I like to write junk…

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!

I’ve written a few stories about my metal detecting forays. Now’s the time to add to this saga with a couple more neat discoveries. First of all, in a nutshell, I’ll reiterate how this fun and exciting hobby came to be for my wife and me.

Purchasing our earliest detector, a White’s hip mount unit, in 1976, from Stewart’s Photo in Anchorage, the boxy looking machine saw limited use in Alaska. It was mainly put to work in Kansas and Arizona.

I spent far more time looking for old bottles in Alaska—with the detector seldom brought along on lengthy hiking, boating, or flying trips in the 49th state.

The first major find with it was a glass piggybank in Kansas having a rusted metal lid. That tin lid is the only reason the detector sniffed things out. The 1930s-era relic would still be buried on the Wackly farm near Chapman had it not caused our machine to loudly beep.

The old Wackly place is a deserted homestead owned by my wife’s Uncle Jay and Aunt Wava Schweitzer, with its original occupants long deceased.

Inside this piggybank, some 85 years after having been placed there, are several plastic Kansas sales tax tokens issued from 1937 to 1939. Made of thin plastic, heat somewhat warped the round coins, making them bent but still easily readable.

Since that time, the vintage detector has found numerous copper and silver coins in old school playgrounds and dirt parking lots, yet never detected anything made of gold. It’s doubtful school kids had gold coins back in the day let alone teachers and parents.

I retired the White a few years back because of its weight. Swinging that heavy coil made for tired arms after only so many hours. It now spends it’s time gracing a wall of my garage as a conversation piece. White’s metal detectors are no longer made thus it’s now a collectible on its own.

Our new Garrett detectors are much lighter and makes for more enjoyable metal detecting, especially while walking in the desert. These treasure hunting expeditions take us to Yucca and Kingman, and as far south as Parker. We’ve never been skunked on any of our searches; knock on Arizona Desert Ironwood.

With the Garrett, Joleen and I have uncovered hundreds of WWII bullets and brass casings, a pocket watch, chain necklace, Mercedes-Benz emblem, an early cell phone, Harley Davidson pendant, large machete, loose change at a couple of campsites, along with in the desert sand of an often used trail. These are just a few of the unusual recoveries.

We come across aluminum pop-tops and other such trash all the time, bringing them back with us to dispose of in our recycling bin. In a way we’re helping clean up the desert, especially by getting all of those lead bullets out of the ground.

Some things we’ve found using only our eyes are a number of golf balls with little teeth marks indented into them, including intact stuffed animals with a few ripped to shreds. Undoubtedly, the golf balls were taken from area golf courses and the stuffed toys stolen from neighborhood yards by coyotes.

Two weeks ago, a still-loaded vintage Colt revolver was discovered along with an unfired, 1943, 50 caliber bullet. These two items make up our best discoveries to date where desert searching is concerned. The area where both were found is private property with permission to be there.

Rusty and inoperable, the Colt pistol was immediately soaked in Marvel Mystery Oil to free things up. After some time and gentle persuasion, I was able to swing the cylinder out and remove six, 38 caliber shells. Thankfully, the serial number was still visible, with that sent to Colt along with several pictures for positive identification.

From what I’ve been able to discern based upon comparing it to photos of early revolvers, the artifact dates to somewhere around the early 1900s. I believe it’s a 1908 model, but won’t know for sure until Colt does their assessment. That will take at least a month according to them.

A few people have asked how the gun ended up out there. All kinds of imaginary mystique comes to mind, such as the Colt being used in a bank robbery by notorious gangster, John Dillinger. Dillinger and three of his gang were arrested in Tucson in 1934.

Hoping that the serial number points to Dillinger, or perhaps shows that it’s a former Army pistol owned by General George Patton, I logically believe the Colt is a simple case of “desert dropsies.” Some absent-minded-miner or cowboy let it fall out of their holster unnoticed.

