I like to write junk...

HOOKED

“Hotrods in the blood system, much like nicotine, is an addiction that’s hard to shake.”

I’ve never been a smoker, thus tobacco smoke never voluntarily entered my system, other than through secondhand contact with the known carcinogen. A coworker years ago tried to stop smoking several times and failed. He told me that non-smokers don’t have a clue how powerful nicotine is, especially after someone’s been using tobacco products for as long as he has.

Dan was trying out some type of special gum this last go-around in hopes it’d help get him over the hump. Thankfully, it did. That was some 10 years ago and from what I hear he’s still tobacco-free.

If there is anything I became addicted to, it’s hotrod cars. I was first introduced to them in 1967, when a fellow in a gas station, Doug Sizemore, gave me a ride home in his 1963 Ford Sprint. The little car originally had a 260 V-8 with a 4-speed, but Doug swapped in a larger 289 engine. He went through the gears during my short ride. I was hooked.

“Car Craft” and “Hot Rod” magazines were as close as I got to having my own hotrods until 1970. That’s when a 1954 Chevrolet “high-boy” sedan came into my life. This car had been built by a military man named Specialist Don Weber at Fort Richardson Army Base, and things have never been the same since I purchased it from him. Hotrods in the blood system, much like nicotine, is an addiction that’s hard to shake.

The front of my ’54 Chevy was raised four inches with an I-beam on each side, with the rear end jacked up the same using spring shackles. Originally painted gray, it looked awesome that way, looking even better after I had it sprayed purple by a man named Issac Bloodsaw. It’s a bloody miracle I can still recall all of these names because that was over 50 years ago.

Since then I’ve built several hotrods, with perhaps the best, a 1970 Chevrolet Vega GT with a small block Corvette 350 engine under the hood instead of the original 4-cylinder. The vehicle looked totally stock, with the only things giving it away — 5 lug wheels, and a throaty V-8 echoing through twin glass pack mufflers. My wife drove that car to work and back on nice days absolutely loving the power.

Since then, there’ve been 440 and 426 Hemi-powered 1968 Dodge Chargers, a 1971 SS454 Chevelle, a 1974 SS454 El Camino, a supercharged 426 Hemi 1968 Plymouth GTX, and a couple of newer Hemi Dodge products, which include the first-year Dodge Ram half-ton pickup with 5.7 liter Hemi power.

As the years slipped by, almost all of my older friends parted company with the hobby, with me now being the lone survivor it seems, although one friend continues to say he’s going to build another. We’ll see how that works out.

I’ve been slowly selling off my cars as a means to downsize, thinking that’s the right thing to do. My Havasu friends, Jerry Crowe and Jim Brownfield went “cold turkey” with their hotrod involvement, with me believing I needed to do the same. A cold turkey sandwich is actually more to my liking.

That thought of becoming strictly a benchwarmer somewhat cooled after attending the 3^rd Annual “Horsepower by the Lake” car, boat, and motorcycle show held at Riviera – Havasu boat launch last Friday and Saturday. My blood was rejuvenated seeing all of that chrome and shiny paint, along with hearing a few supercharged engines perform their infamous whine.

A super nice man that my wife and I met there, Bruce Joy, had an awesome 1965 Ford Mustang painted Plum Crazy purple. It caught our attention because Joleen once owned a 1970 Dodge Challenger convertible in the exact same hue. Ted was around my age – perhaps a couple of years younger – with the man giving no indication of slowing down.

This gentleman said that he, along with his son, did all of the bodywork and paint on the Mustang and that they were currently building a 1965 Pontiac GTO. Hearing that fired up my inner workings, with a renewed desire to curb “letting go” of vehicles and tools. Maybe it’s best when I die, for the wife to just give this stuff away instead of me selling it. That’s always been a big joke, not just with us, but with other couples we know.

A new car show is coming to town at Havasu 95 Speedway, sponsored by Calvary Church on March 8. It’s called the Crossroads – 17th Annual – Classic Car and Bike Show. The hours are from 9 AM – 1 PM. Entries are open to those vehicles no newer than 1999.

I plan on dusting off my old 1950 Chevrolet pickup, and hopefully, driving it to this event. I’ll undoubtedly bring along some smoke in the process, more like the oil-burning variety rather than the other. A Calvary website says to call Dick at (928) 680-6057 for event information. Hopefully, we’ll see you there!

KEEP ON TRUCKIN’

“I just sat there shaking my head, because this wasn’t the first time Chuck had gone off the deep end.”

Over the years, I’ve come across numerous people that I’ve shaken my head at. I’m sure some folks have encountered me that did just the same. This head-shaking ritual has even been performed after I said or wrote something that should’ve been kept in check.

