“Salome, Arizona, is a small quirky desert town in La Paz County.”
I’ve been through Salome, Arizona, several times, yet I didn’t know it was famous for having large fish. A picture postcard mailed to James Worcester in Middletown, New York, on May 23, 1925, shows three men with a wheelbarrow hauling what appears to be a giant carp or catfish to shore. “Ittakesreal fishermen to land these” is written on top, along with Salome, Arizona.
The closest lake to Salome is Alama Lake, some 40 miles away. Lake Havasu is even further away, at a distance of 80 miles via highway. That phony fish is as close to being artificial intelligence (AI) as there was 100 years ago.
Salome, Arizona, is a small, quirky desert town located in La Paz County. It was founded in the early 20th century and is known for its unique history and playful spirit—its name comes from a tale about a woman named Salome who danced on the hot sands. A sign in town advertises that fact.
The town has long been a stop for travelers crossing the vast Arizona desert and is recognized for its whimsical roadside attractions and vintage charm. In addition to its reputation for unusual postcards featuring giant fish, Salome offers visitors a glimpse into the character and humor that define many small towns in America.
The recipient of the card was James B. Worcester in Middletown, New York. Someone with initials A.J.S. mailed it to him from Frankfort, Indiana. Evidently, A.J.S. made a trip through Salome, and this hilarious card caught his eye.
A message on the postcard reads without correction:
“Thot you would be glad to know that I have a Ford that I painted over a year ago with ‘P.R.K.’ chemical paint and it still looks good.
A.J.S.”
I didn’t discover who A.J.S. was, yet there was sufficient information on James Blaine Worcester to complete this story.
Mr. Worcester was born on January 24, 1893, in New York. After marrying Mary Louise Blum on June 19, 1920, James opened up an automobile repair facility appropriately named Worcester Garage. By 1925, he was the dealer in Middletown for Oldsmobile automobiles. I could find no record of when it closed.
James and Mary had two children, a boy and a girl. James Blaine Worcester died on July 24, 1973, at age 80, while his wife, Mary, passed away just 21 days later on August 15, 1973. They’re both buried at Hillside Cemetery in Middletown.
“How did this postcard not end up as a family heirloom?”
A picture postcard mailed from Benson, Arizona, on Wednesday, April 6, 1955, has special significance for three reasons. 1. The Horse Shoe Café in Benson is a town landmark. 2. The recipient of this card, Miss Ila Mettee, has a most extraordinary career in both military and political circles. 3. How did this postcard not end up as a family heirloom?
The Horse Shoe Café stands as one of Benson, Arizona’s most enduring and beloved establishments. With roots tracing back to the early 20th century, it has served as a gathering place for locals, travelers, and railroad workers alike. This document explores the history, evolution, and cultural significance of the Horse Shoe Café, painting a portrait of a classic American diner that has stood the test of time.
Benson, Arizona, founded in 1880 as a railroad town, quickly became a bustling stop for trains, cattle drives, and travelers heading west. The Horse Shoe Café was established in the midst of this vibrant activity, with its original opening believed to be in the 1930s or 1940s.
Its strategic location on East 4th Street made it accessible for the railroad community, ranchers, and local residents. The café’s name was inspired by the cowboy and ranching culture surrounding Benson, with the horseshoe symbolizing good luck and prosperity.
Throughout the decades, the Horse Shoe Café became a cornerstone of Benson’s social life. It was known for its hearty, home-style meals, friendly service, and welcoming atmosphere. The café’s classic American menu featured favorites such as steak and eggs, homemade pies, and bottomless coffee, attracting a steady stream of regulars and visitors. Its walls, adorned with Western memorabilia and historical photographs, offered patrons a glimpse into Benson’s colorful past.
The Horse Shoe Café weathered various changes over the years, including shifts in ownership, refurbishments, and economic ups and downs. Despite these challenges, the café remained true to its roots, preserving its old-fashioned charm and commitment to customer service. Its character as a vintage diner was further enhanced by its neon signage and retro décor, which evoke nostalgia for the golden era of roadside cafés.
More than a restaurant—Horse Shoe Café is a living piece of Benson’s history. It has been featured in local publications and travel guides as an iconic spot in southeastern Arizona. The café is often referenced in stories about Benson’s railroad heritage, the heyday of Route 80, and the enduring traditions of the American Southwest. For many, it represents the spirit of small-town America: resilient, friendly, and full of character.
Today, the Horse Shoe Café continues to serve residents and visitors, maintaining its legacy as a classic diner with a storied past. Whether stopping in for breakfast, lunch, or a slice of pie, patrons can experience a sense of history and hospitality that has defined the café for generations. Its continued success is a testament to the community’s appreciation for its heritage and the enduring appeal of authentic, local establishments.
The restaurant remains a cherished landmark in Benson, Arizona. Its history is intertwined with the town’s development, the railroad era, and the enduring culture of the American Southwest. As it continues to serve new generations, the café upholds its reputation as a welcoming place where stories are shared and memories are made.
Getting back to that vintage postcard, the picture on the front of it shows waitresses and customers inside the dining room. A vintage Coca-Cola cooler sits in the middle. For many people, server is now the politically correct word for waitress, but I prefer to use the old definition.
