Author: michaeldexterhankins

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.

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

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!

A distinguished psychology professor at a prestigious west coast college was known for going into religious rants. They were aimed specifically at new students believing in Jesus, the Bible, and Heaven. He hoped to cure them of such meaningless ideology.

“There is no such place as Heaven!”, he told the young audience. “A myth and a fairy tale at its finest!”

Students knew not to challenge the scholarly man’s intellect based upon what they heard through the college grapevine. He had plenty of secular ammunition to fight back with, plus the fellow became downright hostile when confronted.

One semester as attendees listened spellbound to the man’s insults and mockery of God, a transfer student from a college in eastern Kentucky rose to his feet. He began to heartily applaud.

The instructor was appreciative at this young person’s kindly gesture. When the student asked if he might take the podium, the beaming professor told him to go for it. He believed the kid would carry on where he left off.

“Sir, what if I told you I was from Hell?”

The professor thinking such was a joke candidly replied,

“I’d say you’re pulling my leg son because there is no such place!”

The savvy student, seeing that he was leading his prey off a rocky cliff quickly responded,

“But you’re mistaken!”

The whole room went deathly quiet as no one had ever challenged the old man and got away with it.

“Sir no disrespect, but I live in Hell for Certain, Kentucky.”

Beet red in face, neck, and hands the furious professor grabbed his smart phone and Googled the name. He was surprised to find the town listed. Before he could respond the quick witted student continued his spiel.

“So you tell us there’s no Heaven and Hell, yet you didn’t even know there was a Hell for Certain, Kentucky. How do you explain that having a doctorate? If you don’t mind sir, when you get to Hell, and I’m not talking about the town in Kentucky, would you please call me? As a telecommunications major, I’d like to know how those new iPhones hold up to the heat.”

Before leaving the podium, the slick-tongued preacher’s son took one final jab at his instructor’s religious intolerance,

“Class dismissed!”

I often hear people talking about years flying by. Such conversations generally resonate from senior citizens. Reluctantly I fit into that over 55 category.

When I think of grandparents, parents, and friends now departed, “Next!” pops into my head. Dragging my feet isn’t keeping me from inching closer. The world’s largest bulldozer will do absolutely nothing in stopping forward progress.

“Next!” is okay in a fast-food restaurant, bank, or DMV line. Where death’s concerned the command takes on higher meaning.

I’ve been told by family and friends,

“Age is merely a number.”

That cliché sounds sweet and non-concerning but unfortunately it’s far from reality. Each passing year signifies one less year to live.

Such a thought is probably depressing to some people. I suppose it would be if I didn’t know for sure where I was headed. Hopefully everyone’s picked the place where they’d like to reside in their eternal years. From what I’ve found there are only two choices. If there’s a third I didn’t find mention of it.

I vaguely recall when gospel and country western singer “Gentleman” Jim Reeves passed away in a plane crash. I do remember my mother being extremely upset. She loved his singing.

Researching the date it was July 31, 1964. I would’ve been 10 at the time. Jim Reeves was only 40 when he died. Because of constantly scheduled concerts and appearances the man lived a hectic and stressful life.

Jim Reeves was on the road up until his demise. Like many in the entertainment industry, he had demons and temptations constantly leading him astray. It’s said during the bleakest days of his life he prayerfully turned to Jesus Christ for help.

One song that Jim Reeves recorded lingers in my brain:

“This World Is Not My Home”

There’s something about the beginning lyrics that immediately grabbed my attention.

“This world’s not my home; I’m just passing through.

My treasures are laid up, somewhere beyond the blue.”

I was interested in knowing if Jim Reeves was the man who wrote that tune. Turns out he wasn’t. The music was composed by Albert Edward Brumley. Mr. Brumley composed over 800 gospel songs in his lifetime. Albert Brumley also penned the well-known gospel tune, I’ll Fly Away.

Jim Reeves sang I’ll Fly Away many times during his career. Lyrics towards the end of the song seem ironic to his destiny.

“Just a few more weary days and then I’ll fly away.

To a land where joy shall never end, I’ll fly away.”

Jim Reeves was in control of his small airplane when it crashed into the ground. I tend to believe his final resting place is not six foot under in a wood coffin.

If Reeves was sincere in his acceptance of Jesus Christ as Savior, there’s no doubt he’s in Heaven. The Bible shows how to get there via John 3:16.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

I know without doubt I’ll find unlimited joy in my Heavenly home. A place without death, sorrow, or pain sounds like the ultimate destination.

My decision in taking the high road was a no brainer. What other choice is there?

