I like to write junk…

On September 19, 1984, a new television series came out starring actors, Michael Landon and Victor French. Coincidentally, this date was the seventh wedding anniversary for my wife and I.  For trivia sake, that particular September 19 was also Wednesday, or “hump day” as it’s called by Caleb the camel in Geico commercials.

The show that Landon and French starred in was titled, “Highway To Heaven.” I never saw it nor tuned in to any television shows during the 80s. Life was much too busy during that time trying to raise two children, working for a living, along with taking college classes at night. My mother watched it religiously including a similar themed one, “Touched By An Angel.”

Just recently, I found both archived shows are available for free on YouTube, as long as you don’t mind the massive amount of commercials attached to each episode. There were five seasons of “Highway To Heaven” with 111 episodes. We just finished viewing the last one.

I can understand why folks thought highly of it. The close friendship between Michael Landon and Victor French comes through in their acting. Of course, they were each together on “Little House on the Prairie,” with Landon appearing in “Bonanza” during the 1970s and French making guest appearances. Sadly, they both died from different forms of cancer within a few years of each other.

Arizona had a part in this “Highway To Heaven” show, as the opening scene shows Jonathan Smith (Michael Landon) walking along Dawn Road in Tucson, with several episodes shot in and around the area as well. I believe had they filmed this on the way in to Lake Havasu City, it would’ve been more spectacular where scenery is concerned.

There’s no better picturesque country than the route coming down Highway 95 from the north into town right before the lake comes into view. A short segment of the western movie, “Hard Ground” starring Burt Reynolds was made in this area.

I’m surprised Landon, being director, didn’t choose Havasu for any of the Arizona episodes as he’d obviously been here. Vintage photographs prove this. In one of them, he’s shown playing tennis in a 1971 celebrity tennis tournament. Iconic actor, Charleston Heston, was one of the tournament winners.

There are supposedly many Hollywood connected people having second homes in town, or at least I’ve been told that much. I suppose they like coming this direction so as not to be attacked by autograph seekers or paparazzi. Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt would undoubtedly blend right in with the rest of us senior men, although I doubt women would fail to recognize them.

To veer off the road for a second, yet not crash, I’m told there’ll be streets of gold in Heaven, although some theologians argue that only one road up there is paved with the precious commodity. Revelation 21:21 in the Bible mentions just one street having this yellow metal.

Lake Havasu City has something in common with Heaven, in that the main road coming into town, Highway 95, along with others, is paved with gold of the black variety. I’m talking oil here, Texas crude, and without this black gooey substance, none of our asphalt streets would exist.

I believe a new television show should be made using “Highway To Havasu” as the title. A tribute to the former, each episode would follow the exploits of two lonely widowers, both older men driving ‘cross country searching for adventure, including new wives.

The starting point for these guys is Spooner, Wisconsin—with their ultimate destination being Lake Havasu City, where mature, available gals are said to outnumber guys four to one—at least that’s the rumor back in Spooner.

Unlike the 1977 Ford LTD II that Jonathan Smith (Michael Landon) or Mark Gordon (Victor French) of “Highway to Heaven” fame used, a 1972 Ford Condor II motorhome is the preferred transportation for these aged adventurers.

Main characters, Dub Calkins and Tony Espinoza, even in their 70s, still have a zest for life, choosing to eat only at places ‘not’ offering senior discounts.

The perfect actors to play Dub and Tony are of course, Jay Leno and Tim Allen. I read where they’re good friends like the late Michael Landon and Victor French. A plus being, these guys are now the right age to accurately play each role.

Episodes will have them rolling all across the United States ending up in various locales, yet Highway 95 to Havasu will constantly beckon them—with their cantankerous old vehicle leaving behind a trail of blue smoke along the way.

The hardest part it seems in putting this show together, is coming across a 1972 Ford Condor II RV that still runs. There’s a few of them out there but they’re rare as hen’s teeth. A fellow by the name of Cousin Eddie might let go of his, that is, for the right amount of cash. Jay Leno’s known as a wheeler dealer where vehicles are concerned, so he should be able to snag one.