In the late 1980s, I was taking creative writing classes under Professor Michael Burwell at the University of Alaska – Anchorage. These classes were fun and the students were generally older like me, with the most senior a woman in her late 70s. I was in my 30s during this time. For three years I took the same class finding it a hoot.

We met at an elementary school in Eagle River, and on sunny afternoons the group of us would head outside, taking seats in the school’s spacious front lawn. It was a laidback atmosphere and one that I looked forward to. During several classes, a student brought buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken, while others shared homemade cuisine or cookies.

Our assignments consisted of writing about almost anything, and the class critiquing this work as it was read aloud, with Professor Burwell giving a follow-up review. Things generally went smoothly although there were a few students that got out of hand.

One of these was a Federal Wildlife Officer. While the oldest student was reading her manuscript about a small cabin she owned in the old ghost town of Sunrise, the gal mentioned having picked up an eagle’s feather and keeping it.

The officer, at this point, interrupted her, saying that was illegal and subject to penalty, correctly claiming that the fine was $100,000 and one year in prison. Those two then got into a loud argument over the merits of such — with Professor Burwell stepping in — suggesting that it was merely a mistake by the lady and that perhaps she could return it to the place found.

The agent was okay with that, yet she wasn’t, still wanting to argue that it was only a stinking feather. She rambled on for some spell having lost it upstairs while we had to endure her anger.

This federal employee then went into a rant, losing it himself, claiming that only American Natives could possess eagle feathers and that even they had to have a permit. The squabble went on and on with the professor finally saying they’d have to take this matter outside the classroom, where it should’ve been taken to begin with. I went home that afternoon and removed from my garage bulletin board, an eagle feather I’d found, tossing it in the trash.

I’d written an article for this class, showing that I believed television programs played a big part in how children acted and played out roles, using an example of my watching certain westerns such as Gunsmoke and The Rifleman. In those shows, whenever Sheriff Matt Dillon or Lucas McCain encountered some tough guy, usually drunk, fisticuffs were the first method to take care of them.

That flawed philosophy got me in trouble more than once in school. My article mentioned this, along with it going on to say that movies and television shows nowadays take things even further, oftentimes showing someone being shot and killed over a mere vocal argument.

A fellow in this creative writing class became so incensed with what I was reading out loud, that he interrupted me before I wrapped things up by saying, “You’re trying to censor free speech!” For the sake of this story, I’ll ficticiously name this person, Chuck.

Chuck went on a loud tangent before the professor calmly said that he was to merely critique the author’s writing, and not their viewpoint. I just sat there shaking my head, because this wasn’t the first time Chuck had gone off the deep end. I bit my tongue not saying a word because I knew Chuck always packed a sidearm, having observed it.

The easily excited man wrote a bizarre composition that was nothing more than plagiarized words taken straight from the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young song, Woodstock. In this tune, the lines, “And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden,” came up several times.

Chuck equated those lyrics to Yasgur’s Farm in Woodstock, New York, where the infamous festival took place. In his spiel, he attempted to show us where we were back then concerning, The Garden of Eden, and where we were going to be in the future. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one totally lost in his analysis, with most of us older students undoubtedly believing he was on something — and it wasn’t sanity.

Professor Burwell took me aside afterward to say that Chuck served in the Vietnam War and that his wife said that he’d come back a different man. It was hoped that this class would help him get a better grasp on his struggles. Knowing that greatly helped me to understand the man’s deep psychological scars.

My wife ran into a similar situation at her place of employment. Joleen worked with a fellow who seemed harmless enough, yet one day when they were discussing the Vietnam War, this fellow quickly lost it. He berated her up one side and down the other for calling it a war. “It was a conflict!” he informed her through clenched teeth. They never talked again, with Joleen deeply afraid of him after that incident.

These days, whenever I come across someone having lost it, I’m not so bold to confront them like in the past. I know that instead of fisticuffs, they’re apt to shoot and then want to argue later. Because of that constant threat, I quickly veer around their mental conflict and keep on truckin’.

LIFE CHANGER

“Mikey doesn’t play that game anymore.”

I’ve read numerous times on Facebook and other social media venues where a person makes an unpopular comment, and someone slithers out of the darkness to try and ridicule that individual’s viewpoint.

These disrupters generally attempt to impress the gathering crowd of readers by first making a highly flammable or snarky comment. Their intent is to start an argument, and it often works, yet not with me. Mikey doesn’t play that game anymore.

I’ve now encountered this type so often, that I can predict whether something I say will elicit a negative response. It’s easy to forecast such, especially when I’m in a group that mostly doesn’t think the same as me.

Such was the case the other day with a man named, Bill. He wanted to change the direction of the whole discussion, at least with me he did. More on that later.

