I like to write junk...

SPECIAL DAYS

“My family doesn’t celebrate Soufflé Day, choosing National Pancake Day instead.”

*a work in progress

New Year’s Day is now behind us with New Year’s resolutions quick to disappear as well. Studies show that only 9% of the people making them hold true to their promises. A total of 23% quit by the first week and 43% by the end of January. At this point in life, I don’t make resolutions finding it an added burden just to find a working pen.

January is filled with other special days that many have never heard of. National Popcorn Day is on January 19, only one day before Presidential Inauguration Day. Is that a coincidence? National Cheese Lovers Day is on January 20. After eating bowls of popcorn and plates of sliced cheese on crackers most seniors will be plugged up by National Hugging Day which falls on the 21^st.

In February, Valentine’s Day always comes on the 14th two days before Darwin Day. For those unfamiliar with Darwin, his first name is Charles, and he’s credited with claiming that humans are related to apes. The movie “Planet of the Apes” starring Charleston Heston can also be attributed to him. I made that up. Close friends called both Darwin and Heston, “Chuck”.

Perhaps my favorite day in February is the 15th when Valentine’s candy can be found for 50% less. Time to stock up. The 19th is International Tug Of War Day with February ending on the 28^th with National Chocolate Soufflé Day. Singer/songwriter Carly Simon made the burning of a soufflé famous with her song, “Coming Around Again.” My family doesn’t celebrate Soufflé Day, choosing National Pancake Day instead.

Day of Prayer is on March 1 with World Plumbing Day on March 11, the same day as my brother’s birthday. St. Patrick’s Day occurs on March 17, with wearing something green being a necessity unless you have a fetish for getting pinched. World Poetry Day is the 21^st for whatever that’s worth. March 27 is my wife’s birthday and the date of the great Alaska earthquake. This quake registered 9.2 on the Richter scale.

April is full of significant dates such as April Fool’s Day, along with Be Kind To Lawyers Day on the 9^th. That also happens to be my birthday. Blah Blah Blah Day is on the 17th. National Pigs in a Blanket Day is on the 18^th with National Animal Crackers Day on the same. Easter Sunday is the 20^th, with National Pretzel Day on the 26th and Honesty Day ending things on April 30.

May has a decent selection. The 6^th is No Diet Day while Mother’s Day falls on May 12^th which is also National Nurses Day. The 16th is Malcolm X Day (I read the book by Alex Haley in 1967). Sunscreen Day falls on the 27^th (no need for Coppertone in Alaska). Learn About Composting Day is the 29th with May ending on National Smile Day (31st).

June 4 is National Cheese Day. Once again, seniors need to be careful celebrating this one for obvious reasons. Father’s Day is the 15^th. National Take Your Cat To Work Day is on the 16th with National Selfie Day on June 21. Please Take My Children To Work Day closes out June on the 30th.

Canada Day is July 1^st. Eh. The Fourth of July is the most important July day in this month, with little-known National Workaholics Day falling on July 5. The 14^th is National Mac and Cheese Day (my favorite) and jumping ahead to the 20^th we have National Ice Cream Day. Ending things on July 31^st is National Avocado Day.

August 1 is National Girlfriend Day for those single guys, with August 4^th Barack Hussein Obama’s birthday. He’s 63. “Happy birthday, happy happy birthday!” The 16^th is Tell A Joke Day. Speaking of jokes: What is the end of everything? Answer: The letter g. World Senior Citizen’s Day falls on August 21. The 31^st is National Eat Outside Day, which is hard to celebrate in Arizona during summer without shade and a mister. Water mister that is!

Labor Day is September 1 while Emma M Nutt Day falls on the same. For those not up to speed here, Emma was the world’s first telephone operator. Patriot Day along with National Hot Cross Bun Day are on the 11^th. My mom was born that day. National Double Cheeseburger Day comes on September 15. National Couple’s Day is the 18th with National Chocolate Pecan Pie Day on the 20th. The 29^th is National Coffee Day with the month ending on National Day For Truth And Reconciliation Day (30th).

October opens up to several special days beginning with Yom Kippur. National Custodian Day is on the 2^nd of October followed by National Get Funky Day on the 5^th. National Plus Size Appreciation Day falls on the 6^th of 2025, with National Pay Back A Friend Day on the 17^th. October ends with Halloween on the 31^st along with National Caramel Apple Day. Back in my “trick or treat’ years caramel apples were handed out as treats. Teeth pullers as I called them.

November starts out with, Day Of The Dead Day, with Marine Corps Birthday on the 10th. Sadie Hawkins Day is the 13th (no relation) and National Macchiato Day the 19^th. Thanksgiving of course is the 27^th. November 30 is National Mason Jar Day in conjunction with National Personal Space Day.

December rounds out the 2025 calendar starting with National Eat A Red Apple Day on the 1^st. National Mutt Day falls on the 2^nd with Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day on the 7^th. National Gravy Day is on the 21st with Christmas once again falling on December 25. National Make Up Your Mind Day is on the 31^st.