A well-known lawyer received a call from his wife that their kitchen faucet was badly leaking. Dialing a plumber, he raced home to see what was up.

Within 15 minutes the plumber repaired things. He then handed the attorney a bill for $100.00.

“That’s $400.00 an hour?”, the attorney gasped.

“I’m a lawyer and I don’t make $400.00 an hour!”

“I didn’t make $400.00 an hour either when I was a lawyer!” the plumber responded.

I suppose every person has a favorite phrase, saying, or even single word they like to use over and over.

My mom often vocalized the word jeepers to explain surprise at something she didn’t know.

She’d also say, “A little birdy told me!”, to inform me or my brother how she knew we’d been up to mischief.

Dad would never fail to shout, “Bend over!”, when he found out.

At one time my pal Rod Sanborn used the single word bodacious to explain he was pleased. I believe he stopped using such after the 70’s.

My best friend Jeff Thimsen whispers, “Ohio”, to certain male friends, indicating he wants them to look at something without being obvious.

Fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Drake, informed her class she didn’t want any malarkey out of them. I believe that was a politically correct name for another word, yet I can’t prove such.

Of course the late actor and comedian Rodney Dangerfield wore out his famous line,

“I get no respect!”

I have to wonder if Dangerfield actually said that to people in real life? Had he moaned such to Mrs. Drake, the malarkey word would’ve been on her tongue like saliva.

I can’t think of any strange words or sayings that I use other than one,

“Color me gone!”

I didn’t coin the phrase! It came to me in the 1960’s after I started reading car magazines. Roger Lindamood owned a Dodge Charger funny car called, “Color Me Gone”. It was featured in almost every issue of Hot Rod Magazine. For some strange reason the racecar name stuck in my brain.

When I use such an expression only certain people know what I’m talking about. They realize I’m about to slide out of whatever it is I’m involved with.

If there’s more than 10 people at a function I become jittery. I’ll walk up to my wife at these events, even if others are around, and whisper those 3 words. Joleen knows I’m heading out the door yet those around her haven’t a clue.

I say the phrase to myself as well. Last time I did so was at a car dealership in Colorado Springs. A salesman kept badgering me without hesitation. Telling him I needed to use the restroom, under my breath I softly sighed,

“Color me gone!”

I suppose it seems strange to some that I write about this triviality. You are most correct. There is a purpose for the madness. One of these days my grandchildren will read this composition. My wish is for at least one of them to carry on Grandpas tradition.

Perhaps at some public gathering an obnoxious man will stroll up to them talking trash. Thinking back to dear old granddad a grin will suddenly appear. At that point they’ll look at the guy and politely say,

“Color me gone!”

Hopefully, I’m not the only person remembering the name, Ward Cleaver. The late actor, Hugh Beaumont, played Ward in the long running TV series, Leave it to Beaver. I viewed Ward as the consummate dad. He was always there for sons Wally and Theodore “Beaver” Cleaver.

The same can’t be said for many fathers these days, both on television and in real life. To put it bluntly, some men prefer the title, ‘sperm donor’ over that of dad.

Leave it to Beaver focused primarily on youngest son Beaver’s childhood escapades. Beaver was constantly up to something, often times getting into situations he couldn’t handle. Ward Cleaver came along offering wholesome fatherly advice along with measured amounts of discipline. Ward’s articulate wife June was the softy, always giving her boys more leeway than ‘the old man’.

Hollywood does not portray fathers like they did in the 1950s and 1960s. Father knows Best!, was one of my favorites. Robert Young played Jim Anderson, an almost idyllic dad. You’d never hear obscene language coming from his lips.

In today’s world, it seems more and more men equate using disgusting words in a conversation as manly and macho. Actually it’s just the opposite.  Studies prove that such males come across to others as having low IQ’s.

Thinking that you’re coming across as tough by dropping the “F-bomb” every other sentence is pure fantasy.  Even in Hollywood movies, the tough guy with the filthiest mouth is generally the fellow going down the hardest.

My Three Sons, starred Fred MacMurray, as Steven Douglas, a widowed father raising three boys. Versatile and accomplished actor MacMurray played a loving and upbeat dad in this series.

The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet was another wholesome television show our family watched. Ozzie Nelson was a real life father to sons Ricky and David.

The 1990s sitcom, Married with Children is a prime example of Hollywood intentionally demeaning the role of father. Although funny at times, the show’s main character, Al Bundy, was as disgusting and loathsome a dad as they come.