When Michael Landon first pitched “Highway To Heaven” to NBC executives in 1983, they were dubious at first and turned him down. Not giving up, Landon ultimately was able to sell the series to the delight of wholesome television fans.

There’d definitely be skeptics to “Highway To Havasu”— believing it wouldn’t fly. They’d be wrong of course.

Judging by the significant amount of cars, trucks, and RV’s heading this direction each year, “Highway To Havasu” is already an unrecorded reality show!

I’m a fairly competitive person—more so in the younger years. Bicycling was one of my competitive physical sports. I came across folks that were faster, and some that were slower. In the end it didn’t matter, because competing for trophies and ribbons meant nothing in my book. That’s true for walking and running as well.

I love to walk the trails at Rotary Park in the morning. The southern sector has large shade trees which make it nice on hot sunny days. Folks are always zooming by me, both young and old. I’m not a runner so that’s to be expected. My walking pace is not what it used to be either. Today, I’d much rather take in the sights than anything else.

I’ll count concrete squares in the sidewalk, read the names on memorial plaques sitting under trees, or watch birds swoop down and attempt to grab ants or grasshoppers. These feathered friends are not always successful.

This morning, I was doing my daily ritual, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman attempting to pass me. I’d walked by her earlier as she sat on a bench. The stranger said, “Hello.” — while I returned the pleasantry by saying, “Good morning.”  This person was probably ten years younger than me.

Something inside the competitive sector of my brain quickly spoke up, saying, “You can’t let this happen!”

I immediately picked up the pace, and through watching her shadow that was cast forward because of a southern sun, could see she did the same. When the lady drew closer, I picked it up another notch. This happened several times until we were nearly running.

I knew I couldn’t keep the trot up indefinitely, and believed she was thinking the same. There was an adjoining sidewalk 300 feet up the trail that led straight to my vehicle. Unbeknownst to the competitor behind me, I quickly decided this was the finish line.

She was gaining fast and I was running out of gas, but my right foot reached that point first, with me raising both arms in triumph before I veered off the raceway. I watched out of the corner of my eye once again, seeing the gal shaking her head as she trotted on by, most likely in disbelief of losing.

Declaring myself the official winner, I drove to Arby’s—rewarding this tremendous feat with a small vanilla milkshake topped in whip cream.

Victory never tasted so sweet!

I was looking at an online article written by the ‘Indeed Editorial Team’ on how to write a job resume, not that I’m thinking of going back to work. This resume research is for a friend of mine.

Indeed is an online help site for writing different kinds of papers. A slew of words were brought up by the Indeed Editorial Team to never use because of potential offensiveness.

I’m assuming that members of this team are practicing etymologists, including being WOKE advocates. Etymology is the study of the origins of words and the way their meanings change over time.

People in this field must be working overtime, because it seems each year a new offensive word comes to light. For those wondering, the definition I found for woke and decided to use in this article is: alert to racial prejudice and discrimination in word usage. Another interpretation is: no longer asleep. That’s the one most of us are familiar with.

Some of the words listed were quite obvious, yet with these word police trying to cover all bases, I got a good laugh out of several.

Retard is one of those words having different meanings, one of them definitely on the offensive side where mentally challenged individuals are concerned. As a mechanic, I find retard useful in describing ignition timing on automotive and truck internal combustion engines.

A group of concerned folks are out to totally strike the word retard from dictionaries. Something tells me that in automotive shops around town, that’ll have no bearing on mechanics still saying it.

Master and slave are two additional words deemed offensive by the posse. Once again, these words are used quite frequently in repair shops. Slave cylinder and master cylinder are clutch and brake components on trucks and cars, and I can’t think of suitable replacements for either.

Woke ideologists always mention them as being offensive, solely because of their association with slavery, evidently not aware that both have other non-offensive meanings as well.

Businessman should never be used according to them, replaced with businessperson instead. Folks or people should be substituted for ladies. A layman is now a layperson. Widow has been changed to deceased spouse or deceased partner.