A friend of mine who shall remain anonymous, sincerely wanted to know why Republicans were so supportive of President Trump and Elon Musk, asking this of her over 1000 Facebook friends. I believe she truly wanted to get a better perspective on things for her own understanding.

This intelligent and very articulate lady does not like Donald Trump, and she’s not the only one I know who thinks this way. Hey, everyone is free in this country to their own opinions!

I commented in so many words that God, family, and country were my priorities — in that order — and that this new extremist Democrat Party was attacking a certain religion, ridiculing the nuclear family, and trying to take down our country through either not enforcing laws, or creating perverse ones against my religious and moral fiber.

I went on to say that our choice of candidates in the last election only left me with one solid choice, especially since Kamala Harris refused to answer questions, and when she tried, nothing came out of her mouth but word salad.

If someone wants to argue that part with me they better clean out their ears first. Mrs. Harris, mumble-jumbled more sentences than Fred Sanford did during his whole career at Sanford and Son.

Those people commenting on Facebook were most cordial, with a good many not agreeing with me as expected, and some folks that I didn’t know coming to my defense by saying, “We should be respectful of everyone’s viewpoints although they might differ from our own.”

The interaction between those having different opinions was quite educational and without hostility, which doesn’t always happen. I believe the debate originator came away feeling the same.

Getting back to that intended disruptor I mentioned earlier, I’ll only say that his name is Bill, and after reviewing his background we have some things in common. Both of us attended East High — also having a couple of the same friends —but things drastically ended there.

Almost every one of Bill’s posts on his site has something negative to do with DT — that’s my nickname for Donald Trump. I’m no psychologist here, but this man definitely has Trump Derangement Disorder, or TDD as it’s often called.

The man is infatuated with this hate because it spews forth like molten lava from Kilauea Volcano. Getting back to something I said earlier, “Everyone is free in this country to their own opinions and Bill is welcome to his!

Bill’s snarky comment to me regarded religion, with it being, “I’m sorry, Michael, but which God? There are so very many…”

One thing I’ve never debated with others is my personal religious beliefs. I know without doubt where I’m going after I leave this world, with others free to join me if they so desire. Bill is especially welcome because the fellow is deeply lost if he believes there are multiple creators of this universe. I’ll be praying for him in this area.

According to the Holy Bible, there is but one God. Hopefully, Bill does a small amount of reading here and he’ll see the light. Bill simply needs to repent of his sins and ask Jesus Christ to take him to Heaven when he dies. A person doesn’t have to be an intellectual guru to see this —as John 3:16 lays things out so simple that even a caveman would understand.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son. Whoever shall believe on him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”

I gave my life to Jesus Christ soon after graduating in 1972, in the front seat of a 1965 Chevy, and I’ve never looked back. I’m not a minister or an ordained priest, but I can sincerely say that it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

I can only hope that others do the same before it’s too late because I’d love to see them on the other side with me!

WOKE ME UP

“It appears that the majority of Americans finally woke up and smelled the coffee regarding leftist overreach — this on November 5, 2024.

The past 10 years have been unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Never in my life did I believe I’d see folks not knowing if they were male or female. I can’t recall any classmates I went to school with from 1959 – 1972 having that problem. Was something put in Cocoa Puffs or Lucky Charm cereal after I graduated from high school that caused such confusion?

My history book heroes were suddenly made out to be villains, with Christopher Columbus accused by left-leaning historians of atrocious acts against Indigenous people. Civil War officers from the Confederate Army were singled out to be racists. Many of these “Rebels” fought for less taxation on their state’s manufactured goods, along with the same on agricultural products — over that of slavery.

Starting around 2020, the woke mentality began running rampant everywhere, eventually interfering with things that I was involved with or trying to do. Having sent a manuscript to a book publisher for review and him forwarding it on to a line editor, this anonymous “word cruncher” chastised me for using certain offensive words—at least in her opinion, they were distasteful.

I didn’t know this editor from Adam but assumed she was straight out of some leftist college. One of the words deemed sexist was chick and that’s why I say the editor was a she. The timeline for my book was in the early 1960s, thus the word was in play back then. Needless to say, I didn’t change things as that would’ve ruined the manuscript dialogue.

I’ve always called North America’s highest peak Mt. McKinley. It was named in 1896 by William Dickey for President William McKinley from Niles, Ohio. Before that, American Indians and the former owners of Alaska, Russia, called this large mountain, Buishale or Bulshaia. It was labeled that for at least 200 years — perhaps longer.

President Barack Obama renamed it Denali in 2015, saying this was the original Athabaskan name, meaning — “The High One.” The Athabaskan’s unique dialect, nor its conventional means of communicating via hands, or fingers, would’ve never used that word, with Denali most likely dreamed up by some University of California – Berkley professor.