A short note on the card reads as follows:
“Tuesday nite
Here is where we ate Supper to nite. We have a nice room. Have had a fine trip so far. We plan to get to Grady’s tomorrow nite. We was in a dust storm about 3 hours in Mexico. It sure was bad – Love from Mama”
The message was written on Tuesday night, which was April 5, 1955. It wasn’t mailed until the following day. The person sending it to Miss Ila Sue Mettee appears to be her mom, Annie, who also signed off as Mama. It was hard to read the signature even after enlarging.
Ila Sue Mettee, according to many newspaper accounts, led an exemplary life beginning in high school and college. A book could be written about her life. After college, she joined the Women’s Army Corps (WAC) as a lieutenant. She climbed the ladder quite fast. Captain Mettee went on to become commander of Headquarters and Operations Company – 18th Combat Intelligence Group at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
On October 13, 1974, Ila wed Captain John McCutchon, also in the Army. The couple has one daughter.
Lt. Colonel Ila Mettee-McCutchon became head of the 741st Military Intelligence Battalion at Fort George G. Meade in Maryland. Before retiring, she reached the rank of colonel.
Mrs. Ila Mettee-McCutchon moved to California with her husband and daughter, where she ran for mayor of Marina, California, and won. She was also elected to the Monterey County Board of Supervisors, a prestigious nomination. While serving in that capacity, Ila became Garrison Commander for the Presidio of Monterey, another noteworthy accomplishment.
Today, Ila and her husband, John, continue to serve as volunteers in the Colorado town in which they live. Horse Shoe Café in Benson, Arizona, is still in operation as well, continuing to dish out breakfast, lunch, and dinner to locals and visitors alike. I’ll mark this eatery down as a place I want to eventually visit.
I’ve never been to Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee, and it’s not on my bucket list to ever go there. That’s not to say it isn’t on my wife’s. I believe there’ll come a day when they close Graceland down and sell off all the furniture and fixtures, just as they did with the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans museum and home in Apple Valley, California. Some younger people don’t know who the late Roy Rogers and Dale Evans are. They were Western television celebrities from the 50s and 60s.
Graceland, for those who don’t know, is Elvis Presley’s former mansion, with it also being home to his parents, Vernon and Gladys Presley. The infamous “Jungle Room” in Graceland can no longer be seen by paying visitors, so that should tell you something. I’m assuming that the celebrated green shag carpet has been flattened beyond reprieve by countless shoes.
Dateland, Arizona, is on my list of places to visit. This place has a history that goes much further back than the King of Rock-n-Roll’s former pad. Dateland is a small, unincorporated community located in Yuma County, in the southwestern part of the state, approximately 200 miles from Lake Havasu City.
Nestled amid the vast Sonoran Desert, Dateland is best known for its date palms, date milkshakes, and its role as a memorable stop along Interstate 8. While it may seem unassuming to passersby, Dateland’s history is rich and deeply intertwined with the story of transportation, agriculture, and military activity in the region.
The area that would become Dateland has long been inhabited by Indigenous peoples, including the Cocopah and Quechan tribes, who traversed the arid landscape for centuries. The harsh desert environment, however, limited permanent settlement until the arrival of modern infrastructure in the early 20th century.
Dateland’s modern history began during World War II. In the early 1940s, the United States military established a series of desert training camps in the Southwest as part of the Desert Training Center, designed to prepare troops for combat in North Africa’s harsh conditions. One such installation was Camp Horn, located near what is now Dateland. The camp housed thousands of soldiers and brought increased activity and infrastructure to the area—including roads, water wells, and basic services.
Around the same period, efforts were made to develop agriculture in the arid region using irrigation. The climate and soil of the area proved ideal for growing date palms, a crop originally introduced to Arizona from the Middle East in the early 20th century. The abundance of date palms gave the settlement its distinctive name: Dateland.
After the war, the military camps were decommissioned, but the agricultural industry remained. Farmers continued to cultivate date palms, and Dateland became a unique outpost for travelers seeking fresh dates and date products. Miraculously, the old aircraft runways and some of the building foundations are still visible.
When U.S. Route 80 and later Interstate 8 were constructed, Dateland found new life as a highway stop. Its location made it a convenient rest area for motorists traveling between Yuma, Phoenix, and beyond. The Dateland Travel Center, established in the mid-20th century, became locally famous for its date shakes and other date products, drawing visitors from across the country. My reason for wanting to go there is to sample one of those date shakes.
Today, Dateland’s economy is closely linked to tourism and the date industry. The community remains small, with a population of only a few hundred residents, but it has carved out a niche as a quirky and memorable destination for travelers.
Dateland’s legacy is a testament to adaptation in the desert. From its beginnings as a military outpost to its transformation into a hub for date agriculture and a beloved roadside stop, Dateland reflects the broader history of the American Southwest—one of resilience, innovation, and hospitality. The date palm groves, roadside stands, and echoes of military history continue to define this unique Arizona community.
Despite its small size, Dateland, Arizona, holds an outsized place in the memories of travelers and the agricultural history of the region. Its evolution from a remote desert site to a symbol of Arizona’s agricultural ingenuity and highway culture makes it a fascinating chapter in the story of the American West.
I came across a July 23, 1962, picture postcard sent from someone named Scotty to Mr. James J. Coleman in Middleton, Pennsylvania. It was nine o’clock in the morning, judging by the official postal stamp. Scotty’s watch must have been an hour ahead of time, as you’ll soon see.