In a nutshell, that pretty much comprises some of the more important special days in 2025. I listed only 72. A total of 365 calendar days are special including holidays. For trivia’s sake, the US Government allows approximately 40,000 privileged workers to stay home and celebrate all 365 while still collecting a paycheck. Lucky them. Something tells me this “gravy train” is about to end.

Happy New Year!

LEGACY

“The way we treat people comes under this heading.”

As I’ve gotten older the word legacy has become more and more important to me. What will I leave behind in my life that will positively enhance others? I find different interpretations of legacy in dictionaries and the Holy Bible.

Judaism indicates that legacy can be good or bad, with spiritual or Godly legacy foremost over that of monetary or material assets, such as real estate, stocks, and bonds. A bad father or mother can leave a blemished legacy where children are concerned. Thankfully, my parents don’t fit the bad mold and hopefully, I don’t either.

Godly legacy enriches people’s lives long after a person is gone. The way we treat others comes under this heading. I find evangelist Billy Graham and Mother Theresa fitting this definition more than anyone.

As a Christian—faith, values, and traditions much like the Jewish also take precedence over that of leaving behind wealth. Both religions make it clear that there’s nothing wrong with making sure your family is financially secure once you’re gone. Not everyone can do that.

A spiritual legacy is defined as non-material, such as stories, beliefs, values, and wisdom. That seems to fit with me, although I do strive to leave something of all three. Spiritual legacy can be left behind through videos, tapes, books, and even letters.

Being a writer, and loving to research the lives of people who have long since departed, in certain cases all I’ve uncovered is a decaying gravestone more than anything else. I find that sad.

Some of these men and women were one-time owners of huge companies, with the businesses now long gone and their establishment names no longer remembered. Other than an aging obituary telling more about their business accomplishments than anything, it appears these folks dropped off the face of the earth without leaving any lasting legacy at all. They seemingly followed the dollar more than God. I don’t want that happening to me.

Perhaps the saddest thing I’ve observed over my lifetime is encountering family and friends who’ve said to me, “I plan on letting my children make up their own minds about what religion to choose.” The scriptures don’t recommend this, with that leading me to believe these folks weren’t Bible readers, although they claimed to be. Years have now passed and I see the aftermath of their flawed philosophy. It wasn’t good in some cases although a few of these offspring finally came to their senses and saw the light.

I watch YouTube videos quite often, especially following the life of hobo “Shoestring” Mark Nichols. Mark was a military veteran and has been a hobo traveling the rails throughout the US for some time.

“Shoestring” documented his adventures via a blog he started around 1989, and then began videoing them. He had over 2,000 followers on YouTube. The man was paid well for his episodes and loved by many. In his videos, he comes across as a very caring person. In several episodes he calls out to God for help or thanks him for help received.

Mark Nichols unlike Billy Graham, Mother Theresa, or other noteworthy people still left behind a positive legacy despite his hobo lifestyle. I believe that everyone can do the same as it’s strictly a matter of choice.

Sadly, “Shoestring” suffered through cancer, diabetes, a bad back, and macular degeneration of the eyes, with liver failure believed to have led to his unexpected death. His stories live on through numerous writings and films.

I can only hope Mark Nichols knew Jesus Christ as Savior, and I believe he did, or his legacy becomes significantly dimmer. The Bible says this about legacy where our faith is concerned in Deuteronomy 6: 6 & 7 (KJV). Moses is speaking here about the Ten Commandments:

6. “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts.”

7. “Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down, and when you get up.”

If parents heed these two verses alone and pass them on as instructed, I believe the legacy left to children and grandchildren far surpasses that of wealth and prosperity.

If I’ve achieved only that much—I deem my life to be successful.

LOL

“Perhaps these clubs brought in DEI counselors to help cure this serious problem?

I read the Orchids & Onions newspaper column first thing like so many others. I’ll shamefully admit I sometimes skip over orchids for the nitty gritty. Nicey nice is good but I prefer the cantankerous submissions best for a chuckle.

Some days there are only a few complaints, yet towards the end of the week, people become cranky. I’m guessing those in a sour mood are the ones having to work with the general public. I did that for at least ten years and it was a trying experience. “The customer is not always right!”

From my analysis of Orchids & Onions, here lately, it seems that social clubs have gotten their acts together. Folks are no longer complaining like they used to about having to breathe secondhand tobacco smoke, so the clubs either changed their policies or those gripers died off. I don’t belong to a club so I wouldn’t know.

There was a time club members complained about the pecking order within their ranks, or that another member had dissed them. When I say pecking order I mean seniority. It appears some of the older members developed an attitude towards newbies. Perhaps these clubs brought in DEI counselors to help cure this serious problem?

Restaurant food is always good for onions and these days I see many more than in the past. A laugh comes whenever someone makes a cliché gripe such as, “I’ll never patronize that place again!” We’ll never know if they did or not and for the most part, most of us don’t care.

A bad meal while dining out is to be expected on occasion—the same goes for home-cooked. I doubt poor folks in Ethiopia complain about what’s on their plates or if it’s slightly overdone.

