I like to write junk...

TOAB

“There’s nothing more insulting in my book than having to watch advertisements for certain feminine products, or even worse, hemorrhoid relief.”

Initially, I didn’t know how to safely approach this subject, as most certainly, only my farming relatives, friends, and acquaintances would view a certain statement contained within as being non-offensive.

Those people not raised on farms or ranches, nor around cows and bulls, undoubtedly, would see the wisdom from such an unusual expression as being totally vulgar. After thinking things over for several days, I decided to cut to the chase, realizing that more despicable statements, at least to me, are now heard daily on television commercials.

There’s nothing more insulting in my book than having to watch advertisements for certain feminine products, or even worse, hemorrhoid relief. Why do they have to go into such detail and always seemingly pop up when I’m eating? If the remote is close at hand, our TV quickly goes off.

It was in 1975 when I first visited Kansas with my girlfriend, now my spouse. Joleen’s uncles and aunts were farmers, with her cousins helping perform the necessary chores. One evening, we were visiting with Joleen’s cousin and his wife, Melvin and Debbie Mills.

The conversation quickly turned to trucks which is quite common amongst farmers everywhere. When I mentioned that my father used a small Ford Courier pickup to run parts for his automotive part’s store, Melvin, in a matter-of-fact voice responded, “Those pickups are worthless as tits on a bull around here!” From this point on, out of respect to those easily offended, I’ll use my recently created acronym, TOAB.

I’d never heard Melvin’s statement before, and it caused me to chuckle at first — then think about what he just said, and chuckle even louder. It was just a normal figure of speech to Melvin and not one to garner laughs.

Farmers do have a vocabulary of their own, with me once hearing Joleen’s Uncle Lee mention something about, “Milo.” I thought he was referring to a hired hand. Turned out that Milo is a grain or sorghum grown as feed for cattle.

Since that time now 50 years ago, I probably hear TOAB at least once a year during some conversations, always with male counterparts and never female. I’d relate hearing this to my junior high shop teacher abruptly using the term “bastard file.”

That got the class’s attention like right now, with most of us believing he was mad at a certain metal file held in his hand. The instructor went on to explain that’s the normal name for it and has been for over 200 years.

Students got a good laugh out of this, and I’m sure our instructor had that in mind. Had I used this crude-sounding term around my mother, she would’ve immediately made me wash my mouth out with soap.

Deciding to do a bit of research on TOAB, I first came across the statement in the March 12, 1896, “Kansas Farmer” newspaper. That wasn’t unexpected. From the year 2000 on, there are many newspapers throughout the country having printed it in one way or the other, with the majority being editorials.

Some products this worthless TOAB namesake applies to are: banana slicers, banana holders, pet rocks, air in a can, diet water, DVD rewinder, shoe umbrella, mechanical pet petter, and my favorite, a fake gun.

For a short time, I labeled one of those crazy looking Tesla pickups as being worthless as TOAB, but I have now changed my mind. I see them pulling heavy boats around Lake Havasu City on an almost daily basis.

Melvin Mills claimed that my dad’s little Ford Courier would be worthless on a farm because of its limited weight-carrying capability. Joleen’s younger cousin, Randy Mills, having visited our city three years ago, went even further after having spotted one of the overly lifted diesel pickups driving around town all decked out with chrome and lights.

“What a waste of a perfectly good truck. That feller made it worthless as TOAB.”

How could I argue with Randy, as he was perfectly correct in his analysis!

POETIC LICENSE

“Trying to lasso Columbus into these same devious actions wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, at least not one presided over by a nonactivist judge.”

I’m sure most everyone has watched television shows or Hollywood movies where court scenes play out. As a witness rambles on and on about what they seemingly know about a specific case, an attorney suddenly blurts out for the judge to hear, “I object, your honor…. this is merely hearsay!”

If this fictitious TV judge rules that the lawyer is correct, “Objection sustained!” is immediately heard from the bench. One of my favorite such shows is “Perry Mason.” I still watch the reruns, especially loving the comedic interaction between Perry Mason and Los Angeles City Attorney, Hamilton Burger.