It’s truly unfortunate the new crop of television shows do not emulate people like Ward Cleaver and Ozzie Nelson. If anything, they’re highly critical of such characters. Ned Flanders on The Simpson’s cartoon series is another case of such objective stereotyping.

Liberal script writers constantly make Ned out to be a square religious buffoon. I believe that type of ‘created criticism’ penetrates children’s minds, helping fuel the hate towards people of faith.

My father was a strict disciplinarian. He believed children should behave or pay the price. Dad was not a perfect person by any means. I’m thankful to have had him even with the flaws. Hopefully, my kids look at me the same way.

Hollywood and secular America can make fun of Ward Cleaver all they want. Last time I checked, Ward and June’s two boys, Wally and Theodore, turned out just fine. Nowhere could I find where they smoked crack, robbed convenience stores, or went to prison for selling drugs.

They definitely weren’t living at home at 35. Ward and June Cleaver, although not a real couple, portrayed loving parents teaching their boys respect along with responsibility. That valuable life-lesson seems to be lacking in many households today.

The only perfect father I know is my heavenly father. Sadly, there aren’t more dads striving to be like him. I give Ward Cleaver an A for trying!

After my family moved to Texas in 1963, I attended Reese Elementary School near Wolfforth. I started 4^th grade there. Reese Air Force Base was my father’s duty station and a mere stone’s throw from the school grounds. Jet airplanes often flew over our building, drowning out the teacher’s voice.

Living in Alabama beforehand, I learned as a kid how to take a piece of soapstone and, using a small pocket knife, bore a hole from one side to the other. If you did this multiple times, the rock turned into a sort of flute, crude-sounding as they were.

On the playground at Reese were soft rocks similar to soapstone. During one recess, out of curiosity, I took my pocket knife and started drilling. It was tougher going than Alabama stone, but I eventually got through.

I sat beside a brick wall of the building out of the sun, each recess making stone flutes. Another classmate came by one day wanting to know what I was doing. Continuing to whittle away, I told him,

“Making stone flutes.”

He wanted me to show him how, and I did. The next morning, the kid arrived with a tiny knife. We spent both recesses plus lunchtime drilling holes.

By the following week, most of the boys in Mrs. Hagan’s sixth-grade class were sitting beside us doing the same. The only ones playing like they were supposed to were the girls. One of them eventually joined our gang.

One morning, before class started, Mrs. Hagan informed her students that there’d be no more hollowing of stones during recess. All pocket knives were to be left in the desks during that activity. That put a damper on our recess for a short while.

A kid whose name I no longer remember the name of brought a bag of marbles to school. He let several of us use them to play ‘chase’. That’s a game where you try to keep from being hit by an opponent’s marble. By the end of the week, almost every boy in Mrs. Hagan’s class had a bag.

Not satisfied with playing marbles in a circle, students began playing ‘chase’ for ‘keepsies’. That was a game term meaning: If your marble is hit by an opponent’s, that player gets to keep it.

‘Steelies’ were the prize marble to win. They weren’t actually marbles, but round ball bearings used in automotive and industrial equipment.

Things went well for several weeks until a few boys became aces. They were like the Tiger Woods of marble competition. These kids (me included) began cleaning up on lesser-skilled players. Because of this, fights were common.

I got into a fracas after hitting this boy’s huge steelie with my pearly. A pearly is an all-white marble. The steelie owner didn’t want to give up his gem, claiming we were playing ‘friendlies’. That was game terminology for giving back those marbles won. The teacher had to step in and put an end to our hostilities.

After so many skirmishes, Mrs. Hagan put a moratorium on playing marbles for keeps. The sport pretty much died after that. Excitement just wasn’t there.

We went back to jumping out of swings and hanging upside down from monkey bars, where kids often got hurt. One day, a classmate brought in a deck of cards.

Before he began dealing, Mrs. Hagan confiscated them. I suppose she saw potential harm in her students losing lunch money and other worldly possessions.

When I think back to making flutes out of stones while sitting quietly against a school building, I have to chuckle. There were no fisticuffs during that time. In fact, all was peaceful and quiet.

I moved to Alaska after 6^th grade ended. I often wondered if Mrs. Hagan had regrets over curtailing flute making at Reese Elementary.

Perhaps she went so far as to take activity money the following year and purchase pocket knives for the whole class, including girls.

Mimeographing instructions on how to make stone flutes, the now much wiser teacher passed them out on the first day of school.

“You kids sit against the school building during recess and make flutes like the Indians. I’ll be sitting right next to you smoking my cigarettes and drinking coffee!”