Author: michaeldexterhankins

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!”

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!