I like to write junk…

* finished product.

It’s rare that I hear anyone say these days, “I’m just trying to make a living.” My parent’s generation used this term quite frequently along with my grandparents. It basically means: earning enough money to place a roof over your head, food to eat, and clothes to wear.

After my father was honorably discharged from the Air Force, he entered the business world owning a gas station and automotive parts stores. Dad was of the frame of mind, that merely working for a W2 form for the rest of his life went against the grain, in being able to ‘adequately provide’ for his family and have anything left. By entering the business world, foremost, he became a provider of jobs to others.

Early on, he believed that the government was taxing people to death as a means of preventing them from getting ahead. With the recent 1.2 trillion-dollar spending budget just passed, hang on to your wallet or purse because they’re coming for more.

The San Francisco rock group, Huey Lewis and the News, recorded a song that exemplifies how my father felt regarding W2s. “Working for a Living” is the song title, and these now dated lyrics, fit his ideology perfectly back then.

“Hey, I’m not complaining ‘cause I really need the work.

Hitting up my buddies got me feelin’ like a jerk.

Hundred-dollar car note, two hundred rent.

I get a check on Friday, but it’s already spent.

I’m takin’ what they’re giving ‘cause I’m workin’ for a livin’.”

Early on, I know my parents lived from paycheck to paycheck, with Dad sometimes moonlighting at a parttime job while still in the military.  Mom worked at a hospital as a nurse’s assistant, including taking in ironing for other people. My folks knew the meaning of working hard to try and get ahead.

I tried to instill the same in my children, believing that if you want something bad enough, you have to earn it. It seems that philosophy went flying out the window where this entitled generation is concerned. Now, it seems, more and more young people and newcomers to this country, believe things should just be handed to them. It’s easy to see the decay in America because of this socialistic downturn.

Driving through our city, I see “NOW HIRING” signs in many business windows. Businesses seemingly can’t find enough people willing to work. In some cases, the ones they do hire are expecting a paycheck for merely showing up.

Trying to keep my ears open whenever possible, I heard a young employee in a restaurant tell a customer, “If they want me to stay here, they need to pay more.” Basically, she was either looking to quit, or was priming the pump for a bigger tip. I didn’t see a ball and chain attached to her ankle, so the gal was free to leave.

Free cell phones, free college tuition, free food, free cable, free internet, free lodging, free medical and dental, and the list goes on and on, was never a part of my parent’s generation. Government, along with a good number of followers, seem to have turned on those hard working and business savvy people providing jobs.

A good friend of mine uses the term, ‘the haves and the have nots.’ In his definition of the term, it doesn’t refer to just rich and poor. The haves are folks that worked hard and fulfilled their dream, whatever that might be. A nice home, car, boat, airplane, home on the lake, etc.

The have nots in his mind are those people that criticize the haves, jealous of them, saying that they’re the reason for them being in the have not position to begin with. We’re seeing this flawed ideology in our country right now, with certain government leaders, politicians, and even educators mostly to blame for stirring the pot.

It’s akin to what happened prior to WWII in Germany. Adolf Hitler turned a good percentage of the German people against Jews, saying they were responsible for the hard economic times being incurred in that country. Jewish students were taught early on the basics of financial discipline, and they prospered because of it. Many still do.

They were the ones providing jobs back then, with a good number of Jewish citizens being business owners. Tragically, we’re seeing history repeat itself—not with just Jewish people being singled out—but the haves as well.

Those song lyrics mentioned by Huey Lewis and the News, could now be changed to reflect things a bit differently these days.

“Hey, I’m complaining ’cause I really don’t wanna work.

All those rich people I see, I’m being brainwashed into believin’ they’re selfish jerks.

Five-hundred-dollar car lease, thousand dollar rent.

I’m not worried, you see, Uncle Sam covers this for me.

I’m takin’ what the government’s giving, ‘cause I don’t wanna work for a livin’!”

How will this end up? Only time will tell. Hopefully, voters will see through the charade before it’s too late to avoid where this twisted path of destruction is taking us.

I’ve been hearing the term “dysfunctional family” here lately and don’t know entirely what it means. There are many different interpretations found on the internet for dysfunctional.

The following is a partial list of these reasons: perfectionism, addiction, abusiveness, depression, communication, emotional neglect, jealousy, guilt, lack of empathy, lack of boundaries, controlling, insecurity, extramarital affair, lack of intimacy, and finance. Thankfully, I don’t meet any of these definitions.

I’m not sure who decides if a family is dysfunctional or not, as the judgment behind such a decision seems to be subjective. I asked a friend to name a family that he considered dysfunctional, and he immediately answered, “The Royal Family.”

I suppose that’s a valid answer going by the above list of credentials, yet who wouldn’t be maladjusted having mega photographers and tabloid reporters watching your every move, 24/7/365.

Being a former mechanic, dysfunctional to me means windshield wipers not working or blinkers doing the same. Where unusual habits of people like the Windsor family of Great Britain are concerned, I generally chalk it up to quirkiness and not dysfunctionality.