Gypped is now considered to be offensive because of its relation to Gypsies, yet gypsum isn’t. Go figure?

Other names to be avoided, a few found in several different articles are: workmanship, man-made, spokesman, gals, girl, guys, man, forefathers, females, founding fathers, crippled, spooky, handicapped, ghetto, invalid, sister, husband, wives, dwarf, mom, basket case, freshman, elderly, blacklist, foreman, and cakewalk.

Broomrape Lane here in Lake Havasu City is undoubtedly offensive to some, although the name has botanical meaning. Why the scientific plant name ‘orobanche’ wasn’t used instead is a question for the founding fathers, oops, I mean town organizers. I suppose some folks will eventually plead for a name change.

A phrase that wasn’t mentioned, is a term my grandparents used to describe a man and woman living together. The term ‘shacking up’ always cracked me up upon hearing it as a kid. I didn’t have a clue what grandpa and grandma were talking about, believing it had something to do with the house folks were living in. It wasn’t until much later in life that I came to know the true meaning.

I came up with three offensive labels of my own that etymologists seem to have passed on, especially where writing a resume is concerned. Grease monkey should be appropriately labeled lubrication technician. Pump jockey is of course a gas station attendant. Prostitute should definitely be defined as a copulation expert.

Personally, I believe that some people get carried away by simple words. Thin skin comes to mind here and I’m sure that phrase is on the ‘do not use’ list. Where my own offensiveness is concerned, I try to adhere to the adolescent limerick, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me!”

If anyone should be upset, it’d be me, because I’ve been called Mr. Hankey going back some 27 years to 1997. Family and friends jokingly labeled me that and I still chuckle whenever I hear the name. It’s a good thing thick skin is part of my physical chemistry.

For those not knowing who the real Mr. Hankey is, he’s a character from the comic television series, “SouthPark..” Folks can call me Mr. Hankey any time they want, but please don’t refer to me by any other names the little guy’s known for!

“Howdy ho!”

Many of the shorts and tee-shirts I wear are purchased from second-hand stores located around town. I can’t fathom paying $40 for a pair of brand name shorts from a retailer, when a broken-in generic pair can be had for $6.

The other day I was out shopping for jeans, and one of these thrift stores appeared to have marked up their apparel. I asked a clerk why and she could only shrug her shoulders and half heartedly reply, “Inflation?”

That made me chuckle because the “stuff” they sell is donated. I suppose if I was to ask a manager, I’d be told the cost to operate has risen, such as wages, electricity, water, insurance, and the like. Not to quickly change directions here, but stuff is what this story’s mainly about.

I’ve been asked on more than one occasion, “Why do you guys have so much unnecessary stuff?” Normally, I reply back that I don’t know, rather than go into a long-winded spiel.

The number one reason my wife and I have lots of stuff, is that I don’t like dealing with people where selling it is concerned. It’s not that we couldn’t use the extra cash, far from this. My experience with selling stuff never turned out to be fun. Joleen says that attempting to sell stuff turns me into a grumpy old man.

Thirty years ago, we had a garage sale and I was the one pricing things. I marked them down to the point where we were basically giving stuff away, yet people still dropped by and offered much less. When I had cassettes marked for $1 and was offered .50 cents by one guy, it made hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

After all this time, I still think back to that “garage sailor” as they’re sometimes referred to. “Garage sailing” is the act of traveling from garage sale to garage sale, thus garage sailors are the people partaking in this activity.

My daughter and her family were in town during Thanksgiving, and she wondered why we still had a highchair—along with a pack-n-play for infants. All five of our grandchildren are long beyond needing these items.

I told Miranda I didn’t want to deal with a bunch of irritating calls, and planned on donating the chair and crib when I got around to it. She asked if she could try peddling them while they were visiting—with me gladly informing her, “Have at it!”

In the back of my mind, I believed it’d turn out to be a fiasco worth writing about.

The highchair was like new, and my daughter listed it on Facebook for $10. The first caller wanted to know why it was being sold for so cheap, implying that there must be something wrong. Miranda informed her there was nothing defective about the chair at all, yet the woman still passed on even looking at it.

