Author: michaeldexterhankins

I first met, Dawson and Yvonne Lindblom, late summer in 1997. An appraiser from Antiques Roadshow was in Anchorage, Alaska, and I was at the Z.J. Loussac Library waiting to have my 1760’s Brown Bess musket appraised. The couple was standing in line directly behind me.

The appraisal event was a huge success, with curious antique owners lined up outside the main door all the way down several flights of concrete stairs. From there a mass of people wound around the sidewalk as well. Because of a loud gasp from one querulous attendee regarding my rifle, a security person walked over to check things out.

Asking to see my weapon, the man laboriously tried to peer into the barrel to see if it was loaded. A sharply pointed bayonet was still attached. Dawson Lindblom’s loud chuckle immediately caught everyone’s attention, especially his wife’s.

“That’s a flintlock. Lead ball goes in from the other end. If it were loaded there’d be powder in the pan and the frizzen cocked!”

Evidently this was foreign language to the man; he quickly handed back my gun. Before sauntering away the fellow quietly reminded me,

“Please don’t point it at anyone!”

That would’ve been hard to do, as the Brown Bess stood over 7 feet tall from bottom of stock to tip of bayonet. I cautiously held it upright to avoid poking folks.

Dawson Lindblom and I began talking about things in general with Yvonne eventually joining in. I believe they had several items for the appraiser to look at. The Lindblom’s were extremely friendly people.

From the start I felt at ease chatting with them. It was like we’d known each other for ages. Dawson was a crackup. He would’ve been the life of any party. Eventually it came out that Yvonne was former Governor Walter Hickel’s personal secretary. That piqued my interest.

I told them a story about me as a teenager, deliberately turning into the Hickel’s circular Loussac Drive driveway one summer evening. This was directly after President Richard Nixon fired Mr. Hickel as Secretary of the Interior.

Rambling on, I mentioned my pal Jeff Thimsen and a couple of East High School classmates being in the car.  Jeff told Michelle Giroux and Cathy Cook that my grandparents lived at the exquisite Loussac Drive residence. Of course the girls were smart enough to know he was pulling their chain. It was all for fun.

Dawson and Yvonne thought the story was funny. They wanted to hear more.

I stopped the car as Mr. and Mrs. Hickel came out their front door. Walter Hickel walked up asking what we were doing there. I told him we must be at the wrong address. We’re looking for my grandparent’s place. Michelle and Cathy in the backseat were trying to contain their laughter.

The Hickel’s spacious house was close to Cook Inlet with a creek running nearby. It was my favorite residence of all in Anchorage next to Robert Atwood’s place.

We drove by Mr. Atwood’s after leaving the Hickel residence claiming Jeff’s grandparents owned that dwelling. I believe a gate or sign kept us from driving in.

Mr. Atwood was proprietor of the Anchorage Times newspaper. His mansion at 2000 Atwood Drive was more like a villa than a residence, especially with a lily white gazebo sitting amidst huge green lawn during summer months. I met Bob Atwood as a boy when I delivered newspapers for him.

Mrs. Lindblom shook her head I suppose in amazement that someone would go to such lengths for a giggle.  We were simply cruising around town that day. It was something kids did for harmless entertainment.

After mentioning to Yvonne that I owned a newspaper article featuring Mr. Hickel during his boxing years, and wanted to get it autographed, she gave me her work phone number. The very soft spoken lady said to call and she’d arrange such.

A couple of years went by and I still hadn’t made things happen. By that time I was working closely with Governor Hickel’s former head of security, Robert Cockrell. One day I told Bob Cockrell about my plan to have Governor Hickel sign the newspaper, including an old governor’s license plate I’d recently come across.

The license plate was totally unique. It came from one specific box of Alaska “Bear” plates sold at public auction. This was after the state stopped using the popular design. I’d been tipped off beforehand by a friend working at DMV, exactly what box contained the special ones. It had a small yellow X on the side.

Having the winning bid, I believed at the time the price was too high. The man bidding against me purchased all remaining inventory. Later on I read in the newspaper that the fellow used them to reroof a cabin. With original bear plates now worth upwards of $50.00 a pop, that’d be one expensive roof job.

Robert Cockrell set things up with Yvonne for me to meet the former governor.  I was to stop by his office in the Hotel Captain Cook on Monday afternoon. I made sure to wear nice clothing and clean shoes as I’d heard Hickel was an impeccable dresser. 

When I walked in the door Yvonne remembered me from our Loussac Library experience. We talked a few seconds before she introduced me to the Governor. He was sitting in his office in a black leather chair behind a nice oak desk.

The office was well organized. Everything was meticulously in place.  A plaque on front of his desk in large letters boldly proclaimed, ‘Walter J. Hickel’. Yvonne had informed the governor beforehand on why I’d come.

After shaking hands, we conversed for a short spell regarding stuff I now can’t remember. I made sure to tell him my wife was also from Kansas. Handing him the newspaper article with his photograph on front brought forth a smile.

“I remember this story!”, he mused. “You know I still work out every morning!”

Walter Hickel looked extremely fit for someone in his early 80’s. The former boxer’s handshake was stronger than most of the younger guys I knew. He wrote a brief message on my newspaper with brown marker:

To Michael Hankins

God bless you for all your work.

Walter J. Hickel

1-19-98

I then pulled out the license plate. It was still in the original tan envelope.

“You really need Governor Hammond’s signature on this. These bears were issued during his stay in office.”

Walter Hickel was sharp as a tack on remembering such minute detail. It didn’t matter to me if it wasn’t the right year plate. For a brief second it appeared he might not autograph it. I was relieved when he asked Yvonne for a different color marker.