There’s all kinds of weird stuff in the desert around Lake Havasu City, either accidentally dropped or intentionally left behind. For the most part, you have to step off the beaten trail like we do to find the good treasure. Ravines, gulley’s, and washes are our favorite places to look. Of course, that’s where the snakes like to hide on warm sunny days.

Without question, the 50 caliber bullet was dropped, yet unlike the antique Colt, this large shell came down from high in the sky. During WWII, Army Air Corps pilots practiced shooting at targets towed by other airplanes, with their bullets, cartridges, and clips falling to the ground.

This particular cartridge is damaged at the very bottom, close to the primer, which is the heaviest part. It was fortunate not to have discharged after striking extremely rocky soil. The cartridge was buried some four inches under the earth. Stamped on the bottom are numbers, 43, standing for the year, and letters, SL, designating it was made in St. Louis.

My wife and I were part of the RZR off road vehicle scene for several years, but sold our side-by-side, deciding that walking was better for our health. It also slowed us down while out in the desert, enabling old eyes to spot small things that we didn’t see while driving.

The treasures we find are not worth that much from a dollar perspective, yet time spent searching for them is priceless. With Joleen now hooked on metal detecting, it gives us something to do as a couple besides watch TV or gripe about things we have limited control over, such as increased utility bills, cable, and our president.

While hiking in the desert, we deliberately toss our complaints into the open surroundings, much like irresponsible folks do with their tires, cans, bottles, and trash.

Our verbal bellyaches and gripes eventually wind their way back home. Unfortunately—human litter doesn’t follow the same path!

I was relaxing in my Lazy Boy recliner the other evening when a thought suddenly popped into my head,

“How many people in the US are named Stuart Pitt?”

Immediately, I got up and Googled things discovering that 17 go by this name.

Some might wonder what’s so unusual here. Others caught on right away, knowing that guys named Stuart generally have the nickname, Stu. If I have to explain further, then it’s time for you to mosey on down the page.

I worked with a lady whose last name was Clock. Her parents named her Nina not because they were German—most likely due to them wanting their daughter to always be remembered. Nina Clock is a wonderful person and has an uncanny sense of humor. I’m surprised she didn’t continue the trend and name her daughter, Tina.

Deciding that this story needed a bit more of the same trivia to make it educational and informative, I performed 30 minutes worth of intense research on Google and Facebook.

There are 40 guys named John Appleseed listed in the US. I’m sure all of them have been called Johnny at one time or another in their lives. Dick Stick compiles 110 such individuals. Undoubtedly, a few unfortunate souls have earned the nickname “Dip” from family and friends.

Benjamin Dover is very popular with other 1000 listings. Perhaps the most famous of all Ben Dover’s, was a Texas financial expert and radio talk show host who wrote several books regarding debt and liability.

An often-used and ironic saying of the man is: “It’s okay to look back at the past. Just don’t stare.” Sadly, Ben Dover died in 2016 at the age of 59 from pneumonia.

Iona Ford is real as was Iona Dodge. Mrs. Dodge passed away in 1999. I couldn’t find an Iona Chevrolet.

There are hundreds possessing the name, Justin Case, including one of my Facebook friends. Justin’s a car freak like me. I mention that just in case he reads this.

There are 176 people having the name Paige Turner listed in the US alone. It’s safe to assume a good majority of them are avid readers.

Jay Walker is a popular name with 376 total such Americans. Undoubtedly, they were razzed a lot in school. I came across 846 folks named Jay Hawk—a good many living in Kansas.

Jayhawk is the University of Kansas mascot. My wife was born in Kansas yet has never seen one of these birds. She’s evidently not aware that it’s a mythical creature and doesn’t exist. I didn’t either until looking things up.

Here in Lake Havasu City, one of my favorite places to eat is Del Taco. I love their strawberry lemonade, purchasing a macho size each time there. Did you know there’s one guy on Facebook named Dale Taco? Perhaps I should send him a friend request because it appears Mr. Taco has few.