A photograph on front of the card shows a Chevron gas station in Dateland, along with a cafe and post office. Scotty’s short message to James Coleman reads as follows:
“Monday
We are here for a cool drink. Yesterday the temp was 110. Today at 10 AM it’s 94.
Scotty”
I have no earthly idea who Scotty is, other than he might’ve been passing through Dateland on his way to hook up with Captain Kirk and the Starship Enterprise crew in Phoenix. James J. Coleman, the postcard recipient, was quite easy to track down. I’ll supply the basic biographical information here, as there wasn’t much personal data to go by.
James Joseph Overfield Coleman was born on December 1, 1906. He married Claire Rita Garrity on June 23, 1928. Married for 62 years, the couple had one daughter, Ellin. James was a draftsman and mechanical engineer for a heating and cooling sheet metal business. His wife, Claire, died on September 1, 1990, and James passed away on June 3, 1994, at the age of 87. Daughter, Ellin Coleman-Tutrone, died six years later on June 29, 2000. That pretty much sums things up.
Dateland, Arizona, on the other hand, now has a historical society, and they’re attempting to reconnect with soldiers who served in the area during WWII. With the majority of them now deceased, that project will unlikely find few living sources if any.
Before he died, former Army Air Corps B-25 aviator Lt. Robert “Bob” Adair Dethlefsen penned the following letter to the Dateland historical society. I’ll end things with his unique recollection and my final thoughts.
“On December 23rd, 1943, due to pervasive bad weather in the San Joaquin Valley, approximately 40-50 B-25 airplanes arrived at Datelan AAF for temporary duty. This contingent, including instructors, students, and ground support crews, was a B-25 pilot training group from Mather AFB, Sacramento, California. After three weeks of innumerable take-offs and landings, it became apparent that the Datelan runways had not been built to withstand this type of pounding. After completing the training of one class, the entire operation was moved to DAAF Deming, NM. Although the airfield remained in operation, there was very little activity thereafter. It had been in use for less than a month. For whatever reason, the military referred to this location as DATELAN. During my brief stay at this desolate oasis, the highlight of the day was walking out to the junction, sitting on the front porch of the general store-gas station, and watching the train go by.”
Bob Dethlefsen – San Jose, California – November 3, 2007
I hope to emulate Lieutenant Robert Dethlefsen when I get to Dateland. With a cool, refreshing date shake in hand, I’ll find a place to park near the railroad tracks and wait for a train to roll by.
After it passes, and I finish my drink, I’ll pull my vehicle back onto hot black asphalt and hit the gas. On Monday, July 23, 1962, a few minutes after 9 o’clock AM, with 110 degrees rapidly closing in on Scotty, I’m sure he did the same.
“According to local legend, Moose Pass received its name in 1928 when a freight team was delayed because a moose blocked the trail.”
I came across another picture postcard that I could not positively identify the sender or recipient of. This one was postmarked in Anchorage, Alaska, on February 8, 1948, with the card having been written four days earlier.
The sender’s names, Chuck & Mary Ann, appear on it, with the recipient being Bobby Masse of Garden Grove, California. It appears that Bobby Masse is actually Robert Massey, although I could not verify that. It’s also possible that Chuck and Mary Ann are, in fact, Charles and Mary Ann Dismond. I base this loose assumption on a message on the card, believing that Charles wrote it.
Charles “Chuck” Dismond was an engineer on the Alaska Railroad, while Mary Ann worked for the Division of Forestry as a clerk. With no way to substantiate such, I’ll just have to assume that’s who they are and leave it at that.
The message written in ink is quite humorous:
“2/4/48
Bobby,
Here is a picture of our pet, “Mike the Moose.” I usually have to push Mike out of the way toget to work!
Chuck & Mary Ann
843 11th Avenue Apt 311 Anchorage”
What’s most interesting to me is the picture on the front showing a snow-covered dwelling and a moose munching on alders. A sign pointing north says: Moose Pass 1 mile—Seward 30 miles. With Moose Pass being located at milepost 29.5 of the Alaska Railroad, this cabin would be one mile south at milepost 30.5.
I’ve visited this area numerous times between the 1960s and the 1990s, and I don’t recall a place looking exactly like this, although in 50 years, things can change drastically. Perhaps it burned down or is further south than the sign indicates.
There is a cabin a bit further south that I believe was the Johnson Roadhouse. If it’s the same one, a pioneering couple lived there for many years until they passed away. Family members took the residence over after that to use as a weekend getaway. I’m not sure who owns it now or if it’s still standing.
The place I’m thinking of is close to railroad tracks with Trail Lake lapping the shore a few hundred feet away. After the older residents died, next of kin cleaned things out and burned much of the stuff in a fire pit close to the tracks. I was there when it was still smoldering.
A good friend, Dee Linton, pulled a giant coffee pot from the ashes and kept it. Undoubtedly, this well-used pot supplied large groups of visitors and railway workers with ‘hot coffee’ over the years.
Moose Pass, Alaska, is a picturesque community nestled in the Kenai Peninsula, known for its scenic beauty and rich history. Located about 30 miles north of Seward along the Seward Highway, Moose Pass has long served as a gateway to the wonders of southern Alaska.