Mrs. Lindblom brought over a black one which Governor Hickel methodically signed with, adding to it the dates of his governorship. Telling him I also owned a Lt. Governor’s license plate, he said I needed to get Jack Coghill’s ‘John Henry’ on that one.

“Jack was my LG back then. He’s a good man!”

Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out several political pins and some bumper stickers and handed them to me. Along with those items he presented me with an Alaska People Magazine with his photograph on the cover. He kindly autographed that as well.

I thanked him and was about to leave, when Hickel mentioned he had a question. Evidently Yvonne had told the governor about me cruising through his driveway nearly 20 years previous.

“So you took a liking to my place?”

With red face, I recalled the tale about how we tried to prank a couple of high school classmates. Mr. Hickel didn’t remember bumping into us in his driveway, or I’m sure he would’ve said something.  The stately man had a comical reply to my obviously strange story.

“If you boys told me beforehand you were coming by, I would’ve went along with the gag!”

Walking back to my vehicle I realized I had something in common with Walter J. Hickel. As wealthy and powerful as he was, the man had a unique sense of humor not unlike my own!

* I was fortunate to get former Lt. Governor Jack Coghill’s signature on the corresponding plate. A friend, Ted Cadman, arranged such. Ted knew Jack and his brother Bill Coghill quite well. The old license plates are special to me. The two men signing them even more so!

August 9, 1974. It’s business as usual throughout Arizona. Not so in foggy and drizzly Washington D.C.

President Richard Nixon just announced his resignation as Commander-in-Chief of the United States.  A thoroughly investigated Watergate scandal brings him down.

“Tricky Dick” is caught with both hands in the cookie jar as they say. Vice-President Gerald Ford automatically takes office.

On the other side of the country, massive Caterpillar dozers and scrapers are belching black smoke. They slowly and methodically chip away at an unnamed stone mountain approximately 20 miles south of Lake Havasu City. Sticks of dynamite are used to persuade some of the toughest boulders to conform.

Political unrest sweeping the country 2,400 miles away does not slow renowned Arizona developer, Max Dunlap. It’s merely a distraction. After hearing the news on the radio Max can only shake his head, repeating what most everyone else is saying.

“He didn’t cover his tracks!”.

Max Dunlap is creating yet another residential and business complex along the Colorado River. The mover & shaker has six such projects under his belt. Max is a successful builder from Phoenix. He and his wife Barbara are socialites and big-time players in the Phoenix horse racing arena. As a family, they often frequent the newly created Lake Havasu City with their seven children.

Max’s latest endeavor consists of chiseling a main access road up the rugged terrain to the very top. To do so, he relies on switchbacks to traverse the steep grades. At the mountain’s peak, a huge water tank will eventually be set in place to supply modular trailer homes and businesses with ample supplies of H2O.

View at the top of the hill is spectacular and unobstructed. Looking west, blue green waters of the Colorado are visible backed by the rugged Buckskin Mountains in California. The Whitsett Pumping Station is visible including Parker Dam.

At the bottom of the planned community, alongside busy Highway 95, a gas station, convenience store, and laundry will be located. Plans are to tap into the constant flow of tourists cruising through the area, by constructing an RV park on the lake side of the highway. Snowbirds converge on the area in winter months, with Dunlap carefully calculating that all spaces will be taken.

An official name for the project is yet to be announced but Max has one in mind. It will be special like all the others. The legal description for his one-mile-square of land is ‘Rabinowitz Section’.

The purchase price for the property is $500,000.00.  Max obtains funding from long-time Arizona businessman and politician Kemper Marley Sr. The smooth-talking Dunlap borrows another 1.5 million from Marley for grading and improvements. Kemper and Dunlap are like father/son. They fully trust one another.

Years previous, Max built a similar complex a few miles north of Parker.  In partnership with Phoenix investor Robert D. Flori, the two entrepreneurs create Lake Moovalya Keys near the Parker Dam. It becomes a huge success aesthetically and financially.

Havasu Garden Estates in Lake Havasu City was also developed by Dunlap via his firm, Garden View Development. Lot sales are slow at the start. Max Dunlap is definitely not the type of person to rest on his laurels. His fingers are much like “Tricky Dick’s.” They’re constantly into something.

On June 2, 1976, at 11:34 a.m., Max Dunlap’s world literally comes apart. That’s the day Arizona Republic investigative reporter Don Bolles’ car blew up. Dynamite placed underneath Bolles’ 1976 Datsun 710 detonated as he slowly backed away from the Clarendon Hotel in Phoenix. The savvy newspaperman succumbed to his injuries 11 days later.

Bolles’ tragic story went global. Politicians from President Ford on down to city councilmen and councilwomen vowed to find the killer. Investigative work by law enforcement began before all acrid smoke cleared. Several key names popped up over the next several weeks. Max Dunlap’s was one of them.

I cut to the chase here as there’s ample court material on Don Bolles’ murder investigation to fill a complete newspaper plus several more.

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Max Dunlap was eventually convicted for ordering the hit on Don Bolles. He was sentenced to death. The courts later changed Dunlap’s verdict to life imprisonment. Max died in prison on July 21, 2009, at the age of 80. To his last breath, he claimed to be innocent of any wrongdoing.

There were several other players in this crime besides Dunlap:

In a plea bargain, John Adamson admitted to placing the dynamite under Bolles’ Datsun. Adamson was sentenced to 20 years in prison. When Adamson was released he disappeared from sight under the federal witness protection plan. A few years later he elected to forego such. Adamson died at an undisclosed location in 2002.