Where the last name Macho is concerned there were none, yet MacHo is another story. Tons of them. By adding a capitol H it makes for a totally different pronunciation. Ironically, Macho MacHo lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

I didn’t find anyone named Lemon Ade but did come across Leman Aydin living in Istanbul, Turkey. Close enough. There was no one named Bean Burrito either, yet researching Dean Bureo, revealed 50 such people during a White page search.

When I first signed up for Facebook I received a friend request from another Michael Hankins. He was on a mission to get as many e-pals with the same name as possible. It was a name game on his part.

Because of this, I eventually ended up with seven friends of my own named Michael Hankins, one being a doctor and another a young college student.

For the most part they were all pretty cool guys, except for a fellow that I quickly defriended. Turns out he was an inmate although that’s not why we parted company. I hold nothing against most inmates in the same respect as I do politicians.

This person posted some really bizarre and scary stuff. Strangely enough, at that time, the man looked like me in the face. Even my wife agreed.

There are 350 guys listed as being Michael Hankins. Early on in my life, before the personal computer came along, I thought I was the only one.

Approximately 15 years ago, my Facebook account was hijacked and I was unable to open it. You might say the hijacker took all 8 of us Michael Hankins hostage along with other friends. To this day the account’s still out there, yet I wasn’t allowed to have it back. Starting a new one, a decision was made to never play that particular name game again.

Before closing, I couldn’t find anyone owning up to the name Hi Jacker, but did find a Jack Yacker living in New Jersey. I’m sure Jack’s a chatty kind of guy.

I could go on and on here, but any story has its limits before growing old, with this one mighty close to that point. I’ll wrap things up with two highly unusual names: Hank Goodness and Theo Eind. There are 5 people listed as Theo Eind while Hank Goodness showed 487.

If I was to personally introduce Hank to Theo in a lame sounding German accent, it’d go something like this,

“Hank Goodness dis is Theo Eind!”

The other day on Facebook I was reading a group of comments regarding a famous musician who recently died. For the most part, their response was the universal, RIP, along with sending prayers to the family. There were some folks saying that they were thinking of family and friends during this time. All three are very appropriate.

I came to one reply that I’ve seen people leave from time to time, “I’m sending positive vibes.”

Not having a clue where this phrase came from, I looked it up. There are several different interpretations depending on where you search. The following explanation on Google somewhat struck home because I grew up during that era:

“The phrase is believed to have emerged in the 1960s and 1970s, during the hippie counterculture movement.”

That means it’s in that same group of words as: groovy, hip, far out, bummer, dig it, bogart, and flower power.

The Beach Boys had a hit tune titled, “Good Vibrations” around this timeline. I thought maybe the lyrics to that song would open my eyes a bit, but after reading them, the words evidently refer to a different kind of vibe than those needed to support people during medical issues or grief.

“I’m picking up good vibrations, she’s giving me excitations!” doesn’t seem like vibes I’d be sending Aunt Myrtle after Uncle Floyd died.

Several years ago, I had a heart episode that put me in the hospital. My heart was racing like crazy and the doctors couldn’t slow it down. Atrial fibrillation is the medical term. I was to undergo a shock treatment the following morning which meant stopping my heart and restarting it. Asking my wife to immediately go onto my Facebook site, and ask anyone that was online that evening to pray for me, she did just that.

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning I woke up with nurses and doctors standing around my bed. Miraculously, my heart had went back into normal rhythm on its own. I saw it as prayers being answered.

Looking back over the comments several days later, I noticed many had prayed, along with some saying that they were thinking of me. I felt blessed and most appreciative of each and everyone.

Had there been a few good vibes sent my way I wouldn’t have been upset, yet on the other hand, had they all been good vibes, I wonder if I’d still be here. You see, I believe that my heart was healed by the power of God and nothing less. Prayer, being much more powerful than any other, helped immensely.