Bad driver onions are on the rise and those complaining generally peg it on snowbirds coming back to town. I don’t know if that’s true because during summer months Californians are to blame. On rare occasions, a senior citizen behind the wheel is labeled a traffic hazard but I don’t believe there are too many of this type. My former boss always said that experience makes perfect and I assume that means us senior drivers as well.

I’ve been wanting to write an onion of my own for some time but so far nothing noteworthy has come to pass. The other day I was behind someone at a stoplight who must’ve fallen asleep or was on their device. That happens daily throughout town so it’s not really onion fodder.

When the light turned green they just sat there. I gave a slight, barely heard toot just to get them moving. That didn’t work. After I laid on the horn for two seconds this car immediately started rolling, yet rather slowly as if intentional.

By the time it inched through yellow, a red light reached out and grabbed me. I give myself an orchid for keeping cool here although I muttered something unprintable under my breath.

The other morning at a local restaurant I received hashbrowns instead of country potatoes like I “thought” I ordered. That’s not really onion-worthy for a valid reason. Potatoes are potatoes according to Dan Quayle. If you don’t remember Dan Quayle you are indeed not of the Geritol generation. My wife says that when the server asked which type of potato I wanted, I never answered. I don’t recall that but with selective hearing anything’s possible.

I see no need to complain about hungry coyotes prowling at night for a snack nor bright lights in the neighbor’s backyard, as well as those blue rubbish cans standing guard like British soldiers on the sidewalk. Garbage or recycling receptacles left out after pickup merely add to the ambiance of our neighborhood.

Oftentimes, I’m guilty of this. Not that it’s intentional—I just forget to bring them in. There’s no law against it, yet.

Litter in the streets bothers me but not enough to lose sleep over. Sometimes I see stuff worthy of stopping in the meridian and picking up, like new beach towels that blew out of boats or life vests. I’m not the only one.

The folks losing them are heading back to California and have plenty of money so it’s no biggie. One thing I let lie for other road scavengers is their colorful swimwear. How about those onions regarding aircraft noise at the airport written by residents living close by.

I could write an onion about a lack of parking at the Mesquite phlebotomy clinic but on the other hand, sitting there watching customers try to park is pure joy. Onions to baristas seem to be on the rise, yet no one’s complaining about the exorbitant price of lattes and mochas. Go figure.

I have a few suggestions for those cranky ones running low on onion ammunition. Our dog park on the south side has grassy areas for small and large dogs yet nothing for canines in between. How hard is it to fence off one more section?

With handicapped parking areas throughout town, how about creating some designated “senior citizen” parking spots in the second row. Perhaps make the age limit start at 70.

Last but not least, people need to continue complaining about frivolous things to keep readers of Onions and Orchids laughing. They say that laughter is the best medicine. Above all, unlike Dr. Willie Feelgood and Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy’s pills, laughter is free!

FRUITCAKE

“The big joke nowadays thanks to Johnny Carson is that a fruitcake will last forever.”

A recent article printed on 12/22/2024 in the “Today’s News-Herald,” written by Daniel Neman of the “St. Louis Post-Dispatch” struck a nerve with me. Neman’s article was on holiday fruitcakes. He was talking about the edible kind and not a two-legged variety that most of us have encountered in life.

Daniel Neman mentioned how fruitcakes came to get such a bad name, with it lying squarely on the shoulders of late-night television show host, Johnny Carson. Mr. Carson used this traditional holiday dessert in a 1989 joke monologue viewed by millions—criticizing these cakes as being something that people hate to receive as gifts or to eat. Johnny wasn’t speaking for everyone and he almost killed the industry with his baseless comments.

Our family always had fruitcake at Christmas or New Year’s, courtesy of my late Uncle and Aunt Noel McDaniel in Birmingham, Alabama. Mom generally received one as a gift from the various hospitals she worked for. My brother and I could devour a sizable loaf within a few days. I especially loved the green, yellow, and red candied fruit pressed inside.

The big joke nowadays thanks to Johnny Carson is that a fruitcake will last forever. That might be true if they’re frozen, but over time, even covered, they’ll dry out and become inedible. This rarely happened in our household. Dad and Mom liked fruitcake with their coffee while Jim and I had ours with milk or hot cocoa. I’ve been told more than once that fruitcake, like bacon, is unhealthy and plugs the arteries. It’s something about trans fats.

The folks condemning foods like fruitcakes as unhealthy without any scientific proof are the terroristic gadflies of this world. I’ve encountered multitudes of such people over the years—self-proclaimed experts on any particular subject after they’ve read a book, seen something on Facebook, or listened to Doctor Nutcase on an infomercial. For the most part, those offering “free advice” on television end their spiels with an offer to buy pills or books for $29.95.

Erroneous nutrition advice started with friends and acquaintances lecturing me that eggs were bad. This was in the 1970s. According to these armchair nutritionists, cholesterol in eggs was over the top and would turn my veins to stone. I listened to them for a while refusing to eat eggs or drink milk, until hearing later that they’d changed their tune. A three-egg omelet with a glass of 2% milk is now my breakfast of choice.