James Robison was convicted of helping John Adamson trigger the bomb. He was later acquitted. Robison eventually pleaded guilty on trying to have John Adamson rubbed out. He was sentenced to five years in prison for that deed. Both Robison and Dunlap were upset at John Adamson for spilling the beans. Robison was released from prison in 1998. He moved to California dying there in 2013.

Kemper Marley Sr. was looked at from all directions. Authorities could never find enough hard evidence to lock him up. He was a rich and powerful man. Hiring the best lawyers was no problem for Mr. Marley.

The reasoning behind Don Bolles’ death allegedly hinges on his detailed investigative articles. Over the years Bolles uncovered many unscrupulous deeds related to people in high places. His investigative tenacity knocked some folks off their high horse. Because of such he quickly developed enemies.

It was thought by many that Don Bolles was hot on the trail of another case involving politicians and mobsters. This supposedly went all the way to Washington. What information Bolles had was tragically taken to the grave!

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The 50th anniversary of this tragedy is August 9. The next time you drive to Parker from Lake Havasu City, look to your left near Milepost 166. You’ll see the rock mountain that Max Dunlap laid claim to. It’s extensively chiseled and shaped from heavy equipment and explosives, with roadway and home site areas easily visible. Most people erroneously believe there was mining activity at the location.

The mountain is permanently scarred much like an explosion hit Don Bolles’ car. The project itself came to a grinding halt when Max Dunlap went to the slammer. Snowbirds use the property in winter months to park their RV’s. I’m sure most are totally unaware of the tarnished history behind their squatter’s oasis.

Interestingly enough, Mohave County tax records show this property belongs to the State of Arizona. The county tax number is 101-44-001 for those wanting to check specifics.

Perhaps someday another developer full of zest and zeal will finish what Max Dunlap started. Part of the stipulation in the state selling this land should be that Don Bolle’s name permanently be connected with it. The small mountain could geographically be titled Bolles Vista. That would be a fitting testament to Don’s life and career. His name then etched forever into the ground formerly owned by one of his killers.

For the time being this plot of land will continue to sit battered and scarred, labeled by those in the know as tainted ground.

* Some still believe that Max Dunlap was innocent. Two different juries saw things differently. Max Dunlap went to prison, while Kemper Marley Sr. avoided steel bars. It was rumored that Marley was the kingpin behind Bolles’ murder, yet there was never enough evidence to prosecute him. Kemper Marley continued to do business as usual until he died in 1990.

An excellent book on the Don Bolles’ murder is available for online reading. It’s titled, “The Arizona Project” by Michael F. Wentland. I highly recommend reading Wentland’s story. If anything, do it for Don Bolles’ memory!

Over the past several years, I composed two short stories regarding a couple of well-known Alaskans.

Nellie Trosper-Neal-Lawing (“Alaska Nellie”) was a rambunctious little girl, born July 25, 1873, to parents Robert and Jennie Trosper. The family lived near Weston in Platte County, Missouri. Weston’s just a stone’s throw from Leavenworth, Kansas. Young Nellie grew up on a farm understanding the virtues of hard work.

After leaving home, Nellie married a fellow Missourian that quickly developed the need for alcoholic beverage. Reading between the lines in her bio, husband Wesley Neal was most likely a physical and verbal abuser while under the influence. The couple set up residence in the rip-roaring mining town of Cripple Creek, Colorado.

Things went well for a short time before their marriage unraveled. After separating, Nellie Neal journeyed north to leave emotional trauma behind. A divorce ultimately followed.

Nellie’s claim to fame was operating several roadhouses along the Alaska Railroad during its earliest years. She wrote a book about such called, Alaska Nellie.

The woman loved to hunt and fish more out of subsistence than for sport. Most all trophies that she had hanging on cabin walls were secondary to the harvested meat.  She oftentimes traveled in the winter via dogsled spending many nights under flickering stars.

During summer months she hiked hundreds of miles in bear infested country with mere backpack and gun. Mrs. Lawing was a tough individual enduring countless hardships in life. She was also a woman of faith.

Nellie was engaged and about to remarry, when her fiancé Kenneth Holden was killed in an industrial accident. A little over a year later she married the deceased man’s cousin, William (“Billie”) Lawing.  Billie proposed to her by mail.

They were husband and wife only 12 years before tragedy struck. On a blustery March day in 1936, Nellie found Billie dead of an apparent heart attack outside their log cabin. He’d been cutting ice and shoveling snow near the edge of Kenai Lake. The unfortunate widow was devastated.

My story regarding Nellie Lawing is not so much about her life. It’s about a railroad trip a friend and I took to one of her former roadhouses. I traveled there to survey the surroundings for my story. The short composition is called, Grandview Station.

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Percy John Blatchford was born at Golovin, Alaska, October 9, 1920. He was full-blood Inupiaq Eskimo. At the young age of 20, Percy joined the United States Army eventually seeing action in WWII. After Japan surrendered and the conflict officially ended, Percy left the Army, reenlisting in the Air Force. Sgt. Percy Blatchford fought in Korea and Vietnam where he was a highly decorated soldier.

Percy was an expert at parachuting into dangerous locales where others dared not go. Because of his vast knowledge and skill he taught survival courses to many Air Force personnel. One of Percy’s most unusual accomplishments was training Beluga whales for the U.S. Navy.

Percy “Noseemo” Blatchford was a feared boxer holding the heavyweight crown for Alaska. He sparred with another fighting legend, Joe “The Brown Bomber” Louis. Like Nellie, Percy was also a staunch believer going back to his childhood days.