If hearsay was allowed in court, can you imagine the case outcome? All a witness would have to do is interject a bit of “poetic license” on their testimony to make things appear as if it happened instead of using proven facts. A case could suddenly turn into “Days of Our Lives” with both sides resorting to storytelling.

There seem to be two venues where this sometimes holds true — the 6:00 news and history books. I’ll stick to history books as my main point here because history is my favorite subject, and one where poetic license runs free like a raging river.

Before continuing on, for those not knowing what the term, poetic license, means, according to Miss Purdy, my artificial intelligence (AI) helpmate, it’s the freedom to depart from the facts of a matter or from the conventional rules of language when speaking or writing to create an effect.

In layman’s terms, where history is concerned, “Anything goes as long as it seems believable to the masses!”

Hollywood uses poetic license more than anyone. My wife and I watched “Field of Missing Shoes” the other evening. It’s a movie about a group of mostly teenage Virginia Military Academy students being used as soldiers during the American Civil War.

At the beginning of this historical film, the five words “Based Upon A True Story” slowly rolls across the screen. To some viewers, “based upon” automatically means everything in this movie is factual when, in fact, it’s not. Some things, such as romantic scenes, were undoubtedly added to give the film more viewing pleasure as I like to call it. Regardless, it was an excellent movie.

History books as a whole don’t have these five words anywhere in them. Readers are taught, especially elementary school students, that the contents inside are all real. I had no problem with that growing up, yet now I’m seeing this information attacked by activist groups using different truths or unadulterated hearsay to back up their changes.

It’s almost guaranteed that if I told someone a story about a 12-inch fish I caught in 1900, with that story being repeated over the years by 12 different people, now 125 years later, that fish story wouldn’t be close to the same.

Let’s take things back even further, with me telling it 600 years ago, with 125 different storytellers repeating it. That 12-inch fish would now grow even larger — perhaps being over 30 feet long.

Much of our history is based on passed-down stories, folklore, rumors, fables, and the like, with written documentation to back things up not always available. Christopher Columbus is a prime example. I was taught in grade school that he was a good man.

Some of his crew are known to have been filled with evil, based upon written records, yet trying to lasso Columbus into these same devious actions wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, at least not one presided over by a nonactivist judge. Much of this erroneous information against Christopher Columbus has been thoroughly debunked based upon Columbus’s own writings.

Saying that Christopher Columbus is guilty of atrocious acts because of what a few members of his crew possibly did is no different than holding President Joe Biden responsible for his son, Hunter Biden, and this younger man’s numerous illegal activities.

Mount McKinley, in Alaska, has been named that since 1895, as records prove. In 2015, President Barack Hussein Obama used hearsay in changing it to Denali, claiming that Denali is what the Alaskan Indians had originally called the mountain.

Obama’s statement is called spinning the truth, and even worse things, outside of Washington D.C. circles by those having done the research. Stories or folklore passed down via word of mouth have been proven countless times to be remarkably inaccurate.

Archived newspapers from the late 1800s, along with other documented records, show that Mt. McKinley was called “Bulshaia” by Alaska Natives and Russians way before 1895. It’s right there in black and white.

The Dena’ina Athabaskan Indians didn’t start phonetically recording their language until the 1970s. Denali would not have been one of their words five centuries ago, as their communication was strictly an oral language at that point, including simple drawings.

New Age historians are slyly trying to use the terms folklore or hearsay to substantiate their viewpoint here. That falls perfectly in line with my fish story example.

A good example of passed-down hearsay in Lake Havasu City is the rumor that an Olive Garden restaurant is coming to town. I’ve heard that story repeated over the years from many different people. Some of them still swear that their information came from reliable sources, with these people continuing to believe their own message.

It’s been some 30 years now, and no ground has been broken. In another 100 years, some citizens will erroneously report that Olive Garden was once located on Swanson Boulevard, yet has closed after being forced to by city leaders, with a good many future residents buying into this fable.

One of my favorite songs by the music group, Moody Blues, is “Knights in White Satin.” At the end of this popular 1970s song is a mind-provoking poem. In the poem, Late Lament, written by Graeme Edge, three ending lines sum up best how I now look at the truth, especially where certain manuscripts, books, movies, and television news channels are concerned.

“Red is grey and yellow white.

But we decide which is right.

And which is an illusion.”