The area that would become Moose Pass was originally inhabited by the Dena’ina Athabascan people, who hunted, fished, and gathered in the region for thousands of years. The abundant wildlife and waterways provided sustenance and transportation for these early residents.
The history of Moose Pass as a settlement began in earnest during the early 20th century, spurred by Alaska’s gold rush. Prospectors and miners traveled through the region, and the need for reliable transportation led to the construction of the Alaska Railroad. By 1912, the railroad reached this area, and a small community formed to support railroad workers and travelers.
According to local legend, Moose Pass received its name in 1928 when a freight team was delayed because a moose blocked the trail. The spot became known as “Moose Pass,” and the name stuck as the community grew around the railroad stop.
Throughout the 20th century, Moose Pass remained a small but vital community. It served as a rest stop for travelers heading to Seward and Anchorage, and its proximity to Kenai Lake made it a popular destination for fishing, hiking, and outdoor recreation. The local school, post office, and small businesses became the backbone of the town.
Today, Moose Pass is known for its welcoming atmosphere, annual community events, and access to pristine wilderness. Despite its modest size, the town embodies the spirit of Alaska—resilient, tight-knit, and deeply connected to the land.
Hopefully, with the release of this blog, someone will recognize the little cabin alongside Upper Trail Lake. As far as “Mike the Moose” goes, his relatives undoubtedly still trapse through the Moose Pass area. After all, the village is named after them.
“This postcard was likely purchased in Fairbanks, Alaska, by the person sending it.”
Camp Comfort
An old picture postcard mailed from Seattle, Washington, on November 3, 1910, to Miss Ela Boyd in Rogers, Arkansas, shows several rustic log cabin structures on the front with five riders on horses. The description underneath says:
“An Alaska Road House on the Fairbanks Trail”
I tried to identify the name and exact location of this roadhouse using the book “Alaska Roadhouses” by Helen Hegener, along with other online sources. Poring over this information, I eventually came up empty. An expert on the subject, thankfully, renowned Alaska author Helen Hegener, came to my rescue. The pictured roadhouse is named Camp Comfort.
Fairbanks Trail refers to historic and recreational paths in the Fairbanks region of Alaska. Fairbanks, situated in the heart of Alaska, is renowned for its rich history, gold rush heritage, and vast wilderness. Trails in this area are significant for both their historical context and their modern use for outdoor recreation.
The term “Fairbanks Trail” is often associated with early routes used by gold prospectors and settlers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These trails were crucial for transporting supplies, mail, and people between key locations such as Fairbanks, Nenana, and other remote settlements. Some trails followed ancient paths used by indigenous peoples long before the arrival of Europeans and Americans.
This postcard was likely purchased in Fairbanks, Alaska, by the person sending it. I was able to partially decipher his fancy yet sloppy handwriting with the simplistic message to Miss Ema Boyd, reading as follows:
“Seattle 11, 3, 10
Am all ok. You can write to me here gen delivery.
Crue”
Unfortunately, the postcard sender, whom I believe the name to be spelled Crue, will remain a mystery, although I found sufficient personal information on the card recipient, Miss Ema Boyd. She was only 16 when she received the message.
Ela was born in Tennessee on June 12, 1894, to parents John and Leona. On February 9, 1912, she married Lester Trueblood, but that marriage didn’t last. On January 8, 1916, Ela wed William Harvey Compton. A child was born on February 3, 1917, to the couple, but sadly, one day later, little John Elmer Compton passed away.
On February 4, 1920, Ela Boyd-Compton died an unfortunate early death. Her obituary in the “Rogers Republican” newspaper, where she worked, tells a sad story.
“Mrs. Ela Compton died last Wednesday afternoon at New Orleans, the result of pneumonia following a severe attack of the grippe. Her father, John R. Boyd of Rogers, who had reached New Orleans that morning, brought the body back to Rogers, arriving here Saturday. Funeral services were conducted by the pastor, Rev. C.C. Cunningham. Mrs. Compton was a well-known young woman of Rogers. She was especially popular in the Baptist church circles, where she was superintendent of the primary department and a willing and efficient worker in all departments. She had worked for several years in the newspaper offices of Rogers as a compositor and at the time of her death was in New Orleans in the special school of the Merganthaler Linotype Co., studying to become a machine operator. She was a member of the Eastern Star and the Rebekah orders. He untimely death, she was only 26, was a great blow to the family and to the many friends.”
From another angle – Camp Comfort – P.S. Hunt – RPPC postcard
“I generally take a nap after lunch as part of my daily regimen.”
Undoubtedly, I’m not the only senior citizen in town claiming that certain drugs make them dream about weird things. When I say drugs, I’m not talking recreational, as in coke, pot, LSD, or smack. The prescription pills playing tricks on my mind are used for lowering high cholesterol, blood pressure, including aches and pains.
This past year, I’ve found myself in unrelenting dreams, most of them having me back at work doing what I did before retiring. I’d even wake up and then return to sleep, the same mundane hallucination coming back to haunt me. I jokingly told my wife I should mail in a time sheet to my former place of employment and see what happens.
Passwords have become a topic of conversation here lately between Joleen and me, with them eventually entering my dream world late one afternoon. I’ll get to that in a minute.