If I was to compare sending good vibes to any significant life event as an example it’d be like this. Suppose you were in financial dire and needed some urgent money like right now. Word was put out by family and friends, and checks started rolling in the next day. Unfortunately, there was no funds in the people’s checking accounts having sent them.

Good vibes are basically bad checks. The thought behind sending them is thoughtful, yet they lack any power to truly help people during needy times.

Should I ever have another medical emergency, I’ll take all the prayers that I can get. Good thoughts will be welcome as well. Good vibes will be accepted so as not to offend anyone; all three in that order.

Please don’t send me any Beach Boy good vibrations. The last thing a heart patient needs are excitations!

I’ve always enjoyed my visits to Cracker Barrel. For several years, my wife and I would meet up with friends, Mike Jones and Ron Claspill, at a restaurant in Kingman, Arizona.

Mike and Ron were also from Lake Havasu City, although Ron eventually relocated to Las Vegas. He’d still make the 100-mile round trip after moving to reconnect with us Havasuians.

We’d talk about nothing in particular, generally laughing about things that only we would find funny. Each of us had our own specific item of choice from the vast menu.

Mike loved his blueberry pancakes. Ron would generally get the Old Timers Breakfast. Joleen opted for French toast and eggs each trip, while I always had Uncle Herschel’s Favorite.

Uncle Herschel’s Favorite came with a variety of choices. I chose scrambled eggs, grits, sugar-cured ham, hashbrown casserole, and biscuits with gravy. They often brought me more biscuits, which I tossed into my take-home box before leaving.

It didn’t matter if we were there for breakfast, lunch, or dinner; I had to have the same fare, never finding it to my dislike.

On almost every trip made, our server would be candidly reminded by Ron that I was related to Uncle Herschel. Uncle Herschel on the menu was actually a real uncle to Cracker Barrel founder, Dan Evins.

My Uncle Herschel, on the other hand, was one of Mom’s sister’s husbands. Of course, Ron would never tell our server the full story. Some newbie employees took things hook, line, and sinker, while veteran workers chuckled, knowing that my friend was pulling their leg.

Uncle Herschel and Aunt Katrulia lived in Mobile, Alabama, and as a kid, I loved visiting them.  Unlike the restaurant Uncle Herschel, my Uncle Herschel Benton Wheeler traveled all across the US driving a tractor-trailer rig.

Whenever we visited, he’d sometimes take me for a short ride. After the short excursion ended, Uncle Herschel allowed my left arm to reach up and pull the air horn rope. I still remember this like it was yesterday.

Uncle Herschel’s job with Cracker Barrel was much different than my uncle’s, although similar in one respect where driving is concerned.

Each man traveled great distances. Uncle Herschel, of Cracker Barrel fame, journeyed to various towns where Cracker Barrel restaurants were located and invited people living there to dine at these establishments. The man was an ambassador of goodwill for the restaurant chain.

Both Uncle Herschel’s are alike for one important reason. They lived by the golden rule, “Treat everybody as you’d like to be treated yourself.”

Sadly, Mike Jones passed away—and then Covid reared its ugly head. Ron, Joleen, and I always talked about meeting up someday after things returned to normal, but that’s never happened. At least it hasn’t yet.

If and when we do, things have changed significantly on that Cracker Barrel menu, at least for me, it has. Uncle Herschel’s Favorite breakfast is no longer offered.

Joleen and I were in the Kingman restaurant for the first time in five years yesterday, and the young server we had, Devon, had never heard of it, nor even knew who Uncle Herschel was. Ron’s joke would’ve flown directly over his head.

It seems downright sacrilegious to me that the chain no longer mentions Uncle Herschel with any one food item. I’m sure the man loved other things besides breakfast. On the other hand—breakfast is what he’s best known for.

Something tells me that both Uncle Herschel’s along with Mike Jones have now met. I’m sure they’ve shared some good stories over coffee and breakfast.