That poem definitely applies to history books. The only book that I’ve found to tell the absolute truth, without reservation, is the Holy Bible.

If Christopher Columbus or any of my childhood heroes are guilty of atrocities against Indigenous people, as some now claim, all they need to have done afterward is ask Jesus for forgiveness, and those sins were washed away.

It’ll make no difference what history Professor Ima Knowitall or Dr. P.C. Leftist have to say about them in future history books, including me, or anyone else for that matter.

God is the ultimate and final judge here, with folklore, poetic license, and hearsay not admittable as evidence in His court of Absolute Truth!

John 17:17

DOGEBALL

“During one contest, Jeff hit a smaller student square in the face, and this guy instantly wanted to fight.”

One of my favorite activities during school PE was dodgeball. I wasn’t accurate at throwing the ball, but I was a pro at not getting hit — and that’s what counts most.

The way I did this was duck behind others until the ranks thinned, and then constantly run football stop-and-go patterns. I remember several times being the last one standing. Some classmates claimed I cheated, yet I’d never seen any official rules for playing the game.

My friend, Jeff Thimsen, was deadly with a dodgeball, nailing me more than once. Jeff hit a smaller student square in the face during one contest, and this fellow instantly wanted to fight. The guy should’ve ducked, but he was already the shortest person in class. I’d love to mention this person’s name, yet won’t out of respect because the 71-year-old man is now quite well known in music circles.

Coach Chuck White would often join in, and he didn’t cut us any slack in letting a ball fly. I was smacked in the leg by Coach White, leaving a big red whelp. Payback time eventually came my way. After PE was over, I hit him on back of the head with a ball when no one was watching. The coach never suspected me, with the angry instructor screaming at another student instead.

I haven’t played dodgeball in years, but should the Havasu Senior Center start a league with seniors only, count me in. I’m sure those watching us play would get a hoot out of this harmless activity. As long as the balls aren’t fully inflated, no one should get seriously hurt. It’s a different story when those round weapons are fully pumped up with air.

Elon Musk is an excellent dogeball player. The game he plays is a bit different than the one I know. Elon finds a target, then hurls his invisible ball, seemingly never missing. For each agency his dogeball strikes, a bundle of cash rolls out, much like a Piñata stuffed with candy.

Sometimes, a politicized judge steps out of nowhere and rules that Elon cheated, taking this prize money away from him. Then, out of nowhere, another judge pops up, ruling that Musk and team are privy to it.

It’s sort of like tennis — only much different. I enjoy watching Elon’s game play out on the 6:00 news, especially when those on the losing end throw temper tantrums.

Some politicians are now calling Elon Musk a cheater at dogeball, claiming that Elon’s not playing fair with “their” money. I was always under the impression that tax money belonged to the citizens of this country. Have the rules changed here?

I know precisely how Mr. Musk feels in being labeled unsportsmanlike while playing dogeball, having incurred the same wrath in dodgeball.

Researching things for about three seconds, I couldn’t find any defining guidelines for dogeball. It appears to me that whatever way Elon wants to play his game is okay with the majority of citizens in this country.

One thing that hasn’t changed in our country since 1789 is that a majority still rules. That’s how things are supposed to work in a democracy, with the United States Constitution dictating this under Article VI.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

This saying goes way back in time.

ALASKA KEMOSABE

“My ultimate goal was to create the best, funniest, and most creative book ever written on the 49th State, and I feel as if I’ve accomplished that.”

Over 30 years ago, a reporter from the Anchorage Daily News told me you sometimes have to toot your own horn to get noticed.

He mentioned this when I called his newspaper to see about getting a certain story published, with it ending up front and center, along with an awesome color photo.

That was the first and last time I’ve ever brought attention to myself where journalism credit is concerned. I prefer to remain in the shadows, not soliciting ribbons, awards, or trophies. The finished product is gratitude enough.

Two years ago, I set off on a writing project unlike anything I’ve ever attempted. It was a grueling undertaking, with me spending countless hours late at night and into the morning sunrise, tediously putting things together.

There were nights I wondered what was I doing as my wife and our parrots slept peacefully in the next room. During this time, I also kept busy composing articles for our local Lake Havasu City newspaper, Today’s News–Herald. I’d venture out in the garage between writing sessions to tinker on my old truck and garner needed sanctity — or pray.