My wife and I keep our computer passwords written down in a spiral notebook, changing them out every so often, but not often enough. It’s getting harder and harder to create new ones that are easy to remember, with some sites wanting a certain selection of words, special characters, numbers, and in some cases, upper and lower case letters.
Years ago, I used the words ‘Hocus Pocus’ on all of my accounts. Abracadabra should’ve been the key to unlock things, but it was too hard to spell.
Our Verizon account couldn’t be opened the other morning because I’d changed the password and forgot to write down a new one. As I’d done time and time before, I hit the ‘forgot password’ button, yet when I entered what I thought was a unique password, it wasn’t accepted. Turned out I’d used that one before.
Not remembering passwords takes me back to my school days and the notorious hallway combination lockers. I can recall having a ‘senior moment’ even back then and forgetting the opening sequence of only three numbers.
The custodian easily got inside while I unsuccessfully attempted to watch. I was told by other students that there’s a secret master combination that unlocks all lockers, although none of the kids knew it. I’m sure those good at mastering a Rubik’s Cube could do so if they tried.
With me now emulating a trait from a man, John Miscovich of Flat, Alaska, who nearly made it to 100 years of age, I now take a nap after lunch as part of my daily health regimen. A week ago, while napping, I began dreaming that I was at the gate of Heaven—desperately needing a password to get in. It was not a good dream because I couldn’t crack the code.
Quickly waking, I told myself to remember this dream because it was good writing material. There’s a notebook and pen on my nightstand just for that, but I didn’t use them this time. Falling back asleep, when I awakened again, I had no idea what my dream was about. Spending several minutes trying to recall things left me scratching my head.
Today, while entering a password for my Lowe’s account, and it being the wrong one, that lost dream was suddenly rekindled in my head. This time, I wasted no time jotting things down in my notebook.
Some folks I’ve met along the way seem to believe that all people automatically go to Heaven after they die. I’m not sure where they get this idea, but it definitely isn’t from the Bible.
There’ll be no password needed, unlike in the dream I had, but they will have to have their name written in the Lamb’s book of life. Revelation 21:27 tells us that much. I asked Miss Purdy, my AI helpmate, how one gets their name in this book, and she came up with an answer, as she often does.
“According to God’s promise, substantiated through Biblical scripture, we get our name written in the Lamb’s book of life by sincerely repenting of our sins and believing in Jesus Christ as savior.” Miss Purdy went on to say that this can be done through a simple prayer performed in no specific place. I dedicated my life to Christ in the front seat of a 1965 Chevrolet.
Thankfully, there’ll be no need to remember complex passwords to enter Heaven, unlike the one required to access my Lowe’s account. Standing at the pearly gates shouting, “Hocus Pocus,” isn’t going to cut the mustard.
Life’s password, for those still desiring to call it that, is merely our name, permanently written down by God in the Lamb’s book of life at the exact moment we made that life-changing decision to follow Jesus Christ.
“Looking back at this event, Charlie Kirk would’ve been proud of me.”
Cattail Cove State Park
Last weekend saw a slurry of activities in Lake Havasu City. The “Run to the Sun” car show took center stage from Thursday to Sunday, while an anti-Trump protest, called “No Kings,” along with a counter rally by President Trump supporters, made McCulloch Boulevard come alive on Saturday morning.
Sunday morning, besides church services being held throughout the city, “Havasu CARS N Coffee” was back at Rotary Park well before some churchgoers took their pews. Even though I was camping at Cattail Cove State Park, time was taken early Saturday and Sunday morning to drive back to town and take part in all venues.
The last rally I remember going to was my high school football homecoming game some 54 years ago. If I remember correctly, the East Anchorage High School Thunderbirds lost to the West Anchorage Eagles in that contest by five points. East had never lost a homecoming game for 12 years until finally going down to defeat.
The “No Kings” rally was something I wanted to attend, mainly because I was curious as to what it was about. At the beginning, I proudly stood with my US flag on the north side of McCulloch with other President Trump supporters. There were very few of the other team, but eventually a significant group showed up all at once. They were still far outnumbered.
One participant, eyeing my political shirt, abruptly attempted to start an argument, yet I was in no mood for such. Scurrying away from his profanity-laced comments, I found a spot as close to the road as possible. A fellow named Ed quietly walked up, saying that he lived in Needles, California, before politely asking why I supported Donald Trump.
Ed and I had a most friendly conversation. After learning that he’d been an engineer on the Burlington Northern-Santa Fe Railroad for 43 years, our conversation quickly shifted from politics and religion to work, with me mentioning that my late friend, John Ballard, had also been employed by BNSF, as was his father.
We shook hands before departing, but not before seeing a few Lake Havasu Police Department officers professionally orchestrate crowd control, calmly, yet sternly telling protestors to stay off the street. That was interesting to watch, with me making sure not to cross the road at that point, as my vehicle was in the old K-Mart parking lot. Looking back at this event, Charlie Kirk would’ve been proud of me.
“Havasu CARS N Coffee” meets in the parking lot behind the Aquatic Center in Rotary Park on the first and third Sunday of each month. This event takes place from 7 – 9, and admission is free. I decided to take my wife’s seldom-driven Dodge Hellcat as my old Chevy truck battery was dead.
