to see LEGCY1 on its rear license plate. At that point I knew all would be okay.

Since then many interesting events have occurred regarding 911. The number pops up at opportune or inopportune times depending on how you look at it.

Joleen and I were contemplating the purchase of a home in Manhattan, Kansas. The old farm house plus huge limestone barn was unique in it being 110 years old. One thing that mother always chastised me about was my love of old stuff; especially cars and trucks.  She called them ‘money pits’.

I definitely wanted that house with Joleen not so keen with the idea. Deciding to drive back out for another look, we were stunned to find the home was located off Kansas County Road – 911. Neither of us had previously noticed this as we’d used a GPS to find the location.

That made our decision easy to make. We decided against buying the place. It was the right choice, because later on we discovered the old limestone dwelling needed thousands of dollars in mechanical and foundation upgrades. Such repairs initially went unnoticed by my eyes.

An antique Chevrolet truck I purchased in Kansas a year later turned out to have 911 connections. After buying the pickup and hauling it to Arizona, I seriously ruptured 3 vertebrae while dismantling the chassis.

Later on I severely cut my head and hand on rusted metal, incurring several painful burns as well. On top of that my initial estimate on getting it running quadrupled. Mom would’ve said something crass had she been alive, about me bringing it home. Joleen took over that task.

One evening out in the garage, I took a long hard look at a rusty and faded license plate still attached to the Chevy’s cab. All of the plate’s glossy paint was long gone.  I could barely read the license plate number, 2 911. I knew Mom would be saying,

“I told you so!”

I couldn’t help but grin.  Had I noticed from the start, I probably would’ve refrained from buying. For the truck’s sake it’s good I wasn’t looking for such that day.

I could go on and on regarding the number of times 911 has popped up since mom’s death. Some skeptics would say it’s pure coincidence. I know different. It’s my mother’s way of letting us know all is okay. Joleen has come across such including my son, daughter, and my brother.

This past year has been an awful one for me physically speaking. If mother were around to chat with me she’d insist I slow down and pray for healing.  She didn’t have to tell me. Someone did that for her.

Last Sunday morning in church, Pastor Chad Garrison’s sermon began with Luke 9:11. To paraphrase:

When the crowds learned it (that Jesus was present) they followed him, and he welcomed them and spoke to them of the Kingdom of God and cured those who had need of healing.

My first though after hearing the message was,

“My back could sure use some healing!”

Thinking about the unusual Luke 9:11 sermon for several days afterwards, I initially believed it was mom’s way of telling me things would be okay. It didn’t take long to realize that wasn’t the case.

My assurance this time came solely from the one in charge, my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. All I needed was ask him for help.

Follow up: I was told by doctors that I needed laser surgery to fix my back. Family, friends, myself included, prayed that I wouldn’t have to go that route. Miraculously, such a surgical procedure is no longer required.

People collect antiques for many different reasons. I treasure old stuff like many folks, yet appreciate it more for history sake than the material object itself. Knowing who owned an item makes it talk to me, especially after I’ve performed sufficient background research.

One of my favorite antiques to collect are medicine bottles. While it’s near impossible to say who the original owner of an old bottle is, the person formerly owning the drug store can be identified. Before 1920, most medicine bottles were embossed with the druggist’s name.

An example of such being a bottle I came across with W.A. D’Alemberte – Druggist – Pensacola, Florida embossed on the front panel. Most folks would assume Mr. D’Alemberte was a Florida native. Research showed that not to be the case.

Willoughby Augustus D’Alemberte was born in Mobile, Alabama on August 26, 1854. Willoughby’s father, William, was in railroad construction. The well-to-do businessman had a contract to build a railroad from Whiting, Alabama (now Flomaton) to Pensacola, Florida. Mr. D’Alemberte and family moved to Whiting from Mobile because of such.

William D’Alemberte’s project was finished before the Civil War began. The family then moved to Pollard, AL. After the war ended, D’Alemberte was given a new contract to rebuild railroad lines destroyed by Union soldiers.

One of these contracts entailed laying new track from Mobile to Decatur for the L&N Railroad. When this work began, the family traveled to Greenville, Alabama where young Willoughby first attended school.

When Willoughby’s mom became seriously ill the family pulled up stakes once again relocating to Pensacola, Florida. His mom was under the care of Dr. Wonderise, a renowned surgeon in the area. William D’Alemberte remained behind in Pollard tending to his business. Unfortunately he passed away from a heart attack not long after the family left.