I worked with Percy for several years after his illustrious military career ended. Hands down he was the toughest guy I’ve ever met. My short story about him is titled, Percy Blatchford – Alaska Legend.

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There’s plenty of information about Nellie and Percy’s life on the internet. Historian Doug Capra of Seward wrote a wonderful piece detailing Nellie’s rise to fame. In sluicing for data I never came across records showing where Nellie and Percy met. With Alaska being so large it seemed unlikely to me such a meeting occurred. I was wrong.

A while back I decided to read for at least the fifth time, Alaska Nellie. I’ve had the old book 30 years or longer. After briefly thumbing through the first few pages I came across a hand written inscription:

“To Mollie from Percy. December 1, 1942.”

I’d never noticed the entry before. Without question the names referred to Percy Blatchford and his younger sister Mollie Blatchford Galvin. A comparison of Percy’s handwriting confirmed such. Percy gave Mollie the book several weeks before Christmas. This was after he’d entered military service in 1941.

Nellie Lawing sold her books and postcards from a combination railroad station – roadhouse, post office, residence, and wildlife museum on Kenai Lake. It was called Roosevelt Station. Eventually the name changed to Lawing. The location is 23 miles northeast of Seward. She also traveled 15,000 miles by bus throughout the U.S. pedaling them, plus giving lectures in many towns and cities on Alaska.

Nellie and Billie’s place was a popular stopping point for travelers and tourists alike, with many dignitaries such as actress Alice Calhoun, President Warren G. Harding, and author/comedian Will Rogers visiting. At lake’s edge was a boat service including ferry for vehicles.  The road from Anchorage to Seward did not go all the way through back then.

The books sold like hotcakes. While Nellie lived in Lawing Alaska Nellie went through six printings. It has since been reprinted for the seventh time by Patricia A. Heim. The specimen I own is a second edition released in 1941. Nellie Lawing autographed this one,

“Sincerely Nellie”

Percy Blatchford evidently traveled to Seward on military or personal business. He would’ve stopped by Nellie Lawing’s place on the way to or from Anchorage. He had relatives living in the small fishing community so trips to Seward weren’t uncommon. With several younger siblings and Christmas only three weeks away, Percy undoubtedly purchased more than one book. That’s pure speculation on my part knowing the man always put others before himself. With Percy being an accomplished hunter I’m sure he and Nellie found plenty to chat about.

A good friend of mine, Britt Behm, mentioned that my copy of Alaska Nellie had come full circle. She’s basically correct in that analogy, although I believe there’s still a portion of the circle yet to fill. The book ultimately needs to go to a museum or Blatchford family member. Unless another manuscript surfaces, this rarity is perhaps the sole survivor with both Nellie and Percy’s signature.

I’ve decided to pass things on to Cecil & Anne Sanders. I’ll leave it up to them on what to do with the book. The young couple own Last Frontier Magazine. Without their assistance my stories regarding Nellie and Percy would’ve never saw ink. 

I’ve been the book’s caretaker for some time now. Alaska Nellie had a nice vacation in Arizona languishing inside my gun safe.  Time’s ripe for her return to “The Last Frontier”.

After finding out the manuscript’s historical significance, I didn’t want it ending up in a Saturday morning garage sale. I don’t recall where I purchased it, but most likely an Anchorage yard sale or second hand store was the place.

Alaska Nellie is an excellent reference book regarding early 1900’s life in territorial Alaska. Hopefully Cecil and Anne take time to read it. Professor Michael Burwell once told my creative writing class,

“Books belong in hands, not on shelves!”

I’m sure Nellie, Percy, and Mollie would agree. They’d delight in knowing the 78-year-old early Christmas present is still making the rounds. The circle is almost complete!

In a May 11, 1956 Fairbanks Daily News-Miner newspaper article written after Nellie’s death, it was reported that she sold 3,000 Alaska Nellie books the first printing. That would make for a total of 18,000 over the six editions. In 1980, the St. Joe Gazette (Missouri) interviewed Nellie’s nephew, Everett Trosper. He told a St. Joe reporter that 2 million books had been sold for $2.00 each. Some stories, much like the length or weight of a caught fish, seem to grow through the years.

A couple of days after shipping the book to Cecil and Anne Sanders, I decided I wanted an inexpensive and decent edition of Alaska Nellie for reading purposes only. Arriving in the mail a few days later, I was stunned to find my replacement came from the private library of Leonhard Seppala. Things like that don’t just happen! Over the years I’ve truly been blessed by God in this area. Miracles do happen!

Sometimes in researching a story, I come across bizarre leads taking me all different directions. This happened again just recently.

It’s not like I was looking to write about a couple of WWII veterans. I was seeking specific information about a long-abandoned business near Holbrook, Arizona called, ‘Painted Desert Trading Post’. This place has mega historic significance where old Route 66 is concerned.

On February 5, 1957, a semi-truck loaded with frozen meat blew a right front tire while traveling along Route 66. Out of control, the rig careened off the highway and headed straight towards Painted Desert Trading Post.

The truck crashed into the wood and stucco structure doing considerable damage. A still attached trailer rolled over squashing a pickup truck and car. No one was seriously hurt. Newspaper articles stated that meat, ham, and bacon went flying.

Driver of the semi was a fellow named Floyd A. Austin. Intuition told me to pursue Mr. Austin’s background. Sometimes an inner voice tells me to do strange things like that where my research is concerned.

Records show that 10-years prior, on December 20, 1947, Floyd Austin was involved in a similar accident with a totally different outcome.