A good number of vehicles were on hand to gawk at while I spent several minutes talking to Phil, one of the regular attendees. I didn’t bring cash, with Phil picking up the donation for a donut and coffee. I’ll pay him back at the next get-together. Besides Phil’s orange VW bug, my two favorites were a black 1954 Porsche 356 and an unmolested 1953 MGTD.
Lake Havasu City, this time of year, has activities each and every week. I have to say, though, that returning to the peace and quiet of Cattail Cove was something I needed, especially after attending that loud political rally on Saturday.
I’m thankful to live in a country where ‘peaceful demonstrations’ are legal—although I see little good they do. I’ll continue protesting at the ballot box and not with my mouth.
Unlike the 1971 East High Thunderbirds homecoming game, I’m glad my political team won this past election. As the late and great Kansas City Chiefs football coach Marty Schottenheimer often said, “Every point counts!” The same holds true regarding votes.
On July 4, 1911, 114 years ago, someone named Lula wrote a simple yet somewhat complex message on a black and white picture postcard of the Wrangell Narrows. It was mailed from Hoonah, Alaska, four days later, on July 8. The brief note says,
“7/4/11
I wonder where you are to-day. Thinking of the good time we had last year makes me want to be there too. Geo. & the children are shooting crackers on the beach. This picture is a scene on the way up to Hoonah & Juneau. Lula”
I can only assume that Lula was referring to a Fourth of July celebration she had celebrated with Mrs. John F. Good, the previous year. What the lady meant by George and the kids shooting crackers is somewhat puzzling, although I believe I have finally figured things out.
No, the family wasn’t lining up Nabisco saltine crackers on the beach and plinking them with a .22 rifle, this before hungry seagulls swooped down and inhaled the remnants. Lula was merely talking about shooting off firecrackers. Unfortunately, they didn’t have bottle rockets as well.
Why she was going to Hoonah and Juneau after passing through the Wrangell Narrows is a mystery in itself. Was she going fishing for tuna in Hoonah and Juneau? The most plausible explanation is that the woman was on a steamer taking a cruise.
Lula was undoubtedly glad to get out of Dodge (South English, Iowa). That statement didn’t come along until Marshall Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty made it popular on “Gunsmoke,” but it works just fine here.
Before I tell you who Lula and Mrs. John F. Good were, South English, Iowa, Wrangell Narrows, and Hoonah, Alaska, have to be briefly explored first.
South English, Iowa, is a small farming community named after the nearby English River. In 1910, its population was just 338 residents, reflecting its rural character and close-knit atmosphere. Located in southeastern Iowa, the town is surrounded by fertile farmland and has traditionally relied on agriculture as its economic foundation. Life in South English was marked by a strong sense of community and the rhythms of the farming calendar, making it a quintessential example of early 20th-century rural Iowa.
Wrangell Narrows is a scenic and essential waterway located in Southeast Alaska, known for its narrow channel, strong currents, and importance to both local communities and marine traffic. This passage has served as a lifeline for the region’s transportation, commerce, and culture.
This body of water stretches approximately 22 miles (35 kilometers) between the towns of Petersburg and Wrangell, Alaska. It lies between Mitkof Island to the east and Kupreanof Island to the west, forming part of the Inside Passage—a network of protected waterways renowned for safe navigation and stunning scenery.
The narrows are well-known for their winding curves and variable widths, at some points narrowing to less than 300 feet across. Depths also fluctuate, requiring careful navigation, especially for larger vessels.
Wrangell Narrows is famous among mariners for its complex navigation. The channel is dotted with more than 60 navigational aids—buoys and markers—that help vessels avoid shallow areas, rocks, and other hazards. Currents can be strong and tidal shifts significant, making timing and skill essential for safe passage.
Large cruise ships typically avoid Wrangell Narrows due to its tight bends and shallow spots, but ferries, fishing boats, and freight vessels frequently traverse the waterway, connecting regional communities and supporting the local economy.
The towns of Petersburg and Wrangell depend on the Narrows for their connection to the rest of Southeast Alaska. The Alaska Marine Highway ferry system and other local vessels use the passage regularly, making it a crucial route for passengers, goods, and services.
The Narrows is surrounded by lush temperate rainforest, home to Sitka spruce, western hemlock, and abundant wildlife. Visitors may see bald eagles, harbor seals, sea lions, and even humpback whales in the surrounding waters. The shoreline is dotted with small islands, tidal flats, and forested hills, offering breathtaking views for travelers and photographers.
While Wrangell Narrows is not typically navigated by large cruise ships, its scenic beauty and accessibility make it a favorite for smaller expedition vessels, private yachts, and kayakers. Petersburg, often called “Little Norway” due to its Norwegian heritage, and Wrangell, one of Alaska’s oldest towns, are both popular stops for visitors exploring the Inside Passage.
Hoonah, Alaska, is a small city located on Chichagof Island in the Alexander Archipelago of Southeast Alaska. Its history is deeply rooted in the traditions of the Tlingit people, who have inhabited the area for thousands of years. Originally a seasonal camp for fishing and gathering, Hoonah became a permanent settlement as Tlingit families established more substantial homes and communities.
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Hoonah saw increased interaction with non-Native settlers, missionaries, and traders, which influenced its development. The town was officially incorporated in 1946, but its cultural heritage remains strong, with many residents tracing their ancestry directly to the region’s original Tlingit inhabitants.