Willoughby remained in Pensacola with his mother, brother, and sister. He studied medicine eventually opening his own drug store. Willoughby D’Alemberte lived in Pensacola for 50 plus years. He died January 3, 1920, at the age of 65. The successful druggist is buried in St. Michael’s Cemetery.

I found Willoughby’s early life interesting because I was born in the Pensacola area. My family relocated to Alabama six months later. There’s an Alabama-Florida connection in both our lives.

Finding medicine bottles from your home town or city is possible. In most cases they can be inexpensive to own. Ebay’s a good place to start looking. The Pensacola bottle I talk about in this article set me back $10.00 including shipping.

Over the years I‘ve come across medicine bottles from all areas of Alabama, yet none from Lamar County. The closest I’ve found is one from Fayette. That’s where my brother was born so it’s special to him.

When I hold an antique medicine bottle in hand I can’t help but wonder,

“What drug was inside and who was it for?”

Only the doctor, druggist, and customer can answer that question. Unfortunately for my inquisitive brain all have left the room!

Ten of the passengers helped pay for crew wages, gas, oil, food, and other expenses needed for the trip. The other 50 jumped on board at the last minute expecting a free ride. Add a few extra and the boat would’ve sunk for sure!

Reminds me of our current situation here in the U.S. Also reminds me of a story a late friend told me.

Lawrence traveled to Texas from Alaska to visit relatives he hadn’t seen in years. The location was close to Lake Texarkana. His relations wanted to go fishing. Lawrence was up for such. He splurged for a boat rental, fuel, bait, food, and drinks. They made a day of it. On the way home one of them suggested doing it again. Lawrence replied,

“Sure…, if everyone chips in $50.00 we’ll head back out tomorrow.”

Complete silence. If it wasn’t free they didn’t want any part of it.

Lawrence’s ordeal reminds me of our country. Some come here seeking asylum. They’re willing to work. Others journey here wanting to live in paradise on someone else’s dollar. Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Kansas City, etc., are full of them.

There’s plenty more patiently waiting to jump on the same boat!

I’m a stats fan. My appreciation for stats goes along with a love of baseball, cars, and racing. All three entities use such numbers for specific reasons.

When I say stats I mean statistics. For some reason I have a hard time saying statistics. My tongue warbles the pronunciation. The word comes out sounding like sta stis tiss. Say that 10 times in a row. Using stats in a conversation rather than mumbling statistics keeps me sounding somewhat intelligent.

Stats to me are nothing more than talking numbers. To a statistician, it’s much more complex than that. Statistician is another word you’ll never hear me say. I use number cruncher to describe such a person.

My wife and I used stats when searching for a new home site. We wanted a place with the maximum number of sunny days. Such numbers accumulated over a period of years create a demographic weather timeline.

Now that we’ve found that imperfect place, we’re looking at stats to find us a newer, more perfect place of residence. We seek a location with a high percentage of sunny days, along with a significant amount of both warm and cool temps, light rain, and no snow. Bottom line being it can’t be an island. The name Utopia popped up.

I used stats a lot in my automotive parts days. Maintaining proper inventory was a big plus on having a successful and profitable parts store. I’d try to keep on hand only those parts that turned within a certain period of time. When I say turned I mean sold. In our case that much needed data was generally harvested over two years. In the beginning, card inventory systems were used to tabulate such. Eventually computers took over.

These days my wife and I use stats to make financial decisions where investment dollars are concerned. Because of a rising and falling stock market, oftentimes gut feeling is used along with stats. I’m sure that’s not something professional financial investors advise. On occasion, gut feeling is more accurate than stats.

Stats are used in social media all the time; perhaps not so much so by users, as they are by owners of the site. If you’re on Facebook, without doubt Mark Zuckerberg and his team know if you slant left or right politically, your religious ideology, including what you like to eat. This data can be mapped out to specific country, state, city, and even neighborhood.

All of these Facebook stats are obtained by users simply hitting the like button. Over time a data trail is established. If you want to mess things up, start liking things you don’t like. I do it all the time.

A WordPress site I use for writing purposes compiles stats for me. I didn’t sign up for that reason alone, but the information’s there at my fingertips. I discovered some interesting stats where WordPress was combined with my Facebook account.

On the average when I post new material on Facebook via WordPress, three people will like it. Out of those three, WordPress stats tell me only two will actually read what I had to say. I chuckle at that.

Facebook was not designed for users to read stuff that friends wrote and then posted. There’s not enough time in a day. The amazing part about Facebook is the power of a share. It’s mind boggling!