A total of 50 entertaining and unique stories on Alaska, as well as creating 51 photos with help from AI, was, for me, a monumental task. As a car nut, I’d say it’s akin to sanding a vehicle down to bare metal, performing all the priming and sanding, and then spraying on a custom paint job. The book will be around 400 pages, making it the largest I’ve composed.

My ultimate goal was to create the best, funniest, and most creative book ever written on the 49th State, and I feel as if I’ve accomplished that.

Over 10 years, six books later, and a blog with almost 500 submissions, my work has been read in 104 countries and all 50 states, including Puerto Rico. I find that totally amazing. ALASKA KEMOSABE will be featured via several yet-to-be-scheduled podcasts. Thankfully, those can be done from home.

I’ve always been careful to not cross the line where language or humor is concerned in my writing. I know that what I compose is always being scrutinized by the Man upstairs, including those non-believers that I dare not lead astray.

ALASKA KEMOSABE is unlike anything ever placed on the market. Not holding back one iota in putting things together, creatively speaking, there will never be another book like it. I say this because I’d have to be the one composing a sequel. My publisher is pushing me here, although I’ve yet to agree.

Neither an inflated ego nor bravado has anything to do with the above comments; it’s based entirely upon my thought train instead.

Everyone on this planet thinks differently, and there’s no counterfeiting our uniqueness, especially where writing is concerned — unless, of course, plagiarism comes into play.

God is responsible for us being different, with him blessing me with an outrageous and creative mind. It’s gotten me in trouble more than once when I crossed the line, so to speak.

The Choctaw Indians of North America are known as perhaps the best storytellers of all the tribes. They were able to paint a vivid picture by using their hands and gestures, along with artwork, to convey messages.

Their stories often incorporated life lessons passed down from elders, along with moral and religious teachings. Having no written language, they sometimes relied upon animal characters to get their point across.

My Great-Great Grandmother Minnie Pearl Redus-Hankins was half Choctaw, and undoubtedly, a tiny portion of her blood is in my veins. I give God first credit, and then Minnie Pearl for providing me the ability to relay tales of my own, both verbally and in print.

A friend that I personally never met, other than on the phone and email, Jeff Maddox, coaxed me into writing books more than anyone. Jeff was on another writing project when he was suddenly taken to Heaven before finishing.

ALASKA KEMOSABE may never make The New York Times bestsellers list, yet that wasn’t the reason for writing it. If only one person finds the finished manuscript a hoot as I do, all of that time and work was well worth the effort.

I laugh each time I see the cover alone, and I’d love to share it, but the publisher wants things kept totally under wraps until release time.

*ALASKA KEMOSABE will be available by late July 1 through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and via eBook.

THE WRONG STAND

“Volodymyr Zelenskyy is unable to account for where all of these funds went — yet he pleads for more.”

I’m sorry, Ukraine, but had Americans sent the right man to Washington, D.C., back in 2020, you folks wouldn’t be in the mess you’re in. Russia would’ve never invaded your country to begin with!

Unfortunately, that major blunder is now water under the bridge, and nothing can be done to repair the damage that Democratic voters did other than for your leader, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, to accept conditions for a ceasefire.

Unlike former United States President Joe Biden, President Donald Trump is working hard for a truce between both countries, yet it’s evident the Ukraine leader doesn’t want peace.

Unfortunately, “small man syndrome” seems to have taken over all logic with this person — the same was as it did French leader Napoleon Bonaparte some 200 years ago.

The United States has sent Ukraine money and weapons to help fight this unwinnable war to the tune of billions of dollars. President Zelenskyy is unable to account for where all of these funds went — yet he pleads for more.

During the last United States election, Zelenskyy attended a rally for Kamala Harris, so it’s obvious where his real loyalty lies. Unfortunately, he took the wrong stand there as well.

Those countries claiming they stand with Ukraine haven’t done a thing to help Ukrainian people fight, yet they now want to ignorantly criticize our country and our president. Such cheap talk is running wild in the streets.