One of the Navajo definitions, or words, for The Grand Canyon in Arizona, is Tsékooh Hatsoh. So far, no one has tried changing it although I wouldn’t rule things out. A good many of these ancient ancestral names are unpronounceable, even by their own people these days.

The High One title should be passed on to those elitists attempting to rewrite history for their own ideological purposes. Before much longer, unless stifled, they’ll have George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and John F. Kennedy labeled as dictators. They’ve already ignorantly pegged that fallacy on Donald Trump.

It appears that the majority of Americans finally woke up and smelled the coffee regarding leftist overreach — this happening on November 5, 2024. Since being sworn into office, President Trump has erased a good portion of this lib-backed wokeness and DEI, with him officially renaming Denali to McKinley. It makes no difference to me what name it’s called at this point in my life, as I lose zero sleep over such things I cannot control.

Some folks are up in arms here yet I doubt it’ll do any good. I like the name Aunt Jemina Syrup, yet it’s now been changed to Pearl Milling Company Syrup, thanks to wokeness rearing its ugly head. Because of that, I’ve started buying the Great Value brand in protest while also saving a few dollars.

The woman behind Aunt Jemina, Nancy Green, was a real person. If Nancy was still alive, I bet she’d be none too happy having her highly recognized nickname suddenly found to be offensive, by folks she doesn’t even know.

I’ll continue writing and using words and language the way I see fit, with outside interference from woke editors and critics mowed over like a D-8 bulldozer pushing through a mound of dirt. Where Denali and Mt. McKinley are concerned, perhaps renaming it Big Rock Candy Mountain would satisfy both sides?

THE RIGHT CHOICE

“On occasion, they sing their disapproval through protest songs in off-key voices.”

As a challenge to myself, I’ll try to write this without any interjected, direct political opinions on my part. It’s going to be tough, yet doable.

I’ve been watching with great interest the amount of misspent money that the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE, has uncovered thus far. There are promises of more disclosures.

As a taxpayer, I want my tax money spent wisely, as do most wise Americans. I commend Elon Musk for taking this job, especially as head of DOGE. Fiscal conservative Democrats and Republicans alike, including Independents, should feel the same here.

Each evening on the evening news, there seems to always be a group of complainers voicing their disapproval of what Musk and his highly efficient team of unpaid nerds are doing. On occasion, they sing their disapproval through protest songs in off-key voices. These horrible singers make my singing sound good.

Word on the street is that Elon’s team is comprised of 19-year-old computer whizzes. I recall a statement from over 50 years ago in high school, made by a teacher of mine, claiming that nerds will someday be our bosses. That statement rings truer than ever these days.

The following is a hypothetical situation — one that easily explains how I now view our United States where television and cable news is concerned

Suppose there were only two channels to watch. One of them is called TRUTH while the other is labeled HITS. Truth contains exactly as its name implies, everything truthful. Hits on the other hand is censored, and oftentimes more than not, it’s highly biased news reporting.

Newscasters on Truth don’t deviate from the facts, although the reporters are sometimes a bit dry around the collar, with no tasteless jokes or off-the-cuff derogatory remarks.

There’s also limited bias on Truth, with them also trying to follow the age-old guideline, “If you can’t say anything good about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

Entertainment is not a big part of Truth, although they occasionally have special guests such as retired military personnel or sports stars. Chic or hip news stories about what’s happening in Hollywood never make this channel. The late Walter Cronkite is a good example of a Truth newscaster.

Hits is just the opposite. News reporters on this station often criticize those that they personally disagree with, going so low as to call them hurtful names or make fun of their families, even small children. Brian Williams fits the Hits mold perfectly where their style of reporting is concerned.

Oftentimes, left-leaning music stars or rap artists will appear as guests on Hits with them occasionally performing to entertain those watching. Guests on Hits are open to making wisecrack remarks, with the hosts laughing along.

If breaking news surfaces that doesn’t fit with the owner of Hits’ ideological agenda, that factual information is either not reported, misrepresented, or falsely labeled as sexist, racist, or homophobic.

Where viewer numbers are concerned, logic would dictate that people wanting to know the facts would far outweigh those desiring nothing more than fake and entertaining news.

That doesn’t hold true though, with a majority 55% of those tuning in, opting for Truth, over a still very solid 45% for Hits. Viewership is still very close. Go figure?

My hypothetical example seems to be the way it is today, with a good many viewers still tuning in to mainstream media, even though it’s been proven all three channels contain tainted or biased reporting on stories, especially those regarding a certain president sitting in the Oval Office.

The consensus that I got after talking with several Havasu residents and visitors, is that they agree with Donald Trump and Elon Musk in auditing government agencies. I didn’t ask about their political affiliation.