Floyd and good friend, Army Pvt. Jess Scroggins, were hitchhiking out of Needles, California with their wife and girlfriend. Both men had recently returned from fighting in WWII.

Pvt. Scroggins was still in the military stationed at Fort Kelly, Texas. Pvt. Floyd Austin had just mustered out of the service. More than likely they were all headed home to Illinois for Christmas.

A diesel truck loaded with barrels of oil stopped and picked them up. The two girls jumped in the cab while the guys climbed onto the trailer. Being it was a tight fit back there, most likely they squeezed between the heavy metal drums.

Near the California/Arizona border at Topock, a wheel suddenly came loose sending truck and trailer tumbling off the road. Pvt. Jess Scroggins was crushed and killed instantly while Floyd Austin sustained severe head injuries. The Needles newspaper called it a ‘freak accident’.

I dug further on Floyd Austin’s background. He fully recovered from his physical injuries. Mr. Austin stayed married to Edna until his death in 1970. Floyd’s wife never remarried.

I stopped my research after finding son Floyd Austin Jr. tragically drowned at an early age in Missouri. Once again it was a freak accident. That was enough tragedy for a story I hadn’t planned on writing to begin with.

Hopefully there are family members still remembering these two veterans. I would’ve never known their names had I not been prodded to dig deeper. I’m glad I did.

There’s nothing more I can say about Pvt. Austin and Pvt. Scroggins other than,

“Thank you for your service to our country!”

For me, bidding farewell to family and friends can be tough, even if it’s for short periods of time. The same can be said about leaving mouthwatering cuisine behind.

Mom had a saying about certain foods. Generally it dealt with breakfast items. A good example being,

“Oatmeal will stick to your ribs!”

I took that remark quite literally in my early years; easily assuming that’s where oatmeal ended up. Some other rib sticking items on her list were hot cereals such as wheat germ and puffed rice.

Mother also had a list of comfort foods. Those included grits, eggs, bacon, biscuits & gravy, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, and chicken pot pie. Mama Haynes taught her daughter (my mother) how to make the best chicken pot pie hands down.

Now that I’ve put on a few extra pounds, comfort foods take on an entirely different meaning. In an effort to shed a few ounces, my list of essential food items has shrunk.

Cookies definitely stick to the ribs along with other places. Our Albertson’s grocery store makes the best cranberry and walnut cookies. They come in a box of 8 and are labeled, “Gourmet’. Price of them is considerably higher than regular cookies I suppose because of the fancy title.

When I wheel through a checkout stand with a box of “Gourmet” cookies, I know the checker realizes this fellow understands quality. At 250 calories per cookie I cut one in half to lessen any rib sticking. The first half is downed with a glass of 1% milk. I then wait at least 30 minutes before consuming the other. With sadness I now have to bid them,

“Goodbye”.

Pizza is a big rib sticker. I generally ordered thin crust. The word ‘thin’ is a key ingredient because it means fewer fat calories. Hawaiian is my favorite with round slabs of Canadian bacon, a truckload of mozzarella, plus gobs of pineapple. I’d come to the conclusion that Hawaiian is the healthiest pizza to eat because of the sweet fruit. A nutritionist told me different. Hearing such, I had to inform my 16 inch pal,

“Too-da-loo!”

Other comfort foods on my list include burritos, tacos, and enchiladas. I try to avoid sour cream, substituting salsa instead. My wife claims salsa is healthy to eat all by itself. Not wanting it to be lonely, I always added a bowl of chips to the salsa for company. Not anymore.

“Adios!”, my crispy friends.

Someday I hope to be reunited with those departed comfort foods. They’ll always be welcome in my house for others to enjoy, even if I don’t partake of them.

The other day my wife brought home a new item from a drive-thru Chinese restaurant. They’re called ‘pot stickers’. I wasn’t sure what they were until looking the word up. Pot stickers are basically bread dough fried in a pan. They have different ingredients inside but pork is the most common meat.

I’m not sure if pot stickers would be considered rib sticking or comfort food? The Chinese don’t use such labels. I asked my wife what’s with the pot sticker name. She didn’t have a clue.

I downed near the whole box. There were only four left. Late that evening I was bound up tighter than an overly twisted rubber band. Hours later, after my intestinal pain subsided, a light came on.

I knew exactly why the Chinese named them that.

Before tossing all remaining pot stickers in the trash I sternly warned them,

“Hasta la vista my little fiends. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”

As kids my brother and I learned several thangs from my grandparents that we still retain.  Papa Haynes taught us to take a small bag of Tom’s salted peanuts and dump them into a Dr. Pepper.

We’d swish liquid and nuts around several seconds before sipping. Not only did you end up with a cold drink, you had a delicious snack to boot.  It took quite the effort to get all remaining peanuts out of the bottle. People I’ve talked to from the east coast believe this to be gross.

We learned to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in Alabama.  Grandma Hankins took the preparation a step further by putting sliced bananas and honey inside.  There was a special way the banana was cut.  She didn’t slice the fruit into small circles.  Grandma fileted it or cut length ways like a fish.  That kept the fruit from falling out.

My friends in Arizona or California make peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, yet you’ll never find them adding both banana and honey. They don’t know what they’re missing!

I love to eat my scrambled eggs with mustard on top.  This was another one of Grandma Hankins’ culinary tricks.

My wife who’s originally from Kansas now adds mustard to her eggs.  She loves it. I‘ve had a few waitresses tell me they never heard of such.  One server in particular was going to take my plate away, thinking the mustard was uncooked egg.  I still laugh over that one.