Evidently, not a frugal woman, I suppose she was looking for a more expensive one to buy, believing in the old adage, “You get what you pay for!”

This highchair eventually sold, after my son-in-law, out of a heartfelt desire to make sure one particular caller got it, drove six miles across town and delivered the thing. Dennis said that the older woman purchasing it for a grandchild couldn’t thank him enough.

Hearing that story, my grumpy old man attitude began to soften, with me believing that perhaps buyers had changed over time. That thought only lasted a day.

Miranda had taken our pack-n-play crib out of its large box and assembled it, taking numerous photos afterwards and placing them online. After the crib was listed, a youngish sounding gal called saying that she desperately wanted it, and that she’d be by the next day at a certain prearranged time.

The following day she called back, asking if it could be held another day. During this time, other interested callers had been told that it was sold. To make a long story short, this woman turned out to be a flake. She rudely never called back and wouldn’t answer her phone.

Rather than go through this same ordeal with the pack-n-play after Dennis, Miranda, and grandchildren left for Minnesota, I asked that she remove it beforehand from the Facebook site. The pack-n-play was disassembled, with it going back inside the large box. It can stay there forever as far as I’m concerned. Who knows, I might eventually get a puppy or kitten that’d like to play in it.

Friends and family have advised me that I should have a garage sale and get rid of everything in one swoop. I’m seriously thinking about taking their advice. Things will be done much differently than the way I went about it thirty years ago. Garage sailors will be talking about my final garage sale in Lake Havasu City for years to come.

Just like some stores and restaurants have done, I’ll price everything through the ceiling this go-around. Joleen and I no longer use cassette tapes yet do have a slew of CDs. $30 apiece sounds about right. Some Tupperware plastic bowls from the 70s should be worth $10 each. Undoubtedly, savvy buyers will ask why our junk is so high.

“Inflation!,” will be the first word out of my mouth. I’ll make sure to go on and explain further,

“The cost to put on a garage sale has risen considerably. With electricity going up, water and sewer already there, including insurance and refuse, along with our cable television, unfortunately, I have to mark up the goods to help defray this increase. Of course, my time isn’t free either.”

Seeing the look on people’s faces afterwards will be priceless. They’d undoubtedly be like mine after getting our $42 ticket the other morning for breakfast.

I might not sell anything, that is unless that woman looking for an expensive used highchair stops by. Regardless, this sounds like the perfect event to freely pass along some of my garage sale grumpiness to prospective buyers.

I hear tell from a good friend, that such grumpiness is highly contagious amongst the older crowd, especially men!

Milk Duds is one of my favorite candy treats, this addiction began while attending movies at theatres starting about 1963. The theatre snack bar at Reese Air Force Base in Lubbock sold small boxes of these chewy chocolate and caramel delicacies. I’m not here to talk about Milk Duds though, but three other type of duds instead.

I remember as a kid, purchasing packages of firecrackers and every so often one wouldn’t explode. These unexploded fireworks were first called “duds” by my brother and older guys . Rather than waste a dud Black Cat firecracker, they’d open things up to expose the gunpowder. A match would then be put to explosive powder making it go “POOF” in a brief shower of sparks and light.

There was another dud as well, number three on my list. Being an avid shooter, on occasion, a .22 rimfire cartridge wouldn’t detonate making it too a dud. This misfire came to be because the primer was bad, most likely from moisture getting inside. Rather than throw the unexploded ordinance away, my brother and I saved them.

It was relatively easy to remove the actual bullet head using a pair of pliers, and then dump out a tiny amount of powder similar to that used in firecrackers. We were careful not to pinch the end of the case where the primer was located.

If we had enough of these dud cartridges, a line of powder was poured onto the concrete or ground, and once again a match was struck to light things off. It resembled western scenes we’d watched on television or the movie, although on a much smaller scale. This activity was done clandestine without parent supervision. I highly doubt our folks would have approved back then—rightly so.