Showing this incomplete article to my wife, hoping to get ideas on where to still go with things, or end it, Joleen caught something that I missed. Asking if Hits was a catchy name, intended as cryptic, I didn’t know what she meant? Hits is just a name that I pulled out of the sky and equated to catchy or entertaining news.

“Hits,” she said, “Is an acronym for heads in the sand!” Hearing that statement, my wife couldn’t have come up with a better ending.

THE HAVASU ICEMAN

He was “The Man” where making ice happen in our warm desert oasis is concerned.

Last Saturday, I attended a memorial service for Raymond Brogan of Lake Havasu City, held at Mudshark Public House and Brewery. The owner of this popular business — Scott Stocking — was gracious enough to offer a portion of his restaurant for the special remembrance ceremony at no charge. It’s great to see business people giving back to the community like that.

The turnout was exceptional — with approximately 80 of Ray’s family, friends, and business associates in attendance. Some traveled from as far away as New Zealand. I learned at this service for the first time — that Ray belonged to a Los Angeles motorcycle club called, “The Barbarians.” I didn’t even know he was into motorcycles. Raymond also was associated with the local Havasu MC club, “Desert Warriors.”

A fellow club member told attendees at Ray’s memorial, just how much Brogan loved riding with them and that he considered the members all good friends instead of just club members. Ray looked forward to more two-wheeled excursions and social get-togethers with these guys and gals before falling ill.

Ray and his wife Lisa are from New Zealand, having moved to Arizona several years ago. He loved his former country with all of his heart, yet America was his beloved new home. Rugby was Ray’s favorite sport, with him and Lisa attending games with fellow “Kiwis” whenever the “All Blacks” New Zealand national rugby team was playing in the U.S.

Raymond had recently started his own business called Keeping Havasu Cool. A Master HVAC —there was nothing about heating and air conditioning that the man didn’t know. I relied on his expertise several times as did other friends and strangers.

Ray Brogan helped numerous folks in the community with their AC problems, often without charging them. Ray was truly one of those folks who’d give you the shirt off his back.

Perhaps Ray was best known for hosting the ice rink at London Bridge Resort each winter and for opening an enclosed rink on McCulloch Boulevard. He was “The Man” where making ice happen in our warm desert oasis is concerned. Some folks called him “Ice Rink Ray” while others honorably referred to him as “Iceman.”

“Today’s New’s-Herald” reporter, Brandon Messick, wrote an informative story six years ago about Ray building an outside ice rink in this city. This archived article, published on November 23, 2018, is titled, “An ice day for skating.” It mentions Ray’s unique challenges in keeping water frozen when the winter temperature hits an abnormal 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Ray Brogan loved to see children in Havasu ice skating and often allowed the less fortunate to skate for free. Ray was known by many folks as “The Havasu Iceman.”

In Lubbock, Texas, where I learned to roller skate as a kid, some parents labeled us, “Rink Rats.” In Anchorage, Alaska, where I frequented public outdoor ice rinks during winter along with friends, we were called the same. I’m sure Lake Havasu City has a few rink rats of its own thanks to Ray and Lisa’s efforts.

When Ray was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, this coming after several misdiagnoses, sadly, he only lived six weeks before passing away. There was no time to get affairs in order before he was gone, leaving Lisa to finish the difficult and arduous job.

As a microphone was being passed around at his memorial service for people to offer up remembrances, I thought long and hard on something to say. There was so much I could’ve offered in paying my last respects, yet chose something that I wasn’t sure would be deemed acceptable by folks I didn’t know — especially Ray’s family and friends from New Zealand.

Ray had a dry sense of humor that was over the top. Quick-witted, it oftentimes took me a few minutes for his ‘off the cuff’ comments to finally sink in — and on one occasion — it wasn’t until the following day.

While my wife and I were dining with Ray and Lisa, along with four other friends at a popular Italian restaurant, I asked the talented man, “How can I tell if my air conditioner is putting out to capacity?” Ray’s reply was instantaneous and to the point, informing me with a straight face, “By how loud it moans.”

Being a naïve guy, and not knowing what he meant, the comment flew straight over my head until a lightbulb finally turned on some 24 hours later. Only then did I start laughing.

The Barbarians Motorcycle Club is raffling off Ray’s 2008 Harley Davidson XL with all proceeds going to Lisa Brogan, Ray’s widow. She incurred a significant medical debt and is in great need of financial assistance here.

Tickets are $50 each and are available at Gear Up Motorsports located at 308 London Bridge Road. Contact Anthony at (928) 680-9100 for more information. They can also be purchased at Mustang Sallys located at 91 London Bridge Road.