Cracker Barrels down here may not offer Uncle Herschel’s Favorite breakfast, but without doubt, regardless of corporate decision, the restaurant in Heaven never took it off their menu!

My favorite dried fruit is dates. I especially love them in cake, cookies, or oatmeal. Arizona dates are best, yet they’re also the hardest to come by and expensive as well. Sweet dates grown in California come in a close second.

Dates take a lot of water to bring to maturity, and with California and Arizona experiencing a shortage of the precious commodity, dates grown in those two states are bound to get more costly.

Edible dates aren’t the only ones I’m fond of. For whatever reason, numerical dates bordering along historical events, birthdays, anniversaries, deaths, have significant meaning to me as well. Early on, I needed to know what was the most important thing that happened on my birthday, April 9.

On April 9, 1865, General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate Army surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia. Finding this out set me on a journey to learn as much about the American Civil War as possible. I would’ve been around nine years old at the time this mission started.

I haven’t stopped since. I’ve researched my grandparents, parents, brother, Joleen’s family, including friends. It might seem odd to some, but this quirkiness has allowed me to learn more about history and trivia than I would’ve known by merely reading books. My old brain should be full of data by now.

On January 4, Russia was the first country to put a satellite into space. Grandpa Hankins was born on that month and day. Vincent van Gogh, famous artist, died on July 29, this being the birthdate of Grandma Hankins.

My wife, Joleen, was born on March 27. The most significant event on that day was the Alaska Earthquake. Both our families moved there soon after. Go figure.

On March 11, almost one year ago, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake and tsunami struck Japan killing 20,000 people. Jim, my brother, was born on that month and day.

Mom came into this world on September 11. Of course, the World Trade Center terrorist attack happened on 9/11. Ironically, days are the same as her two sons were born.

Proverbs 9:11 was one of mom’s favorite verses. If you take the amount of letters in Proverbs (8), add 9, add 1, and then another 1, the total comes to 19, the same day as Joleen and my wedding anniversary.

On Dad’s birthday, September 23, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring that all slaves in Confederate territory be set free. On April 24, 1898, Spain declared war on the United States. My youngest granddaughter, Mykah Mae, shares the same day and month.

Tua Tagovailoa, former Alabama Crimson Tide football player, and now Miami Dolphins quarterback, was born on March 2, same as my son.

My best friend and daughter were hatched on July 22, the identical day and month that the world’s first horseless carriage race took place in Paris, France. So fitting, because they’ve each earned a traffic ticket or two.

In my fiction writing, I’ve tried to incorporate important dates of family and friends in various chapters. I also use other tidbits of information involving things they’ve done, but would never openly claim what those items are. I keep a list of dates and jotted down notes at hand to choose from, yet mostly rely on memory.

Some family and friends reading my material might relate to something in print, but I’ll never confess to it being them. I believe intrigue to readers in believing such make the books that more special.

My grandchildren’s birth dates have now been incorporated into things published and yet to be published, while some day when they read these manuscripts, they’ll hopefully realize that grandpa was thinking of them at the time ink was put to paper.

I could go on and on here yet it’s time to stop. Filling my tummy with chewy dates satisfies hunger, while filling my brain with numerical dates with historical fact and trivial information attached helps keep the gears turning upstairs.

Obsessed as it might seem—there’s reason to persevere. It beats putting puzzles together, in these here golden years!

I often think back to a radio show listened to while I lived in Alaska. Tom Bodette hosted a show in Homer in the late 1980s called, The End Of The Road. Tom’s best known for his catchy Motel 6 phrase, “I’ll leave a light on for ya!”

On this radio program, he talked in a deep folksy drawl about simple things observed—mostly from life in The Last Frontier. He had a unique way of telling stories that kept me tuned in.

During one particular show, he chatted about a woman he’d observed in Homer sitting at a stop sign in her car. The woman was shedding tears and he made note, going on to tell listeners the incomplete story.