I’ve been told that red meat will kill me, including soda pop—both diet and regular, decaf coffee, high-fructose corn syrup, prepared frozen dinners, or anything microwaved in plastic. Eggnog is also on that bad list. I even had one person warn me about microwave popcorn with added butter. Supposedly, if the butter aroma is huffed, lung damage will occur. I’ve never been one to huff or sniff popcorn bags. Who does?

The warning I laugh most about regards McDonald’s or fast-food restaurants. More than once I’ve been told after hearing a gasp, “That stuff will lead to a heart attack!” The first McDonald’s came to Anchorage, Alaska, in 1970, and I’ve been eating at the Golden Arches ever since. That started over 55 years ago.

If the food we eat today is so bad, why are people living much longer than they did 200 years ago when vegetables, fruit, and meat were considered free of hormones and preservatives? I try to eat healthy according to what’s labeled healthy by my doctors, and for the most part, I’m successful.

I understand that anything consumed in excess has potential health consequences. Euell Gibbons was a nutritional guru to the extreme. He was a guest on Johnny Carson more than once. Euell promoted Grape Nuts cereal as being healthy and was an advocate of a low-fat high-fiber diet. Gibbons was called a nut cruncher back then by my friends and others. During that time I was a Grape Nuts fan as long as a bowl of sugar was within easy reach.

Euell Gibbons became a practicing Quaker and I have much respect for him due to this alone. Regardless, he fits the fruitcake mold where handing out bogus advice regarding nutrition is concerned. Euell evidently felt that totally foregoing certain foods would keep him around a few more years. Had he stopped smoking cigarettes that might’ve been worth another decade or two.

Gibbons died in 1975 at age 64 of a ruptured artery. Perhaps had he consumed a bit more eggs, pork, and beef he would’ve stayed upright a while longer? We’ll never know. What I do realize is this—somewhere down the pike—we all leave this world. Just because a person is vegan or doesn’t dine at McDonald’s isn’t going to stop such things from eventually happening.

The most important thing to remember here is that it isn’t what we eat, but the plans we’ve made on where we’re going after our ticker stops. John 3:16 tells us how to do that in 25 easy-to-understand words. As a Quaker and a believer in Jesus Christ, Euell Gibbons made that wise decision and so have I.

Before turning out the lights, there’s one last slice of fruitcake left in the fridge. All I need is a tall glass of cold eggnog to wash it down. Partaking of these two delicacies once a year hasn’t killed me yet!

“JERRY”

“They were nice to me and on Christmas always left a sizable tip or present.”

Looking back at folks I’ve met along the way, several stand out tall amongst the rest. Two of these were special people that I didn’t entirely know the history of. It was only after they passed away and I began writing, did I unearth their backgrounds through old wedding announcements and obituaries.

Alan and Muriel Girardet I first met as customers on my newspaper route in Anchorage. They were nice to me and on Christmas always left a sizable tip or present. When I say sizable I’m talking at least $5. The couple lived in a small but well-kept trailer in an older section of Alaskan Village Trailer Park.

Muriel and Alan were especially kind to neighborhood children, and this was especially true on Halloween. They were known to hand out the largest amount of candy of anyone in the park. There was a reason for them being so gracious to us kids that I didn’t know back then.

Alan went by the nickname of Jerry and I still don’t know the reason for that and probably never will at this point. His middle name was Newton. Mr. Girardet and his wife owned Lock, Stock, and Barrel gun shop, with a few of us kids who owned rifles purchasing .22 ammo from him. We’d been taught gun safety at Clark Junior High so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

The school had a small “take down” shooting range for the Clark Shooting Club. It would be set up in the gym and then taken down when not in use. For competition purposes, we’d go to an indoor target range on a local military base.

At home, sitting behind the gun shop was a hill that we could safely shoot into. A wrecked car sitting in front of it was riddled with holes. It was quite common to find several locals back there on a Saturday morning firing away.

My father eventually purchased the building that housed Lock, Stock, and Barrel Gun Shop, and I came to know Jerry even better. The man had a German Shepherd dog named “Heidi” that he brought to work every day. At lunch, Jerry would toss a ball and Heidi would chase it. You could tell by the excitement in her retrieving it that it was the highlight of the day.

Jerry became friends with my father-in-law and I learned from Herman that Jerry had also been in the United States Navy. Both men saw duty in WWII so they had something in common to talk about. Jerry served on the aircraft carrier USS Maine before retiring in 1959. His wife, Muriel, was also in the Navy. Being a member of the WAVES (women accepted for voluntary emergency service), Muriel remained on active duty until the end of the war.

Sadly, Jerry’s brother, David Lloyd Girardet, was killed in the crash of a Grumman Hellcat airplane during WWII. Not once did Jerry ever mention this to me nor tell my wife’s father, Herman, about the tragedy. Ensign David Lloyd Girardet attended the Naval Academy with a presidential appointment courtesy of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Hanging on a wall in the gun shop was a Brown Bess musket and powder horn dating back to the 1700s. I often visited Jerry just to check out this weapon. He eventually brought it down for me to inspect. I knew it was one of his prized possessions just by the way he handed it to me. The gun was long and heavy.