Catsup on eggs is something Grandpa Hankins did, yet it never appealed to me. The red just doesn’t make things appetizing.

There are several more Southern oddities:

Honey on fried chicken or French fries, black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, melted marshmallow on top of sweet potatoes, and cornbread in a bowl with milk poured on top.

Papa Haynes loved the later dish. He ate cornbread and milk each night for supper. It’s actually not bad.

Some folks claim that marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes ain’t Southern. I beg to differ. Folks in Alabama have been doing such from the day marshmallows first rolled off the production line.

I cherish my Southern traits as quirky as they are.  I suppose that’s what sets us apart from the rest of the country.

One thing you’ll not find me saying is,

“Ya’ll come back now. Ya hear?”

I’m not sure Southerners even used that line; at least not the ones I hung with. Bo and Luke from Dukes of Hazzard ran this saying into the ground.

I did a bit of investigative research on them two boys. Actor Tom Wopat (Luke Duke) was born in Wisconsin. John Schneider (Bo Duke) was reared in New York. They’re not even from the south. I had that figured from the start.

Those two were phonier than pecan pie minus Golden Eagle Syrup. Alabamians know what I’m talking about here.

You wouldn’t catch my Grandma Hankins making pecan pies without Golden Eagle Syrup. For her to do so would’ve been borderline sacrilegious.

It’d be like me substituting Georgia peanuts in a Dr. Pepper, with Hawaii plucked macadamia nuts. 

That my friends, would not be a Southern thang!

Walking by our television the other day, of all the un-educational shows for my wife to watch, Old and the Rested was on. Old and the Rested is an unrealistic melodrama that’s been on the tube for ages.

On this particular episode, a gorgeous female accepted a dinner date with one very successful businessman. Forgetting the fellow’s real name, Mr. Cool seems appropriate enough to me.

For those out of the soap opera loop, Genoa City from “Old and the Rested” is a town known for attracting wealthy single entrepreneurs; male and female.

The woman was seated in a 5-star restaurant with Mr. Cool, when all of a sudden his smartphone rang. I’m sure he was staring at it beforehand but I missed that part. With a devilish grin, the less than charming individual politely said to his date,

“Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

He stood and quickly disappeared. Finding myself interested in this lady’s awkward situation, I whispered,

“Leave!” 

Of course the woman didn’t hear me.

Several scenes later Mr. Cool returned only to repeat the same scene,

“Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

I sensed by this time the gal was getting a bit perturbed by the scowl on her face. Once again I whispered but a little louder,

“Leave!”

Why she didn’t get up and scoot is something only the Old and the Rested writers know for sure, and they aren’t saying.

At this point the poor woman weathered far more rudeness than I could ever take.

Minutes later Mr. Cool performed his offensive phone call escape for the third time,

“Excuse me, I have to take this call!”

The incensed gal finally had enough. She grabbed her purse and stormed out of the restaurant. Like a hockey player having just scored three goals, I pumped my right arm in jubilation.

I’ve never walked out on anyone but I’ve wanted to. There was an instance when I was talking to a friend at lunch. His cellphone rang while we chatted. I sat there for several minutes listening to him quiz the caller about a dishwasher. Finished with conversation my friend calmly asked,

“Where were we at?”

At that point I couldn’t remember. This wasn’t the first time he’d done such. Others complained as well. One person went so far as to tell him to shut the stinking thing off.  If the fellow couldn’t be without his phone for thirty minutes, he had a serious problem.

The queen of etiquette, Emily Post, would’ve said his lunchtime manners were an act of extreme rudeness.

Years ago my mom’s cardinal rule during dinner was turn off the TV and no phone calls. She believed those distractions hindered family togetherness. I wholeheartedly agree. Unfortunately folks glued to IPhones, or talking on cellphones during meals is normal procedure these days.

People I know do it all the time, especially some family members. I suppose it’s no big deal to them. There’s nothing I can do to change things other than not join the fray.

Years ago I’d get upset if I was talking to someone, and midstream through our conversation the person said to me,

“Can you hold a minute?”

They’d immediately grab another line that was beeping. Sometimes that minute turned into five or even ten. It got to the point where I’d tell them to call me back. Often times that return call never came. They evidently forgot about me and moved on to more pressing issues.

There’s no better way of letting a friend or family member know they aren’t important, than by cutting them off mid-sentence and taking someone else’s call.

I don’t own a smartphone and never will. My flip phone serves me quite well. Out of respect to others, I turn it off in church and during hospital visits, plus at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

If I’m standing in line at a bank or grocery store and it chimes I don’t answer. It would be impossible to count the number of obnoxious conversations I’ve had to listen to while standing in a line. No call is that important unless of course it comes from God.

These days I make it a point of gazing around a room seeing exactly who’s on electronic devices and who’s not. This can be most entertaining. It’s not unusual in a darkened restaurant, to spot a table full of people, each of them glued to their glowing television sets. To me a smartphone is nothing more than a small TV.

I’ve been told several times I should stop living in the past and get with the program.

“No thank you!”

Following the crowd and doing what they do isn’t my gig. Not that there’s anything wrong with such. Most folks seem to levitate that direction. There’s still a few of us odd ducks around; marching to the beat of a different drummer.

The other day I noticed this slick 1980’s  Seiko wristband television for sale on eBay. I thought about that electronic jewel for most of the day. An idea eventually came to me:

Suppose I purchased one and then went to lunch with my friend; the same guy always taking phone calls.

I start using the television during our conversation before quickly saying,

“Excuse me, I have to watch “Old and the Rested.”

What’s the difference between me doing that and his phone rudeness?

You’re right.