This visual observation on Tom’s part struck a chord with me as it did thousands of others throughout the country. People wanted to know why she was crying, and to this day, I don’t know if Bodette found the answer.

I kept track of Tom Bodette over the years, until he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Just recently, I discovered that Bodette is living in rural Brattleboro, Vermont, where he’s a woodworker and woodworking instructor.

An interview of the man by CBS correspondent Faith Salie in 2023 on YouTube was most enlightening. Tom Bodette seems to have found peace of mind in this new endeavor.

Last year, I wrote a piece about an older gentleman, his wife, and dog, that I often saw at Rotary Park here in Lake Havasu City. They owned a dark blue Ford pickup. This truck was unique in that it had a country mural painted on the back tailgate.

They were a common sight for perhaps a couple of years, with the pug always hanging its head out an open driver side window.

At first it was all three, then the old man and dog, and finally, just him. On that last observation, a few months ago, the fellow had a forlorn look on his face, possibly with tears, telling me that visiting Rotary Park without his companions wasn’t the same. I haven’t seen him since, wondering what happened.

Just like Tom Bodette did with that mysterious woman crying at a stop sign in Homer, Alaska, some 35 years ago, I can only speculate as to where they vanished to.

Always trying to maintain a positive outlook on things, something tells me deep down inside that I’ll see them again. Hopefully, I’m right!

In the movie “Wild Hogs” starring John Travolta, Martin Lawrence, William H. Moore, and Tim Allen, four city dwellers hit the road on their Harley-Davidson motorcycles for a bit of sanity and solitude.

Before leaving town, phones are tossed and smashed, with biker Woody Stevens (Travolta) telling the others that no cell phones are needed because it’s his prerogative. I can now relate to that thought having looked the word up beforehand.

I believe there are times when everyone should try disconnecting for a brief period. Several of my family and friends can’t leave their phones for one minute, claiming that they’re needed for emergency or work purposes. Who am I to question them, yet I’m thankful the same iPod leash isn’t attached to my collar.

Solitude means a lot to me—always has—going back to childhood. There are times I like to wander off by myself without tether just to think and pray. These days I especially love this blessed freedom, otherwise, I’d never get anything done, especially where writing is concerned.

The past six months, I’ve had to deal with typical over-the-hill medical issues, along with losing three good friends and a loving dog. The time to grieve means that I’ve needed to be alone more than ever. It’s not that I’ve become unsocial.

I can’t understand how anyone can put such traumatic events into perspective, with a constantly dinging or vibrating phone, blaring television, booming bass, or just being around other chitter chatter. I definitely couldn’t have.

Luke 5:16 says, But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.

I believe at given times He needed his “space” as it’s sometimes called.  I can relate to that. Havasu has many quiet and picturesque spots where I can get away for just a day. Seeking solitude to refresh the mind and spirit is one trait that Jesus and I definitely have in common.

I’m sure others share the same!

I’ve been intrigued by ghost towns going back to watching early westerns as a kid. In almost every shoot-em-up episode, weary cowboys wearing black Stetson hats—packing Colt six-shooters—slowly rode down Main Street surveying the scene.

Howling wind had window shutters constantly banging, creating an eerie atmosphere unlike any other.  Of course, tumbleweeds always made their grand appearance. Generally, the first place these thirsty saddle tramps headed was an abandoned saloon expecting to enjoy a frothy beer.

I suppose being out in the heat for extended periods of time made them somewhat delirious. It’d be like you and me stopping at a long deserted Stuckey’s in Kansas, expecting to still find ice cold soda. For those folks not remembering Stuckey’s convenience stores, they dotted the main roads at one point.

In these Hollywood ghost town saloons, tables were turned upside down and of course no bottles of booze left behind. A dusty piano generally remained, undoubtedly because it was much too heavy to cart away.

I’d give anything to be one of those cowboys, because before leaving town I’d be packing a slew of collectibles into my leather saddlebags.