Because of my fascination for this Brown Bess, thirty years later I purchased one in Scottsdale, Arizona. I always wondered what happened to Jerry’s musket believing that it’d been sold after he passed away.

A couple of important things were learned about Jerry and Muriel along with that Brown Bess in writing this story—one of them quite sad. I never knew during the time I first met them in 1967, that they’d lost their only son in a motorcycle accident just three years prior.

David Lloyd Girardet was struck by a drunk driver in 1964 and killed. I can’t imagine the heartbreak of losing a child, and I suppose this was a reason for them seemingly “adopting” some of us neighborhood kids. David was without question named after Jerry’s late brother.

The other thing I came to know is not so tragic. The beloved “Brown Bess” was donated by Jerry and Muriel to the Lake Ronkonkoma Historical Society Museum in New York. A picture of it on their website shows the musket and powder horn in a place of reverence. A brass tag identifies it as being donated by the Girardets.

Interestingly enough, Jerry was born and raised in Lake Ronkonkoma, with the family living on Hawkins Lane. That street name was eventually changed to Hawkins Avenue, now considered the city business center. The Girardet patriarch came to America from France, where he also served in the Navy. Jerry, Muriel, and David are buried in the Lake Ronkonkoma Cemetery.

Some might ask what does this story have to do with Lake Havasu City? The answer is simple. There are thousands of seniors living here from all parts of the country. Undoubtedly, a good many have backgrounds much like the Giradets. In most cases, we’ll never know until they’re gone!

“HAPPY JACK”

“Thanks to Deana, Karon, Renee, and Starr for helping me with this project.”

On the way to Kingman from Lake Havasu City, a little-used byway crosses over Interstate 40, named Happy Jack Road. A sign identifying it is visible on this overpass. Access to the Happy Jack Road bridge or overpass is via the Santa Fe Ranch Road exit, and then one must head east for approximately one-half mile on a side road that follows alongside I-40. This side road is a remnant of old Route 66.

I’ve been on Happy Jack Road numerous times, following it until hitting Happy Jack Wash and Sacramento Wash. A BNSF railroad bridge back there has quite the history. A story could be written about it alone. Loose sand and a steep rocky incline make getting to this bridge a bit tough unless you have a four-wheel drive.

Approximately one mile west of this railroad bridge is an abandoned railroad stop named Haviland. Today, trains park there, but they only remain in place for a short time until the tracks are clear. The area is popular with meteorite hunters.

I’ve often wondered who Happy Jack was. The Jacks I know for the most part are all happy individuals—at least the ones still living. This fellow must’ve been someone special for a road and a wash to get named after him.

I presented that question to a Yucca forum site and ended up with several valid answers. One individual thought that Happy Jack was a train engineer, with two others saying that he was a former rancher in the area who owned a large section of land. A forum member said that she had an old newspaper article dictating such. It took some digging, but I eventually found several articles. Thanks to Deana, Karon, Renee, and Starr for helping me with this project.

Henry Jack Bowman is the real name of “Happy Jack.” Moving to Yucca from Tombstone in 1881, he came to the area at the same time the railroad was being constructed.

Henry owned The Yucca & Signal Stage Line in Yucca and provided service to and from the mining town of Signal. This business also hauled the mail. Henry was also a successful ranch owner and miner, along with keeping burros either to be sold or leased to other prospectors. Signal is now a ghost town.

Newspapers paint a vivid photo of Henry Bowman. He had a partner in this stage and freight operation, Charles Wilson, but the two men eventually had a falling out and went in separate directions. Meeting on a trail one spring day near Yucca in their wagons—neither gave way to the other.

“Happy Jack” was shot in the arm by his former business associate and survived, with Charles Wilson eventually turning himself into Sheriff Robert Steen.

Seven years later, Bowman went on a mining expedition into the surrounding mountains, only for his burros to return to his Cienega Ranch without their owner. Charles Wilson was one of the first men to help look for him. Two weeks later “Happy Jack” turned up a bit weathered from the experience yet alive. He was definitely a tough old buzzard.

Having researched and written this short story, the next time I drive under Happy Jack Bridge on a sweltering 120-degree summer day in an air-conditioned vehicle, with a large Coke within easy reach, I’ll think of Henry “Happy Jack” Bowman sitting on top of his stagecoach with sweaty passengers inside.

How he and others survived back then is a testament to their strength, grit, and tenacity!

LADDER OF JOY

“I’ll try to reignite my holiday spirit by watching Hallmark Christmas movies with Joleen, yet I can only take so many repeated scripts and bad acting.”

I haven’t been totally filled with “Holiday Spirit” for some time now although the top is still within reach. I’m not talking about the free-flowing spirits with which many find necessary to celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.