Hoonah’s economy has traditionally relied on fishing, logging, and subsistence activities, though tourism has grown in recent years, particularly following the development of cruise ship facilities at Icy Strait Point. Today, Hoonah preserves its unique blend of traditional culture, natural beauty, and community resilience, making it an important hub in Southeast Alaska. For those still wondering, there are no tuna in Hoonah.
Mrs. John F. Good is actually Mrs. Ida Parnell-Good. She married John on July 24, 1895, becoming his second wife. John’s first spouse, Hannah, died in 1892 after 18 years of marriage. Ida Good was born in 1857 and passed away 80 years later in 1933. They were farmers.
It took some time-consuming sleuthing to uncover Lula’s history, as she also went by the name Lulu. Born on April 18, 1866, to Merritt and Margaret Brown, Lula married Jacob Doll on February 17, 1887. When Jacob died four years later in 1891, she wed George Franklin Marshall. This took place on October 2, 1892. Between both marriages, the couple had eight children.
Lula Belle Brown-Doll-Marshall passed away at the age of 59 on February 12, 1924. The Marshalls, like the Goods, listed farming as their sole occupation. Both families were quite well-to-do in their endeavors, with this allowing for George, Lula, and four of their children to make the Alaska trip.
John F. and Ida Parnell-Good are buried at English River Church of the Brethren Cemetery in South English, Iowa, while Lula Belle and George Marshall are interred at Keota Cemetery in Keokuk County.
“Today, Flat stands as one of Alaska’s best-preserved ghost towns…”
Gold mining just outside the town of Flat, Alaska
Flat, Alaska, is one of my favorite places to visit. There’s something about the name that intrigues me, almost as much as that affable character, Flat Stanley.
I’m not sure the thin-faced Glat Stanley has ever been to this ghost town, but perhaps he hitched a ride there on a plane, boat, dogsled team, or snowmachine at some time. There are no drivable roads to Flat, so he couldn’t have come via car or truck. For those not knowing who Flat Stanley is, let’s just say he’s a famous world traveler.
Once a bustling gold mining town, Flat sprang to life during the early 20th-century gold rush. Founded in 1908 after gold was discovered along Otter Creek, Flat quickly grew as prospectors and entrepreneurs flocked to the area in hopes of striking it rich.
At its peak, the town boasted several thousand residents, complete with schools, hotels, stores, and even its own newspaper. However, as the gold deposits dwindled and mining operations slowed, Flat’s population declined just as rapidly as it had risen.
Today, Flat stands as one of Alaska’s best-preserved ghost towns, offering a glimpse into the state’s gold rush era and the adventurous spirit of those who once called it home.
In 1920, H.J. Landwehr sent a picture postcard to Sidney Svensen in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. This postcard shows mining on Flat Creek, which runs right beside the town. It appears they are thawing frozen tundra using wood fires to get at the rich paydirt.
The postcard was postmarked in Seattle on February 26, 1920. Mr. Landwehr possibly picked up the black and white card on a trip to Alaska. I hoped my research would show this as being true.
The short message reads”
“Feb 26/20
Dear friend, just a line to let you know I got your letter. Was shure glad to hear from you. I will write you a letter later.
H.J. Landwehr
2341 E Lake Seattle”
It took almost a day of careful searching to find out who Landwehr and Svensen were. Having last names like theirs, I figured they were of German and Norwegian descent. The problem I had was that there are different ways to spell each, and the handwriting was hard to read.
Heinrich Jacob “Henry” Landwehr was born in Iowa on July 28, 1876. His parents were from Germany, with H.A. and Louise Landwehr immigrating to America for a better life. Farming was their occupation.
Census records indicate that the youngest son, Henry, transitioned into a carpenter after working in a bar and being a policeman as well as a boomman. This final change in occupation might’ve had something to do with a December 25, 1920, newspaper article I found. Transcribed word-for-word, it reads like this.
“Raising a chair in the air, Tom Curtain, 39, recently released from the federal penitentiary at McNeil Island, smashed H.J. Landwehr, an employee of the Our House bar at 151 Washington St., into unconsciousness late Friday evening.
According to Landwehr’s statement to the police, the attack was brought on by Curtain’s belief that Landwehr had ‘squealed’ and sent him to the penitentiary.”
It’s possible, early on, that Henry had high aspirations to strike it rich in the gold fields of Alaska, perhaps even mining in Flat or Iditarod. After combing through archived newspapers, I found a record of the man being there.
H.J. Landwehr is mentioned in the July 20, 1912, edition of the “Iditarod Pioneer” as a witness to individuals stealing gold-laden black sand from another prospector. After a proper trial, the men were found guilty by a jury, thanks in part to Henry Landwehr’s testimony.
Gold mining must not have been as prosperous as he thought it would be, with Henry returning home to Washington before 1920. Records show Henry Landwehr was a respected member of the Order of the Moose lodge in Seattle, with Mr. Landwehr passing away at the young age of 47 on March 21, 1924. It appears he was not married.
The postcard recipient, Sidney Svensen, is best described by his graphic obituary—as they don’t write them like this anymore. It goes into a little more detail than what I would see fit to print, especially the cause of death. I was correct once again in Svensen’s parents being of Norwegian descent.