Little did I know back then that these ghost town scenes were more fantasy than anything; eye tantalizing visions put together by creative writers.

Research shows me there are 47 ghost towns in Mohave County—four of them within striking distance of Lake Havasu City, although the remains are nothing like those seen on the giant screen. Nevertheless, they’re still very interesting places to visit.

With the Parker Dam turnoff located approximately 33 miles from LHC, driving across the dam into California, and then some 11 miles south up the Parker Dam Scenic Byway Road, lies the ghost town of Cross Roads.

There’s nothing left other than a stone shell of the former Cross Roads Merchantile Company store and post office. A sign out front tells the history saying that up to 3000 residents lived there at one time.

There were three restaurants, a pool hall, barber shop, several garages, two used car lots, church, power plant, several saloons, tourist cabins, and a mortuary. They’re all gone now.

Driving to Cross Roads soon after crossing the dam, is a large fenced off area on the right with neighborhood roads still visible and palm trees. This was formerly government housing for dam employees until the homes were all torn down. Burros have since taken over this property.

Cross Roads was a booming place during construction, but after completion in 1931, and things became automated in the 1960s, dam workers were laid off, and the town basically ceased to exist. Most of what comprised the place is now storage units or parking for RV’s. It’s not really my idea of a western ghost town, but still an interesting place to stop and look around, especially with the abundant burros.

Swansea, Arizona, approximately 71 miles from LHC is more of a ghost town than Cross Road. Located some 20 miles on the south side of Parker, folks traveling there had better have a high clearance vehicle. There are several deep rocky ruts just waiting to puncture oil or transmission pans.

The directions on how to get there are best Googled and then written down or use a GPS. I’d hate to advise anyone and have them get lost like what happened to me the first time. Only because my wife was along and accurately deciphered my writing were we able to find the place.

In a nutshell, you travel approximately 39.8 miles on US95 south to Shea Road on the opposite side of Parker. Drive 13.3 miles on Shea Road before turning right on Swansea Mine Rd for 10.4 miles, and then another 7 miles on Swansea Rd.

My first trip there, I was somewhat confused by vocal directions given to me by a friend, but on later excursions, I had the exact route drawn out on paper.

There’s plenty to still see in Swansea. A former mining town, a good number of concrete foundations still exist along with a bunkhouse of sorts. There’s even covered tables for picnicking. One distraction we encountered on our last trip was aggressive, thirsty bees, making it somewhat hard to enjoy our sandwiches. Of course, that can happen just about anywhere.

Oatman is my favorite Arizona, ghost town. Located some 54 miles out of Havasu, I’ve been there numerous yet never spent the night. I’ve ate lunch, bought ice cream, purchased numerous t-shirts, including feed the burros special food sold by vendors.

It’s a ghost town atmosphere unlike any other, complete with Main Street shootout at certain times between the good guys and bad. I highly recommend visiting Oatman because it’s well worth the trip. The drive from Oatman taking you through the ghost town of Gold Road, over Seagraves Pass, and into Kingman via old Route 66 is spectacular.

All that’s left of the ghost town of Gold Road is an operating mine with “No Trespassing” signs everywhere. Some concrete and stone foundations can still be seen on hills to the right. I own a brass Gold Road Bakery token found many years ago with a metal detector along one of these stone walls.

More time was spent by me in Alaskan ghost towns than those in Arizona and California. Camping in old Iditarod for over a week one summer with friends, the one thing this ghost town offers exactly like its western counterparts back in the day, was an alarming amount of biting flies and mosquitoes. We had to wear protective netting, gloves, and use duct tape for securing pants to boots in keeping them away.

While exploring Iditarod, Jeff, Doug, and I came across several empty “FLYTOX” bottles. This was a liquid that could be sprayed on horses and cattle to keep horseflies, gnats, and mosquitoes away. FLYTOX was made up of dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane. I can’t say the word either.