The other day I listed a new story regarding a defunct construction project in Arizona. This story was definitely not something most people would read. I only placed it online because a few friends wanted to view it.

Five people liked it, with WordPress indicating four out of five read the material. The stats there were right on. One of those five shared it to a Facebook site specifically designed for people interested in local Arizona news. From there another 41 shared it, making for a total of 42.

WordPress graphs showed after that happened, 890 people in 10 countries read the article within 12 hours. In short, shares are nothing more than multipliers. That multiplication on my story is still ongoing. I find this amazing.

By now most of you are now thinking,

“So, what’s this got to do with me?”

Simply put, the next time you decide to post a photograph of Aunt Gertie wearing a muumuu (moomoo) on Facebook, all it takes is one friend sharing such to make the woman world famous.

With shares multiplying like rabbits all the way to 402, 100,000 people could potentially see her picture.

That’s intriguing enough to make a person want to do it!

Years ago I chatted with a veteran Alaska State Trooper about the benefits of using his patrol vehicle while off duty.

“It must be nice having the government pay for fuel!”

The slightly rotund officer gave me a stare, and then went into a lecture about it being more of a hassle than anything. He explained that once a shift ended he drove home extra careful.

Sgt. Bob Vickers informed me that he had to drive the speed limit precisely or some citizen would turn him in.

“Because of such I became a hindrance to the smooth flow of traffic!”

The sergeant claimed it wasn’t unusual to have cars and trucks backed up a mile by his actions. He went on to say that after several years, he deemed it far safer to pull over and let folks pass.

Sgt. Vickers ended his spiel by hurling a loaded question my direction.

“Did you know that slow kills?”

I had to laugh when he said that. Most cops would utter the complete opposite.

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Flash ahead several years and I find myself living in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. Several weeks ago I was stopped by a Mohave County Sheriff for speeding. There was no denying it. I was doing 70 on Highway-95 headed into town.

For information sake the speed limit at that specific location is 55. I’m not a constant speeder. I do so occasionally where defensive driving is concerned. It seems safer to go with the flow rather than against it. Far as I was concerned I had a reason to that day. I was leading the pack!

The young officer was extremely professional and courteous. He apologized for having to cite me, but in reality I should’ve been the one apologizing to him. He was merely doing his job!

Since that time I’ve been extremely careful in gauging my speed. I’d much rather spend money on other things besides traffic citations. A few days ago my wife and I drove to Kingman which is approximately 60 miles from home.

I decided to precisely follow all speed limits which vary considerably. I recorded my experience for curiosity sake, pretty much knowing what I’d find.

Before we’d rolled past Wal-Mart on the way out of town a total of 33 cars zipped by. Most would swing back in front of my little Chevy into the right hand lane. Judging by the nasty look on one gal’s face, I was an old man hindering her progress. At the time I was doing the posted 35 going across a bumpy bridge.

The drive from Lake Havasu City Airport onward was most noteworthy. As I cruised along at 65, cars and trucks flew by on my left at an alarming rate of speed. Some were easily doing 80 mph plus. This was on a four lane section of highway.

When asphalt narrowed to two lanes my vehicle stacked up east bound traffic like cordwood. Eventually a jacked up Ford pickup went whizzing past on a double yellow. I’m sure others wanted to follow.

The reckless Ford driver forced an oncoming car to the side of the road. I couldn’t help but notice an International Association of Fire Fighters (IAFF) decal on his back window. Perhaps he was going to a fire sale?

Some folks would claim I should’ve either sped up or pulled over. Maybe so? I was the citizen after all obeying traffic rules. If people drove as they were supposed to I would’ve never been in that position to begin with.

Looking in my rearview mirror near the turnoff to I-40, there were approximately 10 vehicles hot on my tail. I’m sure many more choice words were uttered.

Sgt. Bob Vickers was right in his assessment. Speed kills, yet slow can easily do the same. I was witness to that.

Hanging on my garage wall is a mangled license plate reading ARRIVE ALIVE. It came off a wrecked Chevy. Whatever it takes to ultimately fulfill that arrive alive goal dictates the way I’ll drive.

If that means going with the flow of traffic rather than against it, that’ll be my thing. I believe the late Sgt. Vickers would agree with me.

The unspoken rule for driving in Arizona seems to be,

“Lead, follow, or get out of my way!”

I’m cool with the later two. It’s leading the pack that seems to get me in the most trouble!