Several years back, I discovered a dud piece of ammunition in the desert a few miles from Lake Havasu City. It was an old, all metal, 12 gauge shotgun shell that I dated back to the early 1900s. Evidently some cowboy was out hunting and this shell didn’t go off. Unlike what I did as a kid with unspent .22 shells, it was discarded by this saddle tramp or accidentally dropped. I located the large artifact with my metal detector a good 12 inches under the ground.

Hopefully a mountain lion wasn’t about to attack the guy because a dud in this situation could be costly. Living in Alaska and doing a lot of hiking, I always had a firearm with me. In most cases, if a bear should try to attack a hunter or hiker, the person in danger only has time for one shot. That was good reason I always kept my ammunition dry. Misfires could be deadly for a person holding the gun.

These days, I have little worry about dud ammo, but there’s another form of dud that worries me even more. This one is number four. Voting for a president that turns out to be a dud can have enormous damaging effects on this country. The last three years have proven this without question.

To be elected and then fail to act as a strong Commander in Chief can have disastrous results with other hostile countries such as China, Iran, North Korea, and Russia. Our current president fits this mold perfectly. His ability to lead the country against our foes seems to have fizzled to the same level as a wet Black Cat firecracker. The fuse appears to be lit and then nothing happens.

He’s gotten us involved in two wars and it appears another’s on the horizon. Joe Biden evidently never learned the age old philosophy that the guy in the ‘hood carrying the biggest stick is someone not to mess with. For years that’s how our country operated. Leaders of the four threatening countries mentioned view him as weak and they’re not wrong.

Rather than continually berate this individual, I wish something could be done to make him merely open his eyes, as it appears Joe Biden’s literally coasting or vacationing the rest of the way through his term. He’s much like the driver of a bus asleep at the wheel. Age and cognitive ability undoubtedly plays a big part here.

Years ago, I worked under an AFL-CIO union leader in Alaska named Al Baffone. Mr. Baffone was a “get it done” kind of guy and a strong personality, not afraid to stand tall. His negotiation skills were beyond anyone I’ve ever met. Joe Biden could’ve learned a lot from Al Baffone regarding not caving in to outside influence.

On Mr. Baffone’s desk sat a large brass plaque. I remember the first time I saw it. On this plaque was engraved: Lead, Follow, or Get the Hell Out of the Way. A bit harsh in language perhaps, but the message was loud and clear.

President Joe Biden would do the United States a big favor at this point by stepping down as he can no longer run the country. Richard Nixon made that difficult decision in 1974. I highly doubt Biden’s ego and pride would let him follow suit.

Incompetent Joe will attempt to cruise along on this gravy train as long as he can. By doing so, he’s a threat to our nation’s sovereignty and economic stability by allowing the southern borders to remain wide open, although he claims through lying lips that he’s trying to get them under control. That in itself, tells me a lot about the man.

Overall, he’s a dud extraordinaire!

I just read several online stories about pet owners, and how their dogs and cats remembered them after a long separation period. One man in the service was gone for three years. When the soldier returned home, his overly excited German Shepherd almost knocked him over as “daddy” walked up the driveway.

A woman’s Siamese cat mysteriously disappeared. She looked and looked but couldn’t find it. Four years later, a local veterinarian called to say that he had her lost fur baby, identified by a chip implanted under the skin.

Driving over to identify this recently found pet, the frightened feline hissed as the woman first approached it. After a few seconds, evidently recognizing the voice over anything else, it literally jumped into her arms.  There are hundreds, if not thousands of similar stories.

Some animal experts believe that we sometimes underestimate the memory of not only our dogs and cats, but other fur and feathered creatures as well. I find that truly remarkable, because I’ve found people that I went to school with, or worked alongside, not remembering me after only a few years passed.

I’ve written about two of our late dogs, Simon & Carly, numerous times. When Carly passed away in 2014, I had one of her photos enlarged to 11×14 and placed it on the lower level of our fireplace. Simon immediately recognized that face, and for the next nine years, he’d walk up to the photograph and stare.