Ray Brogan is going to be sorely missed in our city, yet he left behind a legacy that very few if any will ever claim. He was responsible for planting seeds of joy within area youth, showing them how much fun can be had with a simple pair of ice skates while gliding along on top of frozen Arizona water.

Ray will always be known to many local kids including parents as, “The Havasu Iceman.” I’m sure he’s looking down right now — quite proud of his many accomplishments!

HAVASU MYSTERIES

“If tiles are the problem — may I suggest going with carpet.”

I’ve been coming to Lake Havasu City long enough to see a big difference in growth over the years. There are far more homes, buildings, and people than when we first visited the city in 1979. That’s to be expected. Some residents see this as bad, but not me, because along with this growth came plenty more new job opportunities along with places to eat.

There’ve been several mysteries over the years that caught my attention. One of them being: Why did Bob’s Big Boy leave? My wife and I frequented the restaurant and liked their food, especially the burgers. No one has been able to tell me why they’re gone. They always seemed to have plenty of customers. I miss the little guy standing outside holding up that big hamburger.

Hussong’s is another mystery. At one time it was a good choice for Mexican food but eventually took a dive. How do successful places like that end up this way?

On top of that, their building caught fire afterward. Why do so many eateries go up in flames when they close shop. Are upset patrons doing this in protest? I’ve seen this happen in every place I’ve lived. Why don’t banks go up in flames when they close?

One of my current unsolved mysteries now involves an unfinished home on Smoketree Avenue and Magnolia Drive. Asking my wife how long it’d been under construction, she thought maybe four. I think it’s more like seven. What is the problem here? My curiosity has gotten so bad — that I drive by weekly just to see how much “hasn’t” been done.

Joleen believes the owner is having difficulty getting floor tiles, at least that’s the rumor she heard. We went through that problem with our home nearly 20 years ago. Hopefully, things have gotten better since then. If tiles are the problem — may I suggest going with carpet.

There’s another place I’m curious about on Bryce Court, more visible driving south on 95 than anywhere else. Someone has been working with equipment in their yard for a couple of years and still isn’t finished. He’s made major progress, and it looks great.

I’ve seen him in a dump truck, backhoe, and skid steer, moving more dirt around than some major construction projects in town. The fellow is doing an excellent job enlarging his yard.

My wife tells me to stop someday and ask him, but I always remember that line, “Curiosity killed the cat!” In reality, what the guy’s doing is none of my business. I’m just curious, I suppose — like hundreds of other people in our city.

Other mysteries in town have me scratching my head. What happened to the double-decker bus that was supposed to be up and rolling years ago. I’m talking about the one parked in front of McCulloch Real Estate, and not the one once in the English Village, used as a food truck. I wonder about that bus as well.

Perhaps the biggest mystery at this time is why a Sam’s Club or Costco hasn’t been built here yet. Our yearly population along with Parker’s would definitely support at least one of the big box stores. My vote of course would go for Costco. I say this not out of DEI or politics. Sam’s Club in Bullhead is miles closer than Costco in Las Vegas.

If this business does decide to locate here, may I recommend the south side of town? We need more traffic this way to even things out. The other day, while driving to Walmart, it took 20 minutes because of all the stop-and-go traffic.

This brings me to one final mystery, what happened to the proposed South McCulloch Byway, designed to make it easier to go east to I-40 from our side of town? I’d bet that guy doing the major yardwork on Bryce Court with all of his equipment, could have that needed road opened up in record time!

SUPERCROSS

“Jeff had turned around and stopped, wondering if he was going to have to kickstart my lungs.”

My wife and I are big Supercross motorcycle fans. We subscribe to the liberal-based NBC Peacock cable channel just so that we can tune in each Saturday evening. I wouldn’t go this route for the NFL or any other sport.

Joleen and I have even more reason to watch because a Lake Havasu City resident is racing and doing very well in the 250SX class. Number #23, Julien Beaumer is in the thick of things and our prayers are for him to stay healthy and finish out the season on top. This sport’s attrition rate seems higher than most, with riders often racing right to the ragged edge — if they want to win.

An Alaskan competed in the 250SX and 450SX classes for several years, with Ben LaMay related to a friend and former co-worker, Bill Yadlosky, from Eagle River, Alaska. Bill’s family grew up on Old Harbor Road in Anchorage less than a mile from where we lived. I knew Ben’s late father, Gene, and his grandfather, Clarence — both of them accomplished drag racers.

Ben LaMay, also known as “The Alaskan Assassin,” semi-retired from motorcycle racing, but now trains up-and-coming students of the sport at Thunder Valley Raceway in Palmer, Alaska. The forty-ninth state has turned out some great professional hockey players, and there’s no reason another Supercross prospect can’t be found to replace Ben.