“They’re one and the same!”

I’ve never been one needing or wanting to visit foreign countries. Canada is the only foreign turf I’ve set foot on. I love Canada because certain parts are very similar to Alaska.

At 65 years of age I’ve not seen enough of the 49^th state to satisfy my appetite.  Kiska is on my ‘to do’ list.  For those not recognizing the name, Kiska is a volcanic island in the Aleutian Chain.

Kiska was occupied by Japan during WWII.  The place is now a federal wildlife sanctuary, home to thousands of sea birds. Giant rats inhabit the island as well.

My initial goal was to take a mountain bike up the summit of Kiska Volcano; more like carry it to the top. The rugged lava rock makes pedaling near impossible.

Photos of my Cannondale sitting on top of Kiska volcano would’ve made front-cover of a cycling magazine for sure. At this point in life, my strenuous dream will have to be someone else’s. I’ll now settle for a simple boat ride to the remote island.

One place I wanted to put my hiking boots, and eventually crossed off my bucket list is Grandview, or Grandview Roadhouse near Portage.  This scenic wonder sits along the Alaska Railroad, amongst spectacular glaciers and rugged mountains.  Renowned Spencer Glacier is in the immediate area.

Until a few years ago, Grandview as far as being a summer stopping place for hikers, was basically off limits.  Unless you had special permission, the only way to travel and stay was during winter months.  Special railroad excursions dropped skiers off during winter for a day of skiing.

In 2002, I began historical research on Alaskan pioneer Nellie Trosper-Neal-Lawing for a future story.  She’s best known as “Alaska Nellie”.  Nellie Lawing came to Alaska from Missouri in 1915.  She operated various roadhouses along the Alaska Railroad; Kern Creek, Grandview, and Roosevelt (Lawing).

Her roadhouse in Grandview was at milepost 44.9.  My burning desire was find remnants of the old building, and experience some things talked about in her book, Alaska Nellie.  I own and treasure a signed copy, finding it was one of those ‘read until finished’ publications.  In her manuscript, Nellie talks at length about the beauty of Grandview. This information became useful in locating ruins.

It was September 2003.  My good friend Tom Doupe had connections with higher ups in the Alaska Railroad.  Telling him of my plan, Tom assured me he could arrange things for the expedition.  Two days later he called saying all was a go.

If there was anyone I wanted with me on a three day expedition into Alaska’s backcountry, it was Tom Doupe.  Big and strong, he was an asset in both carrying goods and added protection.  Tom was also well-versed in knowing what snacks to bring along which was especially important.

We drove from Anchorage to Girdwood which is approximately 39 miles from Alaska’s largest city. From there we caught a southbound passenger train at the Girdwood terminal.  The diesel locomotive’s final destination was Seward, yet Tom and I hopped off long before reaching town.

Loading our waterproof bags of gear, including Tom’s .375 Winchester Magnum into a baggage car, the rifle quickly raised eyebrows amongst visiting tourists. Tom being a good spokesperson told inquisitive passengers what we were up to.  He informed them I was a writer and he was going along as my bodyguard.

This was a fact as large brown bears are known to habitat the Grandview vicinity.  Alaska Nellie talked about them at length in several chapters of her book.  Nellie had a ‘pet’ black bear in Grandview.  Unfortunately a ferocious brownie attacked and killed it one night. I didn’t want the same thing happening to us.

Our journey from Girdwood to Grandview didn’t last long.  I believe we were sitting in comfort for only 30 minutes before the train stopped.  Outside it was raining cats and dogs. Frigid wind howled with gusts strong enough to blow things over. Particles of snow and ice could be seen amongst huge droplets of water. Winter was definitely coming!

Train conductor, Warren Redfearn, placed a small step outside the passenger car door, before quickly offloading our gear.  We thanked Warren, saying we’d see him in a few days.

Stepping outside into the fierce wind, a few of our lighter bags decided to take flight. As the train sat still tourists snapped pictures and waved.  I told Tom that the late, great, writer, and adventurer, Lowell Thomas Sr., could not have garnered as much attention.

After our transportation disappeared from sight, we immediately looked for a place to pitch camp.  Tom located a flat spot amongst thick alders. He quickly went to work with a machete clearing them.  It took some doing, but eventually the skinny trees were reduced to kindling.

Strong winds made it next to impossible on getting our tent erected yet we prevailed.  I knew with all the wet and cold, hypothermia wasn’t far behind if we didn’t get shelter.

Looking at copies of vintage photographs inside the tent while sipping hot coffee from a thermos, images of Grandview showed that we were camping at the exact spot where the old roadhouse once stood.  Tom gave me a high five.

Surprise of all surprises happened on our second day.

The old saying, “You can bump into friends at the strangest of places!” rang true.

Tom and I were a considerable distance from camp when a railroad security vehicle rolled up.  Through sleet and rain the officer onboard instantly recognized my pal.

“Tom Doupe.”

Looking at me for a couple of seconds he quizzingly asked,

“Mike Hankins?”

George Nolan was a schoolmate of mine at East High.  I hadn’t seen him since another pal, Bob Malone, got married nearly 30 years before.  Telling us to be safe, George could only shake his head in wonder before rolling down the tracks.

Tom and I spent nearly three full days in raingear plodding through wet bushes and trees recording our findings. Because of all the excessive moisture, vegetation was extremely dense.  We were always on guard for bears.  Fresh bear squat was everywhere.

We discovered a root cellar located amongst birch trees. The hole marked-ground where an old dwelling once stood.  Root cellars are holes dug into the earth. They lay underneath cabin floors. Trap doors were used for access.  Because of no refrigeration, early settlers relied heavily on such to keep foodstuff from spoiling.