On occasion, for whatever reason, he’d use his front and rear legs to scratch out in the carpet right below the photo, as if posturing himself like he used to do when Carly was alive. From what I’ve learned, a majority of Pekingese seem to have that catlike scratching trait.

Simon would sit and listen to my wife when she called on the phone after I’d placed the receiver by his ears. He instantly recognized her voice even without seeing who was talking. Joleen said that he did the same whenever I called.

Dogs are great at recognizing other canines as well. Our two would watch when other dogs came on the television, yet never barked or got excited. On the other hand, our daughter’s two Pekingese, would go into a tizzy, ready to leap through the screen.

Domestic animals aren’t the only ones having unusual ability to remember things!

In Alaska, my mother would drive her blue Ford Taurus to a local Fred Meyer store in Anchorage during winter months, and feed the ravens and eagles that hung around in a tree near the back parking lot. If these birds weren’t there, they soon would be, recognizing her car without problem.

She claimed that she gave them scraps, but I believe Mom bought them frozen fish and meat and never told anyone. One day, she ran out of “bird food” and didn’t make the trip.

Mother only lived a mile from this store, and that afternoon, she heard a terrible squawking outside her front door. Opening it, a couple of huge glossy-black ravens were sitting on the roof of her vehicle. They’d evidently followed her at one time or another, and were upset that she hadn’t made a daily appearance at Fred Meyer.

We had a similar occurrence here in Lake Havasu City. My wife, dogs, and I would drive to Rotary Park and eat lunch. For those about to complain, no, Simon & Carly never left the vehicle to do their business nor go on a walk. It’s against park rules in most areas.

There were always too many French fries for Joleen and I to consume, so a few were shared with the pigeons, brown birds, and black birds. They seemed to prefer In-N-Out fries over any others.

After doing this so many times, these wise creatures recognized our little white Chevrolet HHR, exactly like those Alaskan birds did Mom’s blue Ford. After finding out that we weren’t supposed to be feeding the wildlife, Joleen and I quit.

The pigeons, along with these other birds still flew over, and walked around our car in circles, watching as we ate up all of the fries. Sometimes, they’d fly up and land on the hood or roof, with a look of disgust in their small beady eyes.

I know that birds, dogs, cats, and other animals have great memories, yet these Rotary Park pigeons have taken things a bit further. They evidently possess, like some humans, a “retaliatory nature.”

After we stopped feeding them, the hood and top of our car seemed to have an invisible bullseye painted on top.

Not once when we were supplying the feathered creatures with salty carbohydrates did we have any problem with bombs being dropped on our ride. After that food ritual ceased, almost every trip ended with a direct hit.

Eventually, Joleen and I changed rigs for a newer one. The bombing halted for a spell, yet last time we were down there, our Jeep was blindsided on the left front fender by a substantial weapon, much larger than a pigeon carries. I suspect it was a seagull that’d been tipped off as to our identity by the others.

If a bird’s recollection of people is on the same level as a dog or cat’s, I suspect we’ll be welcomed this way forever, that is, until the day we once again start feeding the whole flock.

As the old saying goes,

“Birds of a feather retaliate together!”

An old man with a funny looking stick walked slowly down Elm Street as he had each Monday morning for three years. Judy’s Café was only two blocks away from his house in the city, and he’d make the weekly pilgrimage to the restaurant for scrumptious sourdough pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a slab of hickory smoked ham.

Dave Rawlings, or “Able,” as friends and family called him, was a retired rancher from Cody, Wyoming. Able had raised buffalo for 72 years as did many ranchers in the area. His unusual nickname came about because of an ability to repair most anything.

Able’s wife, Mary, unable to walk, stayed at home and encouraged him to get out of the house, as it did her husband much good. Able always brought her back a plate of food, along with a fresh cinnamon roll. Residents told the man to be careful, as their neighborhood was known for drug trafficking.

The guy missed tinkering around on hot rod tractors and trucks, having to give up what he once loved to do back on the ranch, after arthritic fingers could no longer twist wrenches. Much of his time was now spent in the city messing with electrical gadgets and tools in his miniscule basement shop.