Most every family has a quirky member or two. The Windsor’s seem to be blessed with a significant number of such people. As Mom often said, “It takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round!”

Judging by the mechanical definition of dysfunction, most of my senior friends, if not all, are part of a large dysfunctional contingent. I won’t mention names, but there’s bad knees, hips, eyes, ears, legs, arms, hearts, and even fingers and toes within this group.

Some time ago, I saw an unusual decal on the back window of a car in our city. Each stick family member pictured had a problem. The husband holds a bottle of booze, while his wife is angry and abused. An older son grasps a cannabis joint between two fingers while the youngest boy wields a knife. Little sister of all things is a pole dancer. The dog is even featured—with it apparently having an identity crisis. A fancy ruffled collar was wrapped around its neck.

I’m not sure how a perfect family would be characterized these days, as society and Hollywood have seemingly destroyed what’s known as the nuclear family. A nuclear family is one having a father, mother, including children. Some early television sitcoms such as, “All in the Family” and “Married with Children,” intentionally made nuclear families out to be dysfunctional. “The Simpsons” animated series is perhaps the worst.

It appears there’s an attempt to totally wipe out the definition of ‘family’ from what it once meant. Nothing proves this more than a decal recently observed on the back of a Toyota pickup window. In it, a Jeep is attempting to chase a stick family down. At the bottom of the decal are these words: “Nobody cares about your stick figure family!!!”

After seeing that, I had to wonder about the person driving this Toyota, and what was his reasoning behind displaying such. It didn’t take long for my brain to come up with a logical, armchair-psychologist answer.

“The driver is probably overweight and has a dislike for thin people, along with having a warped sense of humor!”

Getting a much better view of him at the next light, my hunch was right. The seemingly large guy met one of the dysfunction criteria, that of being addicted to food. This decal was his way of getting back at society.

For those about to lecture me that the young man could’ve had a medical problem, please stand down. For crying out loud, he was eating what appeared to be a pastry of some kind. I added those first four words for unnecessary emphasis and nothing more.

Eons ago, I had a boss that used the phrase quite often. One day, I faked as if I was crying out loud to see what he’d do. The former Army sergeant was none too pleased with my sarcastic humor. Anyway, getting back on track here.

Where this young man’s vinyl message was concerned, I wasn’t offended and got a hoot out of it. What I didn’t like is that it wasn’t perfectly aligned on the glass. Having been an employee that installed decals on Alaska State Trooper cars for several years, I notice trivial stuff like that. These days, I especially watch for misaligned business signs and placards on cars and trucks.

Realtors seem to be the worst offenders. How can these people sleep at night knowing that their decals aren’t square to the rest of the vehicle? I know I couldn’t until things were corrected.

It’s like walking into someone’s home and seeing a painting or picture hanging off-kilter on the wall. I don’t know about you, but I want to walk over and immediately straighten it. In some cases, I have.

Every so often I spot someone around town standing beside their vehicle with a gas can in hand. I can’t remember the last time a car or truck of mine ran out of fuel. I’m thinking it was in my teenage years, and even back then, perhaps only once or twice. I’ve seemingly run on fumes a few times since, but always managed to make it to a service station.

There’ve been several occasions where I helped push stalled cars to gas pumps after they quit running. The drivers were headed that direction but didn’t quite make it. Pushing 4,000 pounds by hand up a slight incline is only for the young at heart.

My dad almost ran out of fuel late one night in Lubbock, Texas, this after our family went to a drive-in movie. The 1957 Ford barely made it to a closed station, where the old man (he was around 29 at the time), showed my brother and me a trick. I believe he’d learned it from a teenage friend when they rode motorcycles.

Before computers controlled the gas pumps like they do now, hoses sometimes still held a small amount of residual fuel after being hung back up. Dad went around and collected enough to fill a pop bottle, in hopes of at least driving us to a still open facility. Turns out he didn’t need to, because a policeman quickly came along with lights flashing. After finding out what was going on, the officer gave my father a gallon from a can in his trunk.

Having worked at a Texaco station while still in school, I helped out many folks that suffered this classic mistake. Some of them brought their own gas can, but a good number needed to borrow the shop’s. I learned early on to get something from them as collateral, so that they’d be inclined to return the container.

One time a guy stole our can after I filled it, with me being lectured soon after to never make that mistake again. A driver’s license worked best as collateral, but in some cases the drivers didn’t have one on them. At that point, a watch or enough cash to cover the cost of the can was asked for. If this person didn’t have anything of value, I sent them away emptyhanded.

Here lately, I’ve been noticing more and more battery powered vehicles on Lake Havasu City streets. If I’m sitting beside one at a stoplight, my window generally goes down so that I can hear how quiet they are. The only sound made when the light turns green is warm rubber tires rolling on freshly laid asphalt.