Practicing in Alaska, unlike Arizona, can be a little rough though — with only so many nice rain-free days in summer. Traveling to the lower states for riding time is a necessity. The cost of such is substantial according to those having done it.

I owned several dirt bikes while growing up and enjoyed riding them with friends. The only time I gave racing a whirl was on a track at Kinkaid Park in South Anchorage. I was more into keeping my bike looking good rather than thrashing it as racers often do. The day that I decided to go for it, I’d put Armorall on the seat and the machine was looking fine, with a glimmering shine.

Riding slowly around the track a couple of times with my friend, Jeff Thimsen, just to get a feel for things, I eventually grabbed a handful of throttle and instantly went flying off the back of my Yamaha. Armorall turned out to be slicker than ice!

Only doing 40 miles per hour or less, the impact still knocked the wind out of my pipes for several seconds. Jeff had turned around and stopped, wondering if he was going to have to kickstart my lungs.

I decided then and there that racing dirt bikes wasn’t for me, although illegally street racing motorcycles was another thing. I kept riding dirt bikes, while our two children were in elementary school, eventually hanging it up — mainly because Jeff had sold his by then.

There was no longer anyone else to ride with so why go it alone. I took up bicycling once again finding it much safer, that is until a Toyota pickup hit me at a busy intersection.

The fellow’s truck fared far worse than me, suffering a broken window and a dented door. The bad thing was that I had to pay for all vehicle damage, including being fined $50, as the accident was deemed my fault.

For those folks who haven’t watched Supercross, check it out. This week the races are in Phoenix. The action is nonstop and the crashes way too many. I don’t know how these guys can continually control a fast-moving bike going over whoop-de-dos and continually flying through the air, some as high as 35 feet. One thing that I do know is that they don’t use Armorall on their seats.

Wanting to keep another dirt bike, my wife has told me, “No!” more than once. She doesn’t believe many older guys ride them. That was proved wrong in Bouse after I met a guy named Dave from California.

I’d guess Dave was in his 60s, and he had the coolest dirt bike, a two-stroke I believe manufactured in Germany. I can’t remember the brand. He wore a tee shirt his granddaughter gave him, saying, “Some Grandpa’s Play Bingo — Real Grandpas Ride Dirt Bikes.”

Showing Joleen, Dave’s bike and his cool shirt, saying that I’d like one of each, her response was immediate and ego-deflating. “I don’t think you can even handle the shirt at this point!”

CELEBRATION TIME

Celebrate good times, come on, let’s celebrate!

My wife and I went on a planned camping trip into the Mohave Desert near Bouse with friends to celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day and Inauguration Day. It turned out to be an absolute blast!

I’m sure that if Dr. King was still alive, he would’ve been in Washington D.C., as a special guest of President Donald Trump. It’s too bad this special event wasn’t held in Mar-A-Lago. As a native Floridan, born there, I’m a bit partial to that state.

Because we could electronically keep abreast of current events while in the outback, many of us tuned in to a portion of the Inauguration ceremony, including Carrie Underwood’s stunning rendition of “America the Beautiful.”

Knowing that our country is now back in capable hands made this song sung by Carrie even more special. I can proudly say that as an American it brought tears to my eyes.

Kool & The Gang had a hit song in 1980 called. “Celebration.” Certain lyrics fit perfectly with President Trump’s being sworn in. Taken out of context they go something like this,

“Celebrate good times, come on, let’s celebrate!”

I see many distinct similarities between King and Trump, with compassion for their fellow human beings the biggest. Martin Luther King Jr. dedicated nearly his whole life to the Civil Rights movement, lighting the torch for others to follow.

Donald Trump took years away from a successful business career to ensure that our United States Constitution is followed word for word. Some people may not like his rough exterior, but he gets the job done, and that’s what counts.

Sadly, an assassin killed Dr. King while two unsuccessful attempts were made on Donald Trump’s life. Desperate people often take drastic measures to accomplish their evil goals.

Democrat leaders and those people behind them tried their best to keep the man down, yet with God on Trump’s side, they went down to defeat. Hopefully, guardian angels continue to watch over our 45th and 47th President from here on out.

Getting back to my camping experience—there were at least 40 of us in 30 different model RVs, along with 19 dogs, 3 cats, and 2 Amazon parrots. United States flags were flown on tall telescoping poles attached to the rigs. Some of the poles had red, white, and blue LED lights on top—visible for miles away. It was a sight to behold!

At night, we sat around the campfire reminiscing about how good things were in 2017 – 2020. Of no surprise to me, there wasn’t one person amongst us that disagreed.

Joleen and I were among the last campers to pack and leave. Before doing so, I walked around, taking a large trash bag with me to ensure no garbage was left behind.

Seeing none, other than a sun-bleached Sunkist drink container most likely blown in by the wind from miles away, I picked this crumpled box up and hauled it back to camp for disposal.