Some folks look for these three holidays—along with Labor Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, and Donut Day—as a time to drink to their heart’s content. By the way, Donut Day falls on Friday, June 6, in 2025.

The holiday spirit or cheer I’m talking about is uncontained excitement such as what kids experience in elementary school right before Christmas, knowing that classes will soon be put on hold until after the first of January. Brightly wrapped presents underneath the tree go along with this.

I don’t need to be reminded of the real reason for the season: Christmas. It’s the birthday of my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. That alone is reason enough to continue celebrating life and be filled with joy.

In my book, Thanksgiving began when the Pilgrims broke bread with Indigenous American Indians, while New Year’s means another year has passed. It’s also a time to look to the future.

Like so many older people, I tend to now look at holidays with a touch of sadness. I often think back to the time when parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and good friends were still here to celebrate.

I’m elated to still be around and take in activities with my own children, grandchildren, and pals, yet the elimination of debilitating back pain and other physical ailments in my body would make for a bit more elation. Only those going through such will understand.

My wife and I decorated for the first time in several years mainly because the grandchildren were coming for Thanksgiving. I had our Kansas-manufactured, metal Saguaro cactus wrapped in red, green, blue, and white LED lights which entailed working off a ladder in the back of our truck.

A few close calls were made going up and down it. The Made in China faux Christmas tree in our living room was safely put together and thankfully has built-in bulbs. I’m sure these decorations will be up through a portion of the new year.

Christmas cards are still a part of our holiday experience although only a few now get sent. We’ve got boxes and boxes of them, enough to last ’til the dinosaurs come home.

Sadly, finding cards in our mailbox is slowly dying much like people we know—five this year alone. A friend was just diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. His doctor recommended that the family be notified immediately. That news is never easy to take.

I’ll try to reignite my holiday spirit by watching Hallmark Christmas movies with Joleen, yet I can only take so many repeated scripts and bad acting. Last week, two movies in a row had basically the same plot. I can generally predict the outcome.

Not to totally change subjects, but Albertson’s recently had Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider on sale and I purchased eight bottles for the holidays alone—two at a time because this was the limit. Being nonalcoholic—there’s plenty of carbonation in this juice to bloat a whale.

Of course, gas is an unwanted byproduct of carbonation. On the positive side, apple juice supplies seniors with a sufficient amount of fiber.

After downing my share of the delicious fruit elixir, watching Christmas movies with anyone on New Year’s Day wouldn’t be a wise idea. A solo walk in the desert will work best to start 2025 off on the right foot.

It’ll also be a good opportunity to thank God for all his blessings, reflect on the past, pray for friends and family, and pray for this country’s future. If 2025 starts as well as 2024 ends, my holiday spirit should move up another rung on the ladder of joy!

SNAPSHOT

“My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.”

The other morning in a restaurant I heard a customer remark, “That’s a Kodak moment for sure.” The short and often repeated statement simply means that some special life event has just occurred.

In this case, a male server dropped and broke a dish or cup. I suppose that happens quite often, so why this person designated it a Kodak moment still baffles me.

I’ve been one to take pictures going back to elementary school, and I’m glad I did. Those photos still exist for my kids and grandchildren to enjoy and hopefully preserve. I now keep them in a safe for safekeeping, no pun intended.

In high school, I took a graphic arts class, with part of the semester devoted to taking pictures and then developing the 35mm film. Our large classroom had a darkroom where we created negatives and printed them off.

A classmate, David Church, and I decided to use the school high-definition camera to take a snapshot of a one-dollar bill. It started out as a joke of sorts, with neither of us having viewed a movie where criminals counterfeited lowly George Washington bills.

We left the completed image in a copier before departing class on Friday afternoon, ready for it to be duplicated. With no intentions of going through with the ruse, we hoped that someone would find it and create a fuss. The following week, graphic arts had a special guest speaker—a special agent of the FBI.

This man emphasized to our class and to other classes throughout the day the serious implications of counterfeiting currency. Undoubtedly, he knew this was a cleverly planned joke, yet wanted to nip things in the bud before someone went further.

Dave and I were smart enough to keep our mouths shut, thus we suffered no serious consequences. We were light years ahead of other students throughout the whole semester, where legal creativity was concerned, and received A’s for our handiwork.

Just the other day my wife mentioned that a snapshot had been taken of me as I drove through a red light. She then mentioned all of the cameras placed at various intersections for drivers like myself. I told her a police camera would’ve vindicated me of the act as I knew that light was still yellow. Our debate ended in a draw.

Cameras throughout town capture our every move and for the most part, are a good thing. I do my best to obey the traffic laws but at times fail. Those cameras aren’t the only ones capturing me making mistakes. I have a tiny one on the vehicle dash that records such acts as well.

A couple of years ago, Joleen was searching for cheaper auto insurance and came across a company offering lower rates if we agreed to something called “Snapshot.” At first, I thought it was an onboard camera and wanted no part of the device.

After reading a pamphlet, Snapshot turned out to be a gadget that plugged into our vehicle computer, and after 90 days, the data would be analyzed for sudden stops, jackrabbit starts, excess speed, and erratic driving.