My wife and I currently don’t own an electric car or truck, with me not being one of those guys saying I won’t purchase one. During the horse and buggy days, some of those folks claimed they’d never have a horseless carriage. Automobiles were called that back then. The majority of those complainers eventually had to eat their words.

What I like most about EV (electric vehicles) is that they’re much quicker in a straight line than gas-powered rigs. I’ve read where the acceleration of some models is like an airplane taking off. All-wheel drive, with absolutely no tire spin, will set you back in the seat like a fighter jet. I’ve never been in a fighter jet, but can imagine the thrill, having ridden a carnival ride or two. Don’t believe me? Check out the Pininfarina Battista EV.

What I don’t like about EV is wondering where I’d recharge on busy weekends. I’ve seen photos of recharge stations with a long line of cars and trucks waiting to plug in. This was generally during holidays and bad weather. Potential power outages seem to be their weakest link besides random fires. For the record, gasoline and diesel fueled vehicles have been self-igniting for years. I recently observed one such inferno on I-40 when a fuel line evidently came loose.

I’m constantly having to remind myself to recharge my electric razor along with various power tools like cordless drills. Over the years, I’ve often found them almost out of juice or totally dead. It seems I might run into the same problem where owning an electric vehicle is concerned. I know they have a gauge telling the charge level of batteries much like a fuel gauge, yet mistakes can still happen.

Unfortunate working stiffs still having to punch-in each morning, will have another lame excuse for being late to work because of EV vehicle ownership. “Hello, Mr. Bruce, my car ran out of juice, again.”

On occasion, my wife asks me, “Does the car need gas?” I try to make sure the tanks always topped off in summer, just in case the power goes out and local gas pumps don’t work. A few extra gallons are kept in a safe place, with me wanting to have enough to make it to the Hualapai’s and back.

For those not knowing what the Hualapai’s are, they’re mountains directly east of Kingman, approximately 70 miles from here. It’s generally 20 degrees cooler at the summit than here in Havasu. If you’ve never been there—a drive up the mountain is well worth it to escape summer heat.

I just read where it can take anywhere from 30 minutes to 12 hours to charge an electric car depending on how low the batteries are. According to another article, when the charge is complete, a loud beep is heard. It’s almost as if they do this for us older people with hearing problems.

If and when we invest in an EV rig, Joleen might have to remind me on occasion to keep things plugged in. Should we find our batteries low, the amount of time needed to recharge them will be of no major concern. Having to wait appears to be another senior trait that we’ve become experts at.

EV is here to stay regardless of what the Hot Rod crowd (which includes me), or others have to say. Some classic cars, muscle cars, and even ’32 Fords are already being converted to electric power by several shops throughout the country. Most likely these cars are now faster than they were before the motor swap.

Glade Air Fresheners coined a jingle several years back that went like this, “Plug it in, plug it in.” Like it or not, more and more vehicle owners will be singing that tune as time marches on. Comedian and automobile aficionado, Jay Leno, is an EV advocate going way back. I feel like I’m in good company seeing his expert stamp of approval on things.

EV will help take a good many gas and diesel vehicles off the road but not all. Hopefully, when the infamous ‘flux capacitor’ is finally bug free, that form of energy will make gas and electric vehicles a thing of the past. It’s doubtful I’ll see this happen in my lifetime!

It’s not often that I listen to country western music. On occasion, as I’m channel surfing on Sirius, I come across a song that begs listening to. The other morning on my way to Kingman, Willie Nelson was singing about trying to be humble.

I turned up the volume finding it was humorous along with being an enlightening tune. The name of the song is, “It’s Hard to Be Humble.” The starting lyrics go like this,

“Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble

When you’re perfect in every way

I can’t wait to look in the mirror

‘Cause I get better looking each day.”

Being humble is Biblical, and seems subjective to interpretation. The Webster’s Dictionary explanation for humble reads as follows. 1. Not proud or haughty. 2. Not arrogant or assertive. 3. Reflecting, expressing, or offered in a spirit of deference or submission.

The old saying, “Flaunt it if you have it!” is definitely not being humble.

An online definition I found for this term is: 1. Tell someone not to hide their beauty. 2. Display your wealth.  3. Over emphasize abilities. Bragging of course is another word for flaunt.

Willie Nelson’s song got me to wondering if being humble was ever a problem for me. That’s a hard question to answer on my own, so friends and family would be a better judge of such.

Asking Joleen this question, she believes I could’ve been a bit unhumble at times in my compositions. She thinks perhaps my assertiveness and opinions on certain subjects, sometimes come through like a bull in a curio cabinet. Joleen did say that I’m getting better with age instead of worse.

Where that number one trait on the list of flaunting is concerned, I suppose beauty is intended for females only, because I’ve never seen a beautiful guy. Handsome perhaps, but not beautiful. When a woman is beautiful and a man handsome, there’s really no need to flaunt it. We can see this without folks having to dress scantily, or bare it all to prove a point.