“Longview Daily News, Monday, Sep 28, 1970:
Sidney Svensen, 81, of Puget Island, died Sept. 27 in a Longview hospital. He was born Aug. 16, 1889, on Puget Island.
Son of Sven and Servina Johnson Svensen, he married Esther Vog in 1914, was a commercial fisherman, lived at Rt 1 Box 55 Cathlamet, died in Cowlitz General Hospital of ventricular fibrillation with arrest, cancer of the duodenum with metastases, pulmonary emphysema due to asthma, per death certificate 20037, whose informant was his wife. Buried Sep 30, 1970.
He was a member of the First Lutheran Church on Puget Island, was a retired commercial fisherman, served three years as deputy sheriff, two years as town marshal of Cathlamet, and had been a fish buyer.
Surviving are his widow, Esther; two sons, Elroy of Puget Island and Eugene of Camano Island; two daughters, Mrs. Lorraine Bailey of Seattle, and Mrs. Selma Olsen of Longview; 14 grandchildren; six great-grandchildren; and a sister, Mrs. Garda Sherman of Portland.
Services willbeat 2 pm on Wednesday at his church with Rev. Karl Berg officiating. Interment will be in Greenwood Cemetery.”
From the July 20, 1912, “Ididarod Pioneer”“Flat Stanley” in Maui, Hawaii
“I just don’t like the idea of someone going through our mail and then writing a story about what they found.”
A while back, I started compiling vintage postcards and then researching the people who had sent them, including those on the receiving end. My goal was to dissect 50 postcards and then stop, which I did. Since stopping—I’ve been asked to continue my work with a book offer on the table.
There are postcard books out there, yet none that I’ve found where the book author went so far as to do background searches on people mentioned in the cards. “Postcard People,” as I call them. I’m sure someone will come along and do exactly that, but it won’t be me.
I get more satisfaction out of people reading my discoveries for free rather than trying to make an extra dollar hawking this material. Folks read my blog by the thousands, with payment being a like, thumbs up, or nice comment. Those gestures alone keep me writing.
The pressure of compiling another book turns me off more than anything, especially with book marketing almost non-existent for the little guy or gal. “Who you know” plays a big part in the literary field just as it does in music.
Some celebrities, sports stars, and politicians hawk their latest books on late-night television, although the finished product might stink. That global marketing reaches millions of people and sells tons of books.
A best seller doesn’t always mean it’s a good read—only that it was well promoted. I’ve purchased a couple of expensive best-sellers and stopped reading them less than halfway through. With that said, it’s time to get back to talking postcards, or is that postcards talking?
The act of sending postcards has long been a cherished tradition around the world. From the late 19th century to the present day, postcards have captured moments, shared stories, and connected people across distances. I’ll lightly touch upon how postcards evolved from simple pieces of mail into treasured keepsakes that reflect social, cultural, and technological changes throughout the years.
The concept of the postcard emerged in the mid-1800s as postal services expanded and literacy rates increased. The first known postcard was sent in 1840 by writer Theodore Hook in London, but it was not until 1869 that the Austrian postal service officially introduced the “Correspondenz-Karte.” This innovation offered a cheap, convenient way for people to send short messages without the need for an envelope, revolutionizing personal communication.
The idea quickly spread across Europe and beyond. By the 1870s and 1880s, countries such as Germany, France, and the United States had adopted postcards as part of their postal systems. Early postcards were typically plain, but soon, decorative illustrations and photographs appeared, turning them into miniature works of art. The Golden Age of Postcards, spanning from the 1890s to the 1910s, saw millions of postcards exchanged annually, capturing travel scenes, local landmarks, holidays, and personal messages.
Postcards played an important role in social life, offering a quick and accessible method for people to stay in touch. Travelers sent postcards to family and friends as souvenirs or updates from their journeys. Soldiers used them to communicate with loved ones during wartime, providing comfort and maintaining connections across great distances. Postcards also became tools for advertising, political campaigns, and public service announcements.
The rise of telephones and, later, digital communication methods such as email and messaging apps led to a decline in postcard usage. However, postcards remain popular among collectors and enthusiasts, and many people still send them as a personal touch from travels or on special occasions. The advent of customizable and digital postcards has allowed the tradition to persist in new forms, blending nostalgia with modern convenience.
Sending postcards has become more than just a way to convey information; it represents a unique intersection of art, culture, and personal expression. Collectors prize vintage postcards for their historical value and design, while contemporary aficionados appreciate the tangible connection they provide in an increasingly digital world. Count me in with that group.
Postcards continue to serve as artifacts of social history, capturing snapshots of everyday life and commemorating important events.
The history of sending postcards reveals a fascinating journey from simple cards to beloved keepsakes. While the way people communicate has changed dramatically, the postcard endures as a symbol of connection, creativity, and shared experience—reminding us of the enduring value of a personal message sent across the miles.
Mom and her two sisters loved to send postcards when they went on trips. My brother did as well. Joleen and I sent postcards, but over the past 20 years, we’ve mailed very few.
Some of the cards that Mother sent, I still possess, including several from other folks. I’ll hang onto them and make sure they don’t go public or are sold on eBay. Not that there’s anything shady lurking in my family’s past, that I know of, but I just don’t like the idea of some writer going through our mail and then composing stories about what they uncovered. There should be a law against it, or perhaps there already is 😊
I like to write junk... 