I like to write junk…

Arizona is home to some humongous tumbleweeds. Watch any old western movie, and you’ll generally spot a few in each one, most of them rolling through deserted ghost towns. When my brother was young and we lived in Alabama, Jimmy wanted one for our room. He never came across any tumbleweeds living in Selma, thus his dream remained an empty one.

Many people seem to believe that tumbleweeds are native to North America. I did too until taking the time to read up on them. It turns out they came to this part of the world from the Ukraine in Russia, most likely in bags of flax seed. This took place around 1880. An invasive species of thistle, it didn’t take long before they were tumbling across the deserts of Arizona, tossing out free seeds like Santa does candy canes at Christmas.

The botanical name for tumbleweeds is Salsola tragus. Prickly Russian thistle is another. Other names used especially by farmers and ranchers are unprintable. Some folks are allergic to just touching them and I recently found that out. Much like poison ivy or poison oak, bubbly and painful bumps cover my exposed legs and arms after encountering a renegade band of the thistles. Calamine lotion is now helping sooth and take care of the itch and discomfort.

We were driving on I-40 two years ago, coming back from Laughlin, when a giant tumbleweed seemingly came out of nowhere sailing across the road, this enormous weed propelled solely by Maria. For those not grasping that last line, a song titled, “They Call the Wind Maria,” by Harve Presnell, became a top hit in 1969 after its release. Just for grins, I’ve called the wind Maria ever since. Maria and tumbleweeds go hand in hand.

My reflexes that evening on the interstate weren’t the same as they once were, thus I hit the tumbleweed head on with our Dodge pickup. Looking in the rearview mirror, all that remained was straw and dust, as the impact totally obliterated things. I thought my nice glossy paint would be scratched up, but after pulling off the road and taking a look, I didn’t find one blemish. Ram tough came through once again.

Living right next to BLM property here in Lake Havasu City, rogue tumbleweeds show up in our yard uninvited from time to time, especially during winter when Maria is prevalent. I’ve sent them on their way with a swift kick, yet most of the time their journey ends here.

A well-used snow shovel from our Alaska years and brought to Lake Havasu City as a souvenir now comes in quite handy dealing with these unwanted visitors.

The large and heavy tool works great for snuffing out dried and brittle ones. I use it to smack them silly. They basically disintegrate after a couple of good solid hits. Pre-emergent herbicide takes care of any seeds left behind, keeping them from sprouting. Quite often, my flame thrower comes out of hibernation to cremate them. That’s what I call our large propane weed burner.

A local insect and herbicide company employee says there’s not much you can do to keep tumble weeds from growing, other than pull them out of the ground while still alive and let them die. As mentioned, use a pre-emergent herbicide to keep seeds from germinating. He said the biggest weeds need to be removed for this chemical to work as intended.

Joleen and I have a piece of vacant property in Kingman that tumbleweeds love to take up residence on. They’ve become squatters, moving in without asking permission. Most likely, they see our lot as a safe sanctuary much like San Francisco does with certain people.

During summer they appear, and then come late fall or winter they disappear. Exactly where do they go? I suppose all different directions depending on Maria’s choosing. This is part of their life cycle and they’ll keep tumbling until totally falling apart. Studies show tumbleweeds can travel several miles before disintegrating as long as nothing gets in the way, like walls, fences, or Dodge pickups.

Tumbleweeds aren’t all bad. In the western movie, Conagher, starring Sam Elliot and Katherine Ross, the part that Ms. Ross plays is of a widow (Evie Teale) living by herself in the wilds trying to raise two children.

In desperation, she places poetic notes into tumbleweeds and turns them loose. Conn Conagher (Sam Elliot) finds several of the messages and eventually discovers who wrote them. Of course, it has a happy ending. This is one of my wife’s favorite movies for that reason alone.

Just recently, I was trying to annihilate a few tumbleweeds on our Kingman lot so that several gallons of Ortho Groundclear would penetrate into the roots. A gentleman living next door came over and was inquisitive about such, curiously wondering what I was doing to begin with, and what was I going to do with the removed vegetation. I had them stacked in a corner of our property. His concern was that they’d end up in his yard once Maria made her presence.

This subdivision is in Cerbat Canyon and the surrounding acreage is inundated with tumbleweeds, kazillions of them, everywhere. After dying, they can be spotted rolling down the street, ending up in yards, and eventually the golf course. That’s how our property and other barren ground on the hill got infested with seeds. Officially, this infestation of weeds comes under the heading: an act of nature.

Standing out front of our property that morning, sweating like a wart hog, perspiration coming down like rain after cutting a swath into the lot by hand, I started feeling the burn and itch of coming in close contact with these spiny creatures. My back was aching as well.