When I think of flaunting wealth, I flash back to seeing a Turbo Porsche 911 GT3 here in town with personalized license plate: CHMPCHG. It took me a while to figure out the meaning, Chump Change. I believe this particular automobile cost more than 300K, so that was definitely not chump change to me.

You could look at that as not being humble, but then again, the plate I saw on an expensive sportscar saying REPOED wasn’t any humbler. I did chuckle at both in the same way I did Willie’s song.

A few years ago, I belonged to the London Bridge Lion’s Club. Within this club, I met a guy from the L.A. area who was a retired movie set worker. This guy helped build various buildings and props needed in the motion picture industry. I asked him how many movie stars he met and he said, “Many.”

The fellow told me a story of a now, well-known comic actor, who at that time was just starting out. The actor was down to earth at the beginning, mingling with the construction crew, even calling a few of them friends. As time went on, and he became famous, the comedian’s head began to swell and he distanced himself from the lowly workers.

One day, out of the blue, he walked over to show some of the crew his contract. The amount on it was more than what these blue collar workers made in their lifetimes. He evidently only did this to rub things in, thinking it was funny, yet didn’t impress anyone in the process.

I’ve never forgotten that actor’s name, and over time I’ve watched him go through two divorces, with his career appearing to finally be over because of anger and a bad attitude. The guy made a ton of cash in the movie industry, along with a bunch of enemies as well. Without doubt, trying to be humble after becoming successful wasn’t in the big picture. Several lyrics in Willie Nelson’s song fit this person perfectly,

“Some folks say that I’m egotistical

I don’t even know what that means

I guess it has something to do with

The way I fill out my skintight blue jeans.”

I suppose a few readers are trying to figure out who this person is. Out of respect to him, I’ll not mention the name. He definitely needs prayer, because sooner or later, he’ll find that money can never replace the friends ditched along the way in making it.

In looking for a person that fits all the character traits of being humble, Mother Teresa stands tall. She gave her whole life to helping others, doing without along the way.  She was neither haughty nor arrogant. Mother Teresa set the bar sky-high for others to follow.

Drifting back to Willie Nelson’s song, I’ll end this piece with these final lyrics that I changed just a tad. I believe they apply to me, and to most of us for that matter.

“Oh Lord, I try to be humble

I’m doing the best that I can.”

I decided to research the word “pride” remembering what I’d been taught early on in Sunday School class. Proverbs 16:18 says – “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

When I turned to left-leaning Google to get an interpretation of pride, many things immediately popped up, some that only a few years ago, wouldn’t be considered prideful. I won’t go into those, yet will give my own interpretation on the meaning of pride.

To begin with, the first time I recall coming across the word was a reference to Presto Pride pots and pans. Mom had a set of the copper bottom cookware, and I remember having to use copper cleaner each time while washing dishes to keep them coppery, if that’s even a word.

My mother always expected her pots and pans to look brand new after my brother and I finished cleaning them. We did our best—with her still owning and using them right up until the end.

Deciding to find out what happened to Presto Pride, I discovered the cookware is no longer manufactured. Seeing that, no tears were shed. Those things were labor intensive while Jim and I lived at home.

Going way back, Alabama Crimson Tide used the words Bama Pride to describe their football team. It appears someone quickly saw a problem with that, most likely a minister, and Bama Fever was substituted instead.

Tiger Pride is now a reference to the Auburn Tigers. We see how well that turned out. The Tide have rolled most every year going back to Coach “Bear” Bryant, while The Pride constantly come up playing second fiddle.

Romans were full of pride, not only the elite, but common people living there as well. Over many years, pride is what helped destroy the civilization. It seems to be happening right now in this country. At the rate things are currently spiraling downhill, it shouldn’t be much longer ‘til we join the ranks of the proud Roman Empire where history is concerned.

The Webster’s 1828 Dictionary says this about pride: 1. Inordinate self-esteem; an unreasonable conceit of one’s own superiority in talents, beauty, wealth, accomplishments, rank in elevation in office, which manifests itself in lofty airs, distance, reserve, and often in contempt of others.”

The synonyms of pride are: conceit, arrogance, haughtiness, and narcissism. Pride is the act of giving ourselves credit for something God has done. I sometimes use the word proud, such as being proud of my children or grandchildren for things they’ve done.

Taking precedence over this type of good pride, blessed is the word. My pride for children or grandchildren having accomplished things, was only possible because they were blessed. Blessings are directly associated with, and come from, God.

Some examples that Google sees fit to call prideful don’t fit under the blessed definition. I believe in due time, much like Presto Pride pots and pans, including ancient Rome, these Google patronized and celebrated entities will fail as well.

James 4:6 says – “God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.”

Insignificant things that happen to us sometimes have significant meaning. To fully understand, we have to sit back and take a moment to ponder them. I find this to be especially true today.

Although I had this story mostly complete in my mind, never did I think the unfinished ending would be handed to me in a most unusual manner.