If someone in this country says they stand with Ukraine while criticizing President Trump at the same time, they need to back their words up by jeting over to Ukraine and helping fight this war. Airplane tickets are available to get there. As I mentioned previously, talk is cheap.

It’s no different than me publicly stating, “I stand with my good friend Charlie!,” this as he gets his butt creamed by three thugs while I sit in an easy chair watching — while eating a bag of popcorn.

Zelenskyy needs to hang up his weapons, as some battles can’t be won! Those uninformed souls who think that tossing more money in Ukraine’s direction will help win this war are the same “uninformed ones” who believe that handing public schools more money will result in better education for children. It’s obvious how that has turned out.

I’m sympathetic to the Ukrainian people’s plight, but continuing this war isn’t going to do anything for them other than kill off countless more of their troops and innocent citizens. Anyone with a peapod of common sense should be able to see that!

CHOICES

“Joleen and I were told years ago that this eatery was a well-kept secret, and we eventually found out why.”

There are plenty of good places to eat in Lake Havasu —with my wife and I patronizing a good many. Some might say there’s absolutely no reason to drive out of town to dine out, yet sometimes it’s nice to leave paradise behind and check out nearby towns.

On occasion, we journey west on I-40 across the border to California and eat at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Needles. I was first taken there by the late John Ballard for a Lion’s Club meeting. It was lunchtime, and John recommended their pot roast sandwich.

There’s nothing close to it here in Havasu, as the restaurant has been making this acclaimed delicacy with their secret recipe since 1955. When friends are in town, Wagon Wheel is one of our stops. The history of the business goes back to Route 66 days when diners would turn off The Mother Road just to eat there.

Chicken fried steak for breakfast is a once-a-month delight for me, and the best I’ve found out of all eateries is at Crossroads Café in Parker, Arizona. Their steaks are tenderized and hand-breaded each morning, with one steak filling a large plate. I’ve never been able to finish one. For the most part, they’re tender enough to not need a knife.

We were told of this place by Jim and Pat Brownfield ten years go. The Brownfield and their river friends have been eating there since the mid-70s. Several restaurants in Havasu have tasty country-style breakfast steaks, yet nothing quite tops Crossroads, where my taste buds are concerned. The drive to and from Parker along the Colorado River adds a bit of ambiance to such a meal.

I love eating at airports, and Hanger 24 in Havasu is a great place for lunch. You just never know what airplanes or helicopters you’ll see while there. Private jets are often parked on the tarmac, with my often checking N numbers to try and find out who owns them.

Many of them are registered under corporations, thus, it takes a bit of sleuthing to uncover their owners, most often with me failing. Military aircraft are always unique to see at Lake Havasu City Airport, with the Boeing V-22 Osprey combination helicopter/airplane being my favorite.

Last on my list, and our favorite place to journey to for breakfast or lunch at least once a month, is the Airport Café in Kingman. Joleen and I were told years ago that this eatery was a well-kept secret, and we eventually found out why. Their food is tops — and the price is right.

The scenery outside the cafe windows takes me back in time to when this airport was known as the Kingman Army Air Corp Base. Four-engine B-17 bombers once called this place home until they were cut up and sold as scrap aluminum

Locals in Kingman definitely know of it, and the smart ones travel there rather than go to Cracker Barrel. This café is decorated with all aviation memorabilia, including authentic WWII artifacts. A control tower out front dates to 1941. I’ve asked to go up the steps, but so far, no offers have been made. Perhaps one day I’ll succeed.

Pilots travel from throughout the west to Kingman Airport merely to have breakfast or lunch. I’ve talked to a good many of them, curiously wanting to know more about the airplanes and helicopters they flew than anything. All were very informative in their replies.

One fellow, owner of a heavy equipment manufacturing plant in Vegas, was piloting an amphibious turbine-powered airplane that was worth well over $2,000,000. The man was down-to-earth and more than happy to talk about his unique plane. I told him I’d seen several in Alaska, with him agreeing that was the place to definitely own one.

I love the selection of restaurants in our town, yet I also enjoy taking road trips to those eateries down the road. Poet William Cowper said in his poem, The Task, “Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor!” William Cowper had to be definitely be talking about different places to eat!

A B-17 named “Alabama Gal” at Kingman in 1947 destined for scrap.

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?