The landscape of Alaska is dotted with root cellar scars, their once protective log structures totally rotted away.  Around the Grandview Roadhouse site we discovered rusty cans and broken glass.  Tom and I left things as they were.

I was able to locate piping evidently used by Nellie for transporting water.  In her book she mentions pipes moving water from a stream to the roadhouse.  Nellie Lawing was a very ingenious woman!

After spending 72 hours in the harshest weather I’ve ever camped in, Tom and I were ready to leave.  With our train due around 1:00 that afternoon, we packed things up 30 minutes early.  Hearing it coming from miles away, we waited patiently for our cushy ride home.

Both of us remained standing as it rolled right on by.  Tom and I looked at each other with surprise.  That’s when my friend quietly remarked,

“They musta’ forgot?”

With rain continuing to pour and wind howling we walked a short ways to an unoccupied railroad cabin.  Thankfully the door was unlocked.  We spent our time eating and snoozing.

Hours later hearing another train approach from Portage, my friend ran outside to flag it down.  That was a sight I wish I had video of.

Big Tom held up a red shirt waving it like a crazy man.  The train slowed before grinding to a halt. After several minutes of explaining our situation, the engineer nodded then called someone on the radio. He relayed to Tom that we’d be picked up late that afternoon.  Evidently there’d been a minor communication glitch.

Tom and I didn’t care at this point.  The cabin was high and dry and we had plenty of snacks.  If the train never arrived it would’ve been okay.  We were in our own cozy Grandview Station so to speak and all was dandy. Other than a little acclimate weather outside, city stress was nowhere to be found.

Things have changed for the better regarding excursions to Grandview.  The Alaska Railroad now offers ‘day trips’ to the Grandview and Spencer Glacier areas during summer months. The junket is definitely worth taking.

Next time you take the train to Seward, look for a tall Grandview sign erected alongside tracks at milepost 44.9.  That sign basically marks the spot where Nellie Lawing’s roadhouse once stood.

If you desire to know more about Grandview or Nellie Lawing, I suggest you locate the book, Alaska Nellie, and read it. You’ll thoroughly enjoy her amazing story!    

So this WordPress site is new to me. Just now starting to get the hang of it. I’ve been tossing rough draft material on here and then hitting the publish key, believing I could correct things afterwards. Well you can, only the initial link sent to subscribers stays the same.

That means the first published draft with typos and misspellings stays intact. Duh!

The way I found out is a newspaper I write for emailed me back, saying I should get a new spellcheck system or glasses. We quickly figured out the problem.

So from this point on I’ll go back to correcting on Word before popping stuff on WordPress. Hopefully the junk I write begins to look as it should!

Scary thing is I have a piece being published tomorrow and the original copy sent to them (automatically) is flawed. I can only hope their editor caught such. I’ll know in a few hours.

Sorry for any inconvenience!

Michael Hankins

The 4th of July has always been a thought-provoking holiday for me.  Of course, with it being Independence Day, the whole country celebrates.  There’s probably not much I can say about the 4th’s activities that hasn’t already been said.

To put things into perspective, there’s the hoped-for rain-free weather, parades, speeches, hot dogs, hamburgers, sweet tea, cold soda, fireworks, swimming, games, car races, etc. You get the drift.

The 4^th of July for my dad always seemed to be a sad time.  He never talked about it, but through yellowed newspaper clippings and what my mom and my grandparents told me, I have a clear picture.

The year was 1941.  WWII was a mere five months away.  My father and his brother, James Columbus (J.C.), had just finished celebrating July 4th in Vernon, Alabama, where they lived.

J.C. had plans for his 10^th birthday two days later.  Because of the closeness of the events, I’m sure my grandparents combined J.C.’s birthday with the holiday when it came to special food. Grandma would’ve made J.C. some ice milk, as she called it.

She always did for me. Grandma Hankins took an aluminum ice cube maker and poured milk into it, then added sugar. She froze it afterwards. It was as close to ice cream as Grandma could get.

On July 31^st, Dad and his brother were walking through downtown Vernon early in the morning.  It would’ve been Thursday according to the newspaper story.  Dad and J.C. strolled by two men trying to start a truck.  Curious at what was going on, they stopped to watch.

One of the men was pouring gasoline into the vehicle’s carburetor while another fellow cranked the engine over.  When the truck backfired, the can of gasoline caught fire.

The man quickly tossed it aside.  James was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The flaming gas went all over his clothes, setting him on fire.  J.C. took off running, and before anyone could stop the boy, he was severely burned.  The uncle that I never got to meet, James Columbus Hankins, died later that day.

I know the event left horrible scars on my father.  He never talked about it. My dad passed away two years ago.

Three years ago, I had a telephone conversation with the mechanic’s son, who accidentally threw the can.   He told me he was a small boy when it happened. He remembered things well.

The man said that his father was never the same. He eventually moved his family out of Vernon to escape bad memories. That relocation didn’t erase such. Like my dad, he never openly talked about it. He had to live with such grief for the rest of his life.

July is not only our country’s independence month, but a reminder for me each and every year, that I have an uncle I never got to meet, because of a most horrific accident. There is only one photo of J.C. that I know of, and it appears to be lost.

My late Uncle J.C. is buried at Asbury Cemetery in Lamar County, Alabama. His granite gravestone now shows its age. The tragic accident took place 78 years ago, so that’s to be expected.

My brother and I have plans for a new marker on J.C.’s grave.  I know my Grandpa and Grandma Hankins would like that.