For as long as I can remember—I’ve loved what’s referred to as show-n-tell. Even before grade school, if I found something unique such as a large leaf, pinecone, or ugly bug, I felt the need to show my parents or grandparents.

Elementary school years took things to a different level, because on occasion, there was an official show-n-tell day. The assorted junk I hauled into class were generally polished rocks or boyish items received for Christmas or birthdays, such as cap guns or Slinkys.

One year, most likely 1964, I brought a small plastic bubblegum machine that my folks gave me as a gift. This machine would discharge one bubblegum ball for a penny, although anything round, and up to the size of a quarter worked just fine. Because of this, kids used their milk or lunch money to buy gum from me.

I made a killing for several days until being told not to bring my device to class anymore. What entrepreneur spirit I possessed back then was nearly destroyed that day. Dreams of placing actual bubblegum machines in laundromats throughout Texas, still remained with me, yet I never pursued the idea, being much too young to even know how.

In junior high, speech class was about as close as we got to show-n-tell. I was extremely shy at this point, and developed the jitters having to stand in front of my peers. Pimples seemed to appear out of nowhere from this stress, and I recall one humongous one breaking out on my forehead the day of a speech.

No amount of Clearasil would cover things up, and I’m sure as I gave my five minute talk, all eyes were focused on the zit instead of what I had to say. I only mention that because had it been someone else talking looking like Cyclops, my eyes would’ve been doing the same.

High school was a bit different. I’d lost some of my shyness, and actually looked forward to speech class, always searching for something unique to talk about. That generally wasn’t hard for me to do.

One year, I gave a demonstration on how a pencil was made. Beforehand, I sanded off all of the yellow paint, severing the eraser and attachment band with a knife as well. The remaining pencil was then placed in boiling water which loosened the glue—allowing both halves and lead to separate.

My instructor was most impressed, especially when I told the class that one tree produced 170,000 pencils. Encyclopedia Britannica gave me that information and not Google. That creative speech earned an A.

College was a bit different for me where presentations were concerned, because I started late in life, and most of the other students were half my age. At that point stage fright was a thing of the past.

In Speech 101, I gave a eulogy on Spuds McKenzie. Spuds was the official mascot and spokesperson at that time for Budweiser Beer. A portrait of the bull terrier dog sat on my podium including a box of Kleenex. The crude artwork made by me using staples and glue to hold things together now hangs on my garage wall. I still chuckle on occasion looking at it.

After finishing my eulogy, then wiping both eyes with a tissue, some students laughed while others asked if Spuds had really died. This presentation was one of my best yet. I aced that class including most all college classes I took, receiving A’s. It’s strange how hard a person studies when they’re footing the bill.

While working for the State of Alaska, I put together a roast of my boss for his retirement party. Keith Nelson sported a beard, and the Viking helmet made for him by me using a hardhat and two pointed ice cream cones came out to perfection. My humorous speech after presenting him with this gift received much laughter. Keith thanked me afterwards for recognizing him.

Facebook has been my venue for show-n-tell since college and those working years. I’ve enjoyed sharing things about my life, yet reading what others have to say is the main reason I joined, along with reconnecting with friends and family. My wife, Joleen, has often said that I share way too much. That goes with being a writer I suppose.

A couple of years ago, I told myself that I’d stop using Facebook as show-n-tell once I reached a certain age, figuring that I’ve shared just about everything I can. I’ve been gradually slowing down the past year, with April of this year, my official month to go into fb retirement mode. That doesn’t mean I still won’t be reading stuff.

The last thing I shared was finding an old Colt revolver in the desert, figuring this was an excellent ending. Something happened soon after while metal detecting that far exceeds the last discovery, and what I believe is a miracle of sorts. You’ll have to be judge of that yourself.

In 2014, ten years ago, Joleen and I were in the desert south of Lake Havasu City, metal detecting. A set of house keys were in my pocket that I randomly dropped, checking to see if the detector was working properly working. There’s nothing worse than walking around for 15 minutes, not finding anything, and then looking down to see that the machine was accidentally turned off.

Somewhere along the way on that most memorable day, a decade ago, I dropped the whole key ring as a test of my detector, forgetting to pick them up. Realizing this perhaps a minute later, if even that, I turned around to see a large raven fly away.

The bird had been watching me for some time from a small knoll, probably trying to see what I was snacking on. Granola bars go a long way in keeping the energy fire lit and there was one in my hand. Quickly retracing steps, with Joleen helping me search, nothing was found of the missing keys.

Each key to our house and yard had a different colored plastic marker to identify what it went to. Undoubtedly, the raven was attracted to bright colors and snagged them behind my back. I thought I’d never see those keys again, telling my wife, family, and friends over the years they were lost for good.

Wednesday afternoon, I was metal detecting in an area of desert approximately two miles north of where I lost the key ring. Heading back to our Jeep after spending 30 minutes poking around and finding nothing exciting, I got a low-pitched beep on my machine showing that something made of steel or iron was in the ground.