The name we best know it for is DDT, which was eventually banned in 1972 for being extremely toxic to wildlife and humans.

Horse and cattle still attract these biting insects like magnets. For logical reason, Hollywood chose to ignore showing them in the movies, highlighting on dangerous gunslingers, rattlesnakes, and dancehall girls instead.

I’d bet that residents living in Arizona in the 1880s dreaded these pests more than anything, besides scorpions. Undoubtedly, more flyswatters and bug poison was sold than Colt revolvers or Winchester rifles. Several articles I read on early western life, said that horseflies and gnats were especially bad in towns and cities because of the livestock.

For western movie addicts and ghost town lovers like me, that’s not the kind of historical authenticity I want to see on the big screen. It just wouldn’t look right for macho, cigar smoking saddle tramps, to be riding into town swatting, slapping, and scratching all at the same time.

A little over 60 years ago, my brother and I were playing in thick woods near our residence in Selma, Alabama, when we came upon an old black man shouting to the sky. It was an eerie scene with tall oak trees all around and gray stringy moss hanging from them.

Jim and I, somewhat petrified with fear, watched and listened to the guy for several minutes ramble on and on about meaningless things—at least to us they were—before we ran home and told Mom. Her response caught us both off guard,

“The fellow was probably talking to his maker!”

As a youngster, I never thought I’d emulate this older person’s actions in a million years. Now, as a senior citizen, I’ve done so, although in a different manner.

On hikes alone into the desert, generally, to do a little treasure hunting with my metal detector, I find myself talking to God out loud. Although I never shout, it’s my way of communicating with Him other than through prayer. I know He listens.

Just recently, I’ve been dissecting Bible verse, Luke 2:19, word by word in my own non-theologian way. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

“Treasured up” and “pondered in her heart” have significant meaning. They talk about Mary thinking back to the events leading up to her son, Jesus’s birth. I believe all mothers do this, especially after their kids have grown and left the nest.

On my desert forays, I too ponder events leading up to my children’s birth, as well as significant events after they came into this world. Not only do I do this with Gunnar and Miranda, but I have ample time to think about my family—especially grandchildren these days—and my friends.

Whether I like it or not, this coming April I turn 70. The celebration-worthy birthday is called “platinum jubilee” for good reason, and I even wrote a short story and crazy poem by the same name. I’m not sure I’ll be celebrating other than having a slice of Safeway chocolate cake with a bowl of vanilla ice cream, but I will be doing my share of pondering afterwards.

Within the past six months, sadly, I lost three good friends. I suppose having loved ones die before my departure goes with the turf. Memories of them, treasured up and pondered in my heart, help immensely with this grief.

In the movie, “Green Mile” starring Tom Hanks, one of the characters, Paul Edgecomb, 108 years old, sadly reflects back on how many people he’d lost. I’d like to think that the good recollections he has of these deceased individuals eventually overcame his grief. I hope it does the same with me regarding, Rod Sanborn, William Lowe, and Michael Lowe.

After Jesus was crucified, undoubtedly, Mary was filled with immense sorrow. Three days later, finding that he was victorious in leaving his tomb, that pain turned to joy. Through her son’s memory, treasured up and pondered in her heart, she was most likely able to move forward once again.

I believe that pondering, or thinking back to all of the life experiences experienced by my family and friends over the past 69 years, helps fuel the fire for me to continue on. Hopefully, there are still more memories to be made.

The Bible mentions in Psalms 111:2, one very important thing about pondering, and it relates strictly to Jesus Christ.

The LORD’s works are great, pondered by all those who delight in them.

There’s one thing that I still wonder after writing this piece. The Bible tells us that Jesus lived a perfect life without sin which includes his childhood. My question revolves around a common thought that most all responsible parents have in later years regarding their offspring.

Did Mary, like us, ever ask herself,

“What could I have done differently in raising my child?”

That leaves me, like you, with something else to ponder!