The conscientious people I was a party of left no trash behind for others to pick up, yet the same can’t be said of the Biden Administration when it closed out its four-year term.

In the last few months in office, Joe and his group of left-leaning ideologues deliberately left a big mess for President Trump to sweep up. The border crisis, releasing violent criminals, and allowing guys to pose as females to play women’s sports naming just a few.

The largest sabotage JB committed was attempting to place our country in an even worse energy crisis. President Joe Biden did this by creating additional moratoriums on offshore drilling for oil in Alaska and other locales.

Thankfully, this “mess” will soon be taken care of in the same way that I disposed of that Sunkist soda container. Immediately after being sworn in, President Trump put on his work gloves and started cleaning house. He was able to drive a garbage truck during the election, so he should be well-versed in hauling Biden’s trash to the dump.

On a parting note, as a God-fearing, American patriot, it’s nice to know that we can once again openly speak our conservative minds, without fear of being arrested or labeled a terrorist. Four years under Kamala Harris would’ve led to that for sure.

The First Amendment is unchained and running free once again!

The final campfire was on the last night.

TODD MOLD

“Some of the stuff we innocently did was bail out of swings when told not to.”

I first met Todd Mold at Reese Elementary School in Lubbock, Texas. This was 1963. We were classmates in 4^th grade and instantly hit it off as friends. Todd’s father, Lt. Colonel David Mold was Reese Air Force Base commander. My dad was an enlisted sergeant, and Lt. Colonel Mold was his big boss.

Todd and I were chummy enough that I was invited to their home several times. He was one of two children, and with his father in the limelight, I often wonder if my pal saw much of his dad. High-ranking officers are always in meetings and traveling places. Todd craved attention and with us paired together, trouble came with each new day. We both had creative minds making for some unusual pranks.

Todd’s mother was extremely nice and their home was spotless. They constantly had get-togethers for other officers and visiting personnel, with Todd having to resign himself to staying out of the way. I was perhaps his only friend from school invited to come over and play. She’d serve us ice cream and cake with Kool-Aid to drink. I remember the dinnerware being much fancier than what we had at our little trailer.

The two of us became such a problem for our teacher, Mrs. Hagan, that our mothers were called in for a conference. Dad was especially worried that my getting into mischief with the boss’s son—repercussions might come his direction. I was told to knock it off or else.

Some of the stuff we innocently did was bail out of swings when told not to. Mrs. Hagan always claimed one of us would break our neck or back while doing so. We’d clown around to get laughs from other students and talk in class on occasion. It was something that some of the other boys did yet their grades didn’t suffer as much as ours. It seems Todd and I put more effort into entertaining than learning.

After unrelenting mischievous episodes at school, Mrs. Hagan recommended to our moms that we be separated. Both parents were in agreement. Todd was to sit on one side of the classroom and me on the other. We weren’t allowed to play together, and I recall that depressing us both.

Lt. Colonel Mold was assigned to another base before 5^th grade started and I never saw Todd again. I always wondered what happened to him, because he was constantly bullied and tormented about his name and weight, mostly by girls. I’m sure as time went on he was more than capable of handling such.

Several years ago I decided to reach out to former classmates and was successful in reconnecting with the majority. I sadly found that one girl who was in Todd’s and my class, Larelia Sadler, was killed in an automobile accident four years after graduation in 1976.

For all of my efforts, I could never locate Todd. It seemed as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. I uncovered old newspaper articles regarding Lt. Colonel Mold and his celebrated military service, but nothing regarding Mrs. Mold, their son, or daughter, Edith. I eventually put things on hold until this past week.

Poring through newly released archived newspapers I learned that Todd’s first name was David, the same as his father. I never knew this. Evidently, my old friend went by Todd to avoid confusion.

Searching further I discovered devastating news. On July 4, 1972, Todd was in a car with two friends when it went off the road and hit a large tree. The other boys weren’t seriously hurt but Todd sustained a broken neck. He died several days later in a Massachusetts hospital.

The home address where this tragedy occurred was mentioned in a newspaper clipping. I was able to look this location up and see for myself where the crash occurred. A medium-sized tree is in the Google Earth photo in front of this house. It’s probably an offshoot of the original tree should that one have died back then. Nature has a way of healing itself.

Oddly enough, the cemetery where the family is supposedly buried has no record of them being there on findagrave.com. I assume that’s merely an oversight on their part.

It’s taken me many years to finally find out what happened to my friend. I’m not sure it’s any easier learning now than had I discovered things 52 years ago. I realize that I’m blessed to have made it this far while others didn’t. Just why is a question for which I have no answer. I do believe I’ll see my old pal Todd on the other side.