Using a hand rake, I scraped through hard Arizona rock for a short stint until one key suddenly popped up. I didn’t think much of the find, as a single key had been discovered the week previous. I’m always coming across lone or broken keys along with nails.

Grabbing that dirty key and giving it a good tug, a whole ring of them came out of the ground. It took several seconds for my brain to realize they were mine. The colorful plastic was hard and brittle, with most of it broken off, yet some faded pieces still remained. Contemplating this for several hours afterwards, I came to the conclusion that the odds of this happening are off the chart.

I first knew they were my keys by the silver colored fish ornament. The Miami Dolphins are my team and I picked out that keyring solely for this reason. Made of stainless steel, it held up well under adverse conditions unlike the football team.

There’s more to this story than a simple lost & found. I believe God led me to these keys, as his way to show me, just because something’s lost for a period of time, doesn’t mean it can’t be found.

This is not only true with keys, but people as well. Yes, I needed a refresher course on that life lesson, because I’m guilty here lately of giving up on some lost folks, especially a slew of them in Washington D.C.

Luke 19:10 says – “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

As a Christian, I’m commanded to continue praying for the lost, regardless of whether I like them or not. Finding a simple set of keys 10 years after losing them has helped reset my feet on the right path.

Like I said at the beginning of this presentation, insignificant things that happen to us sometimes have significant meaning. To fully understand, we have to sit back and take a moment to ponder them!

I turn 70 in just over a month. For the most part—my life has been blessed. A great wife and two outstanding children stand tall around me. My parents did their best to make sure my brother and I had a roof over our heads, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Joleen and I did the same with our two.

My father was a firm believer that if you wanted something bad enough, you had to earn it. Free handouts weren’t part of his chemistry. I believe the same, yet prayer goes first before anything. Some things I want, yet do not need. Prayer helps discern between the two.

I’ve been told over the years by various people, “Choose your battles.” That’s one life lesson I don’t always adhere to. Like my dad, I’ve engaged in battles that I believed couldn’t be won, yet entered them anyway just because they needed fought. One of those involved a traffic ticket. I could’ve just paid it like so many others, yet this particular speeding ticket wasn’t my fault.

I was passing a cement mixer that was dropping rocks on the road. One of them had bounced up beforehand cratering the windshield of my vehicle. I tried explaining this to the cop to no avail. In court, I did the same to the judge, and he asked the officer to see a video taken from his patrol car camera.

It clearly showed what I had told the policeman. A cement mixer was directly in front of me, and other vehicles zoomed around it to avoid the debris. I merely followed them. Even though I was legitimately speeding, this judge sided with me and dismissed the case.

Co-workers had told me I’d never beat this ticket and I proved them wrong. Even had I lost, plans were whirling around in my head to appeal, and take things to the very top, or to the limit as I call it. A favorite Bible story of mine is David vs Goliath so perhaps that has something to do with it.

I could tell story after story regarding this subject, because there have been battles throughout my life. I doubt I’m the only one having fought them, because some family and friends were involved in some horrific skirmishes unlike mine.

There’s always a loser in a battle and I have no problem coming out on the short end of the stick. A battle is much like fishing. I’ve been fishing many times and not brought home a single salmon or halibut, yet that didn’t stop me from going again.

A few weeks back, my wife and I decided to use a $50 gift certificate our children gave us 11 years prior to Cracker Barrel. It sat in a drawer all that time. We weren’t worried because there was no expiration date on it.

After eating that day, I went to pay and the clerk said that our e-certificate couldn’t be used because it needed a PIN number. Evidently, in the 11 years since issue, their policy had changed. We had no PIN because none had been required back then.

The assistant manager came up and said it was my job to get hold of Cracker Barrel management to plead the case. I didn’t argue the fact, knowing that she was wrong, yet politely pulled my credit card out and paid the bill.

For several days my wife tried calling Cracker Barrel customer relations with no luck. She eventually left a respectful verbal message explaining everything, and after a week, still no reply. I then went online, finding a site where I could leave an email message along with a photo of the e-certificate.

Time went on and no response came from either means of communication. I mentioned to my son about what was happening, and he told me good luck. A simple inquiry Gunnar had with the company regarding an awards program took over a month to get an answer.

Late one evening, I drew up a letter to the CEO and president of the company, Julie Masino, and sent it off certified mail. The same day that she received it, I got a notice through e-mail explaining that they would take care of the unfortunate situation.

I wrote back thanking her, grateful that she took full responsibility for the problem which was theirs to begin with—not mine. Successful companies do such. It’s still unfortunate that I had to reach so high to solve a simple problem.

Telling my wife this, she asked, “What would I have done had they refused?” I told her that would’ve left me no other option than to seek legal help.  “Is that expense worth chasing $50?,” Joleen inquired in a puzzled tone.

I told her probably not, but at this stage of my life I have nothing to lose but money in trying, and I won’t be taking any of that with me when I leave.

“Principle is priceless!” were my last words on the subject.