It seemed like a no-brainer to go through with things, not taking into consideration it was close to Christmas. My wife loves for us to drive through Havasu neighborhoods at night during the holidays and take in the colorful lights.

For those living in town, they’ll know what I mean. The street signs are mostly faded and hard to see in the dark. Following a newspaper map with all of the Christmas light locations made for a trying experience.

Our snapshot device went off numerous times, making a loud beep as I suddenly slowed down and made quick turns. I wanted to toss it out the window. All in all, Snapshot painted a picture of me as a bad driver after the results were tabulated.

With the holidays here, thankfully, Snapshot is a thing of the past. I now use a preprogrammed GPS to find those decorated homes. There’s a good chance I’ll still execute sudden stops and turns, yet the only indication of such will be a honk coming from behind.

I’ll return the gesture out of courtesy and wave to them while cheerfully saying out loud, “Merry Christmas, Jack. Next time, stay a little further back!”

LIFE STORIES

“Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.”

In my younger years, I worked with several great storytellers at different places of employment. They were generally much older men than me. Most of their tales revolved around workplace experiences, fishing, hunting, and youthful exploits, along with rehearsed or unintentional acts of mischief.

For the most part—I believed all their tales were true—except for one bizarre story told to a group of us during morning break.

Robert Nelson was a parts expeditor for the State of Alaska. I’m not sure what his former background was because he was a “man of mystery” with little known of his past by coworkers. Bob was in his 70s when I first met the guy. I was told he drank a lot over the weekends and that his accent drastically changed when he did so.

At break one Monday morning, in what appeared to be Irish undertones, the man bragged of being at a tavern years ago when a fight broke out between him and another bar patron. Bob said that he grabbed the other fellow and ripped his head clean off his shoulders before placing it on the counter.

We laughed hysterically believing it was a joke until Mr. Nelson became very angry. With his ears and forehead glowing cherry red, he yelled that his story was true and that we’d greatly offended him. The room turned totally quiet, with laughter returning once again, only after Bob Nelson stormed out the door.

Bob worked less than a year longer before he resigned. We were informed through the workplace grapevine, that he lost his driver’s license and had to leave because this job consisted of driving a state vehicle. That strange story of Nelson’s is probably still circulating in certain Alaskan circles. Undoubtedly, Bob Nelson created his tall tale while tanked up on agave juice. Tequila was his brew of choice.

Three men stand tall where “factual storytelling” is concerned. All of them had a lifetime of exciting adventures to share. I wish I could remember more of what they relayed over the years.

Reid Bowman served in the United States Navy during WWII, being at Iwo Jima during the heat of conflict at age 17. He saw battle on ships that I no longer recall the names of. Some of his observations while fighting the Japanese were quite graphic. I can still see tears coming from his eyes during one recollection of fellow sailors being killed when enemy fire struck their ship.

Reid had some great fishing stories as well. With him owning a beautiful cabin directly on the Kenai River near Soldotna, Alaska, there was no doubt they were true. The Kenai River has some of the best salmon fishing on the Kenai Peninsula.

Martin Allen was a native Arizonian although he was born in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1920. He was a real cowboy during his younger years, riding horses and herding cattle like those cowboys seen in Western movies. He served in WWII as a Marine, and afterward, he worked in the mines of Bisbee for what I believe was close to 30 years.

This was at the same time that miners went on strike there, and a mining company Martin Allen worked for during those years, Phelps Dodge, was found to be irresponsible with pension money. Unbeknownst to the employees, the company had been dipping into these funds for operational purposes.

At the age of 68, Martin moved to Alaska and went to work as a mechanic for the State of Alaska. He spent several years in the villages of Bethel and Aniak, where he was dubbed “The Aniak Cowboy” by locals.

An avid fisherman, Martin was also good at flipping cars and trucks and made sizable money after retirement in doing so. Martin told great stories about his time cowboying, as well as working in the mines. With mining a dangerous occupation, he mentioned losing several friends from occupational accidents.

One story I remember most was actually a wisdom-filled fable if you can call it that. I can’t describe things using his exact words because they’re a bit salty for this family newspaper, but here goes:

Two bulls were standing on a hill watching a herd of cows grazing down below. One of the bulls, a youngster, said to the other, “Let’s run down there and make love to one of those heifers.”

The larger of the pair, much older and wiser than his immature partner, with a blade of grass stuck between both front teeth, slowly replied,

“Why don’t we walk down there and make love to all of them!”

Ron Kolbeck came to Alaska from Wisconsin. His family was involved in farming and that’s where he picked up some of his ability to work on all types of heavy equipment, along with being in the Air Force as an aircraft mechanic during the Korean War.

Ron worked on the Alaska Pipeline from start to finish and was able to sock away a significant amount of money. He spent several years at Prudhoe Bay as a mechanic. Most younger guys doing the same weren’t as savvy and spent their windfall on frivolous things like fancy trucks, cars, and toys. Ron and his wife, Helen, wisely invested theirs.