He’d learned how to make an ordinary drill turn three times as fast as it normally did, until one morning it literally disintegrated in his hands. The kindly senior citizen had some ideas on making one of the new EV cars faster, although he didn’t own one and probably never would.

As Able made his way to Judy’s Café that cold morning, three white males sporting black hoodies sauntered down the street towards him, their soiled blue-jean-britches nearly dragging the ground.

“Gi’ me dat walkin’ stick ole man!,” the tallest thug commanded.

Able, being a wise man—gladly let each accoster touch the end of his cane one at a time, while he held on dearly to the other.

A television newscaster reported that evening that three young men had been electrocuted on Elm Street and were recovering in the hospital. They’d been found lying in the road, side by side, unconscious. It was assumed a freak bolt of lightning struck them.

Able, upon hearing this news, chuckled, got up, and then headed for the basement. Wondering what her husband was up to, Mary quizzingly asked what he planned to do.

“Turn the voltage down a bit.”

What the thugs didn’t know, or no one did besides Mary, was that his strange looking walking stick was a modified electric cattle prod in disguise. Able cleverly named his invention, Shazam.

After its first real test, unlike huge buffalo, he discovered Shazam’s 7000 volts was more than powerful enough to put mouthy, two-legged street punks in their place.

As the three hoodlums slowly regained consciousness in the emergency room, the tallest mumbled in hard to understand, gangsta-gibber-jabber as best he could,

“Dat’s the lass time dis cat mess with an ole man carryin’ a forked stick!”

The other two moaned in perfect unison,

“Amen!”

Able continued tinkering with his cane until he had it capable of 10 electric shocks. With news of his successful fray with three street hoods finally making the news, and that his simple electric cane prevented him from being harmed that morning, seniors from all over the country wanted one.

Being besieged with offers to purchase, the retired rancher teamed up with a successful businessman in Alaska to build the Shazam canes for distribution in the US.

Painted glossy black, leftist political figures quickly coined the term ‘assault canes’ to describe Able’s creation. It wasn’t long before ACLU attorneys in conjunction with the California governor banned the multi-shock devices from public places.

Certain Democrat politicians wanted things taken even further. They pushed to have them declared illegal to own, since defensive canes weren’t protected under the second amendment. They were concerned that these items might get into the wrong hands.

When this case against Able Rawlings and partner finally reached the US Supreme Court, five justices ruled that the multi-shock canes were to be considered lethal, controlled weapons, and that they were to be registered with ATF.

Lobbyists representing criminals in New York, eventually sued Able and his partner for producing a device that made it hard for common street thugs to make an honest living. An activist lower court judge in that state, placed a temporary moratorium on the weapons being allowed there. A California judge followed suit, declaring the walking sticks illegal to own.

After going bankrupt from so many lawsuits, the Shazam Cane Company finally closed its doors. The canes are still being manufactured by crafty seniors desiring one, with the FBI even looking into this.

Able no longer walks to Judy’s Café like he once did, this after his cane was confiscated by local police. The man stays at home watching all of the violence on television, wondering why those in Washington DC don’t do something about it.

Seniors, along with other concerned citizens throughout the country are thinking the same, with POTUS finally resorting to an unusual, impromptu press conference. The big guy offered up these four words of encouragement,

“Don’t worry. Be happy!”

If I was to ask most people I meet on the street here in Lake Havasu City, what were they doing on November 22, 1963, the majority would say, “I wasn’t born yet!”

For us old-timers, the answer would be different. I was living in Lubbock, Texas, the day President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. Like the terrorist attack destroying the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, it was an event never to be forgotten.

I was a fourth grader at Reese Elementary School, sitting just outside the main gate to Reese Air Force Base where my father was stationed. We’d just moved to Texas in 1963, finding the weather there much different than Selma, Alabama.

Vintage photos, along with some 8mm movies taken by Mom, showed it was blustery cold that month, with thick hoar-frost covering trees. Dad’s black 1951 Chevrolet had its fair share of ice, with another segment of film showing him scraping the windows clean.