I suppose there will be other battles coming my direction. Right now, the biggest challenge it seems is fighting charges on medical bills. Countless time we’ve been billed, when in fact, Medicare and our supplemental insurance (Aetna) paid for the services.

Joleen and I have talked to some senior friends incurring the same. Rather than go through the hassle of entering a battle to fight the overage, they caved and just paid. Although it took lots of time, patience, and phone calls on our part, we’ve always came out the winner on these grievances.

One of my favorite songs is by the Eagles. The name of this tune is, “Take It To The Limit.” A short set of lyrics best sums up how I look at life battles—

“Take it to the limit, one more time.”

It appears I’ll be following the Eagle’s suggestion until the day I die.

I’ve watched my share of “Gunsmoke” episodes and still do. I’m sure other old timers in Lake Havasu City echo the same. There were 635 episodes over 20 years. During that period, Sheriff Matt Dillon shot 407 people, and was hit by gunfire 56 times himself. I suppose the man resembled a pin cushion by the end of his career.

The way Dillon took care of criminals in Dodge City is representative of how the majority of Americans would like to see things handled now. An unspoken motto on the series seems to be, “Do the crime – do the time!”

Outlaws, thieves, and murderers weren’t coddled or catered to on fictitious “Gunsmoke” episodes like they are today in real life. Left leaning politicians, judges, and courts, in conjunction with the woke movement, now make law breakers out to be victims of society, not holding them responsible for their actions.

We see how this plays out every night on the nightly news with our police often criticized for merely doing their job. Sheriff Matt Dillon definitely didn’t have to answer to such condemnation in Dodge City. Most honest folks living in the Kansas town sided with his oftentimes strict policies regarding law enforcement.

For those not familiar with “Gunsmoke,” it was a popular western series on both radio and television, loved by thousands of listeners and viewers. My family tuned in each week—greatly enjoying the western drama. There was never any concern on Dad and Mom’s part about constant violence influencing their two boys.

Kitty Russell was owner of a saloon on “Gunsmoke” called the Long Branch, and also a madame, although that part flew directly over my head as a youngster. I never thought about it until here just lately.

James Arness (Matt Dillon) referred to her as a madame on one of the radio broadcasts, although television screenwriters generally tiptoed around the subject as much as they could. Social Organizer would now be the ‘politically correct’ title for Kitty’s line of work.

Matt and Kitty were boyfriend and girlfriend although they never kissed. The stately sheriff spent a fair amount of free time at the Long Branch Saloon, drinking beer while shooting the breeze, where Kitty often filled his mug for free. Most likely she did that as a favor of sorts.

Her place of business was a haven for criminals—with these alcoholic beverages undoubtedly a gift to the sheriff for having to work overtime in keeping the place rid of them.

During all 407 episodes, Matt, and, “Miss Kitty,” as she was called on occasion, never kissed or were intimate. A good friend of mine said that the sheriff was most likely frigid. I have to disagree, believing that after being shot 56 times in all parts of the body, reoccurring pain had something to do with it.

Ken Curtis played the part of Festus Haggen. Festus was the ever complaining deputy sheriff and constantly broke. Ironically, my fourth grade teacher was Mrs. Hagen. I’m sure somewhere along the line some smart aleck student razzed her about being related to Mr. Haggen of “Gun Smoke” fame.

I can seriously relate to Festus, because my last name sounds nearly the same as his when said with a southern accent, and it’s rare that I have money in my pockets or wallet.

Generally speaking, I rely on debit or credit cards unless my wife is close by with her purse. Festus would’ve been the kind of fellow, had he owned a credit card, the plastic would constantly be declined at Delmonico’s and the Long Branch for obvious reason. Delmonico’s is a local restaurant where he usually ate as long as someone else was buying.

Haggen is cast as a Deep-South hillbilly, with his kinfolk often stopping by Dodge City for various unorthodox reasons, most of them unscrupulous. Members of the Haggen family were known to rob banks and stagecoaches for a living. Several scenes made the likable and hilariously funny Festus out to be an illiterate idiot.

Festus Haggen often proved to be the smartest person in town despite a meager education. He frequented the Long Branch like others, oftentimes having to bum drinks from his pals. Ken Curtis (Festus) was without question the most talented actor out of all on the show. He was also a great western singer, performing with the Sons of the Pioneers singing group.

Another favorite character of mine on the program was a guy named Chester Goode, played by actor, Dennis Weaver. Chester worked for the sheriff, and was spotted in numerous episodes scrubbing the jail floor, this while Sheriff Matt Dillon sometimes sat with feet on his desk, or was out of town rounding up outlaws. In the corporate world, you might say Chester was on the bottom rung of the ladder. His official title was Sheriff’s Assistant.

Chester walked with a limp and it was never mentioned exactly why. In one episode, it’s hinted that he served in the American Civil War, leading some viewers to speculate he might’ve been hit in the leg by either shrapnel or a bullet.