Oil pipeline work was dangerous with Kolbeck mentioning several accidents that took the lives of fellow workers. He told stories of enduring harsh weather 12 hours a day – 7 days a week to get the job done. I especially remember him talking about a welder he worked with who used an acetylene torch to cut up galvanized metal.

Ron warned the man about the hazards of doing such without an outside air supply and the guy didn’t listen. Galvanized steel heated to its melting point, gives off a deadly green gas. Ron told us that this fellow died of a serious lung infection before the summer was over.

I miss listening to Ron, Reid, and Martin share the exciting adventures they were a part of. Each man lived a relatively long life despite their hazardous occupations. One of my regrets is never thanking them for their military service.

I still enjoy chatting about the past with family, friends, and acquaintances who are now in their senior years. Not once have any of them mentioned taking someone’s head off and placing it on a bar counter. Without question, Robert Nelson set the bar sky-high for anyone to top that amazing feat!

GRANDMA’S HANDS

“I’ve been craving an authentic Alabama pecan pie for several years now.”

Holiday time is upon us. Not long ago, using “eternity” as a guideline, Mama Haynes prepared special food from generational handed-down recipes for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.

As kids, in the early 1960s, my brother Jim and I helped Mama Haynes “shell” peas or cut snap beans. Several types of peas were served at almost every holiday dinner, with blackeye peas always in a big bowl at the center of the table come New Year’s Day. Eating them was supposed to bring good luck, although none of my relatives ever won the lottery.

I can still recall the unique odor associated with shelling green peas, unlike anything I’ve smelled other than perhaps one counterculture product. The fragrance was very strong if a pod full of green peas was especially fresh. I’m not a hemp user, but I’ve driven by a few marijuana greenhouses in California, and the pungent sweet aroma coming from them is close to the same. I believe my grandparents’ name for marijuana was loco weed. My folks called it Wacky Tobackie.

Jim and I would sit on Mama Haynes’s back porch, simultaneously talking and shelling with her. By the end of the process, certain fingers would be green from pinching hundreds of pods until they were all shelled. Soap and water removed some of the green chlorophyll, although some staining remained. It was no worse than having dirt or grease embedded in my skin, a daily ritual. No biggie.

Both of my grandmas would mash their own potatoes using hand-crank mixers. I’d assist on rare occasions but it wasn’t one of my favorite tasks. The procedure was labor intensive. Mashed potatoes in a box took care of that problem, but they’re not near as good as the real thing, not even the Idahoan brand.

When making a cake or a pie, that was a different story where mixing ingredients was concerned. I’d gladfully help out and even “sift flour” as it was called. Mama Haynes made the best pecan pies, with the nuts gathered locally from Lamar County pecan trees or sent to her from my Aunt Katrulia. Aunt K’s family owned a pecan orchard near Grand Bay, Alabama.

I helped open the unshelled pecans using a small hammer to crack the shell. The object was to remove the “meat” of a pecan in one piece. It took practice. When she wasn’t looking I often smashed a pecan to smithereens just to see how flat it would go.

Mama Haynes’ pecan pies were made using a special syrup named Golden Eagle. This delicious ingredient is manufactured in a small town in Alabama called Fayette, with the company in operation for almost 100 years. Fayette was originally called LaFayette after the famous Revolutionary War hero, Marquis de LaFayette.

Incorporated in 1821, my brother was born there and I often joked as a boy that he looked Fayette, although I was the chubby one.

After my family moved to Alaska, shelling peas with Grandma Hankins and Mama Haynes became a thing of the past. On holidays, Mom would use her electric mixer to make fresh mashed potatoes, while she still made the scrumptious pecan pies using Mama Haynes’s recipe.

I’ve been craving an authentic Alabama pecan pie for several years now. Some time ago I ordered a jar of Golden Eagle and had it sent via UPS to Arizona. That delicious syrup ultimately came to be used on pancakes, waffles, and biscuits. Why it was never turned into a pie is forgotten history.

This fall, the Golden Eagle Syrup Company announced that they’d be making a select number of large pecan pies, and that immediately caught my attention. Ordering up one before they were all spoken for, it should be here in time for Thanksgiving. With two of my grandchildren traveling from Minnesota to see us, I wanted them to partake in a part of the holiday I’d been accustomed to while young.

The distance this pie has to travel via the United States Postal Service to Lake Havasu City is 1,717 miles. I’m not sure if it’s coming by truck or plane, but when it arrives it’ll be greeted with open arms. My wife wanted to know why I didn’t just order a jar of Golden Eagle, and have her bake a pecan pie. Joleen makes excellent pies but there’s more to having this specific pie than she understands.

My grandparents on both sides of the family lived in Vernon, Alabama, which is only 18 miles from Fayette. There’s something about folks living in that neck of the woods that makes this pecan pie significant to me. It’ll be as close to one of Mama Haynes’ pecan pies as I can get.

Grandma’s hands might not have made it, but the recipe used by Golden Eagle is one and the same as hers.