My brother, Jim, and I are in one such movie with coats on, standing outside playing with our Duncan brand spinning tops. They were very popular back then, especially the ones that whistled while spinning.

We became quite good at twirling the toys, having a small concrete patio outside our front mobile home door to practice on. Both of us mastered yo-yos as well, with Jim able to “walk the dog” with his.

This was a clever trick where the yo-yo rolled freely on floor or concrete while you strolled along behind it holding the string. The string had to be lightly tied to the yo-yo center dowel to pull this off. It took skill to do this trick, and unfortunately, as hard as I tried, I never quite mastered the feat.

Flubber balls had also came out sometime during this period, made popular by the Walt Disney movie, “The Absent-Minded Professor”, starring actor Fred MacMurray. I had one of these balls until it exploded in a dozen different pieces. Turned out they didn’t hold up so well when used outdoors in freezing weather.

Several kids brought them to school, tossing the super hard balls down the hallway until they were confiscated, deemed dangerous by some teachers. They probably would’ve knocked a person silly if hit in the head.

On that tragic November Friday, when President Kennedy was killed, we’d just returned from the school lunchroom and were sitting in our room ready for the next lesson. A teacher from another class suddenly came in, evidently telling Mrs. Hagan what happened. Both women left the room with our teacher quickly returning with a television set.

Stunned, we sat there and watched, not quite sure what was going on. When Walter Cronkite announced that the president was dead, through tears, Mrs. Hagan and Mr. Harper, the principal, dismissed us. The whole school was let out at that time. Being that I lived less than a mile away, it was no problem walking home. For the next several days my family watched events unfold on our home TV.

What I recall most about President Kennedy’s funeral was the Civil War era caisson with casket, and riderless black horse named “Black Jack,” as the procession slowly moved down Pennsylvania Avenue to Arlington Cemetery.

The mournful drum cadence never stopped during that whole time—as the mourners and military personnel traveled some three miles. I remember Dad saying that all of the military drums were covered in black fabric. With us owning a black & white television back then, I would’ve never known they were modified had he not said so.

The funeral took place on Monday, November 25. We returned to school on the 26^th.  I still remember these events just like it was yesterday. It seems some things in life are meant to never be forgotten. Sadly, President John Fitzgerald’s assassination taking place some 60 years ago is one of them.

My 70^th birthday is coming up in April, with my daughter giving me a challenge to write something uplifting about it. I thought hard about what avenue to choose, knowing that a story would take up several pages. It’d be easy to go on and on, about the many things I’m thankful for over the past 69 years. Ultimately—I chose this simple poem.

PLATINUM JUBILEE

Seventy years old.

Platinum jubilee.

Time to celebrate.

Cake and ice cream.

*******************

Some birthday cards.

Many birthday wishes.

By fam’ly and friends.

Of course, from the missus.

*******************

Private party started.

Yet ended so fast.

Chili dogs for lunch.

Needed Beano for gas.

*******************

A real fleet dude.

Not that long ago.

Now at this age.

Legs move quite slow.

*******************

Arthritic joints.

Needin’ some rest.

Watch what you eat.

Doc warned me ‘bout this.

*******************

Wrinkles and spots.

Across hands and face.

Not only jus’ there.

All over the place.

*******************

Raised two fine kids.

They soon left the nest.

Now me and the wife.

A couple of pets.

*******************

As a birthday boy.

Try to be happy.

Most appreciative.

That I’m still standin’.

*******************

Platinum jubilee.

Let out a big cheer.

Thank you, Dear God.

For all of these years!

The goal his father said,

Was to reach the top.

King of the hill.

Cream of the crop.

*******************

He struggled hard.

The road was long.

Even on good days.

Things still went wrong.

*******************

Conquering it all.

Nothing left to pursue.

Still not happy with life.

These goals made him blue.

*******************

Was this what living,

Is all about?

Over achieving.

And then bow out.

*******************

Now taking the time.

Looking back with resolve.

It seems pursuing a simple life.

Is the best goal of all.