I know after I’ve worked a spell, stooped over, while cleaning our bathroom tile, especially here lately, and after straightening up, it takes a bit to get both feet, along with a stiff back, moving in unison.

The ache can be so intense that I sometimes limp or don’t move at all. A doctor told me this is due to my sciatic nerve or lumbar acting up. It’s highly possible that Chester’s did the same.

Doc Adams on “Gunsmoke,” being a seasoned physician, should’ve noticed this, yet evidently was not familiar with sciatica or anything connected with having a weak lumbar. Doc was a pro at removing bullets and delivering babies having brought over 1000 into this world.

Chester seemed to deal with his pain at the Long Branch with a mug of beer in hand or a rare shot of whisky. Without question, this didn’t directly help the problem, yet gave him a more pronounced limp after a few hours of indulging.

I tend to believe if this show was filmed during current times, Chester Goode would be looking for relief at a Dodge City dispensary in the form of gummies or brownies.

Miss Kitty at the Long Branch would be making good use of this profitable product herself, having a banner stretched across the front of her Long Branch Saloon proclaiming: CBD OIL SOLD HERE. Of course, the infamous watering hole would now be smoke free for health reasons.

Even the show name would need to be changed to “Gun No Smoke,” because modern ammunition uses smokeless powder unlike that in the 1870s.

Just the thought of this makes me chuckle. Kitty, Festus, and Chester would be laughing as well, with Matt and Doc scratching their heads, wondering,

“What has this world come to?”

When our house was built in Arizona, I didn’t figure we’d have as much problem with weeds in our gravel yard as we did with grass in Alaska. I was wrong. Dandelions were our biggest pest in Anchorage, especially during short, rainy, summer months.

It didn’t help that one neighbor next door refused to spray nor put down weed control. Weed-N-Feed pellets took care of our dandelions but for only a short time. I’d put the herbicide down at least once a month. When this lackadaisical neighbor wasn’t home, some pellets “accidentally” strayed onto his property. Hey, there was no leash law preventing such.

One summer, I became so upset, that I took a few handfuls right before the first snow fell, and sprinkled it into a peace symbol shape. Come spring, the neighbor’s dandelions bloomed like they always did except for that one area.

A perfectly brown, dirt, peace symbol stood out amongst all the yellow and green weeds. I’d put so much Weed-N-Feed down, that my artwork hung around for several months.

Here in Lake Havasu City, a variety of weeds sprout up much different than those in Anchorage. When Scorpion weeds first appeared in our yard, my wife and I marveled at the purple flowers. After I brushed against some with bare ankles—red and oozing whelps suddenly appeared. Only then did we realize how toxic they are.

Our Arizona yard is now soaked in weed killer each spring. Whatever chemical they use does the job, because we’ve had no problems for several years now. The same routine is performed to property we own in Kingman, hopefully to keep it free of Russian thistle, or tumbleweeds, as they’re commonly called. I’m told by both herbicide companies that the chemical used is environmentally safe for pets and wildlife.

Unfortunately, our neighbor directly to the south, just like the one in Anchorage, refuses to do anything about their overgrown yard. Our line of defense or chemical wall, as I refer to it, has held firm thus far.

Colorful weeds around the house aren’t the only ones I’ve incurred. My Facebook page is saturated with weeds. That’s what I call the popups, advertisements, and commercial information that has literally taken over. I’ve tried and tried over the past two years to control such without success.

For every legitimate post from a friend, I calculate that there are at least 99 unsolicited ones if not more. No longer having the time to hoe nor wade through all of these cyber weeds, I finally decided it’s time to give up.

Just recently, I purchased a flip phone to carry with me in the desert. It wasn’t exactly my idea, as family and friend said I should have one so in the event of a medical issue. They went on to explain that police or paramedics could track me better without relying on vultures circling overhead.

I haven’t given out the number, and won’t, yet I’m already receiving weeds on this phone, in the form of text messages from politicians, telemarketers, Medicare hawks, and people I don’t even know. Weed control needs to be seriously done here, but just like that I attempted on Facebook, there’s little hope of success.

A friend said that for several bucks a month garbage or spam can be terminated on e-mail, Facebook, including landline and cellphone accounts. If I have to fork out extra dollars like I do to keep our yard free of unwanted growth, then I’ll have to go without where communication venues are concerned.

Facebook has been a great tool in reconnecting with friends and family over the past almost 20 years. I enjoy seeing pictures posted from others including updates on their lives. What I don’t care for is having thousands of products constantly tossed in my face. Cable television already does that and I’m paying for it monthly.

Life was good all that time I didn’t have social media, perhaps being the best of all where interpersonal communication is concerned. I long for those days where hand written letters and cards were the norm.

Like other good things my generation once had, supposedly in the name of progress, technology has plowed a good number into the ground. What’s left of communication now resembles an ever growing pasture of weeds.

Someone needs to sprinkle some Weed-N-Feed on things before it’s too late—perhaps it already is!