After being asked what was I going to do with them, I had to stand there and think for several seconds before silently chuckling to myself. It reminded me of something told to me four years ago by a good friend.

Jim Brownfield mentioned to me when I asked what his plans were for the weekend, “I’m going to free Willy!” I wasn’t totally quite sure what he meant by that statement. Knowing that Free Willy was the name of a movie about a trapped whale, I wondered if he liked the film so much, that he planned on watching it marathon style. Seeing my puzzled state of mind, Jim explained things further.

He planned to cut some dead brush at the back wall of his home, and cleverly, Jim named all of the tumbleweeds, Willy.  By severing the roots that bound Willy to the soil, Jim said freeing them was the righteous thing to do. I informed him of my snow shovel trick, but he didn’t want to put forth that much energy where work was concerned. Being retired myself, I know the feeling.

Walking over to watch, it wasn’t long before a brisk northerly breeze started a few of of his freed tumbleweeds on their pilgrimage to freedom. Borrowing a line from the movie, Forrest Gump, and changing wording just a bit, I couldn’t help but jokingly call out to the lead weed, “Run Willy Run!”

If someone should ever inquire as to what direction a herd of freed tumbleweeds go once they stampede, Maria is the only one knowing the answer. One thing I’ve noticed during my 69 years, much like several women I’m acquainted with, Maria’s plans can suddenly change at any given moment.

I was raised by a father and mother that took no “guff” from me or my brother while growing up. That unusual word was one of their favorites, although you hardly hear it anymore.

To this day, I’m not totally sure what my parent’s definition of guff was, yet I heard the warning numerous times—generally followed by a swat to the hiney. The Collins Dictionary definition for guff is: nonsense, rubbish, malarkey, or bull.

Their lesson eventually rubbed off on me. As I grew older, I decided not to take guff from anyone, with it backfiring on numerous occasions. I’ll bring to light one memorable event.

The year was 1973 and I was 19. Jeff Thimsen, my new girlfriend, Joleen Freeman, and me were sitting in my 1968 Dodge Charger enjoying a box of Fudgesicles. It was a hot Saturday afternoon in Anchorage, Alaska, a sweltering 75 degrees.

The frozen treats on wood sticks were a welcome delight as this vehicle had no air conditioner. With a half-dozen Fudgesicles in a cardboard container, it was taking us some time to eat them all without getting brain freeze. The chocolate was starting to melt making things even worse.

My F8 green Dodge musclecar was parked in a medical facility parking lot across from the Long’s Drug Store on Northern Lights Boulevard. This professional building was closed on weekends and the lot was empty. Jeff and I had parked there before to eat our corndogs and mustard purchased from Andy’s Caramel Corn, located in the Sear’s Mall.

Having our windows down, a man in a Loomis Security car suddenly appeared, claiming that we had to vacate the premises. Looking around for No Parking signs and seeing none, I politely asked, “Why?”

In questioning his authority, that’s all it took for the guy to go on a rant, saying once again, that the lot was closed, and he had strict orders to make sure no one parked there. I took what he said as pure guff, replying back with guff of my own, “We’ll leave as soon as we’ve finished our Fudgesicles!”

The security employee stood beside my door for a short while, muttering stuff that me and the others couldn’t hear. All of our windows were up at this time. When he finally stormed away, Jeff, Joleen, and I figured that was the end of it.

A couple of minutes went by before four Anchorage Police Department vehicles came roaring up with lights and sirens. Evidently, the Loomis agent called them, saying there were three teenagers in the parking lot doing drugs and refused to leave when asked. When I began giving one older APD officer some guff about there being no posted signs, things quickly escalated for the worse.

We were ordered to step out of the vehicle, frisked, handcuffed, and taken to the city jail where fingerprints were taken. I’m sure my car was searched after we departed, with police most likely looking for drugs or alcohol, although none of us ever used this stuff.

Joleen was led to a separate room while Jeff and I were taken to the main holding cell. There was one other occupant inside it besides us. This man had been arrested for soliciting a female undercover officer posing as a prostitute, and the somber guy actually admitted such to us for whatever reason, perhaps other than guilt.

Jeff and I spent an hour behind those steel bars singing songs and laughing while having a grand old time. We didn’t take things serious at all believing this was just a big joke. Some of the jail personnel got a few grins from us being so jovial in a not so jovial locale.

Bail was set at $50 each, with us guys having no money, thus Joleen picked up the tab, writing them a check. She didn’t see any humor out of the ordeal, and to this day still doesn’t.

To make a long story short, our city appointed public defender laughed at the “loitering” charges brought against us, and the district attorney dropped the case like a hot potato, wondering why police officers went to so much trouble over nothing.

We were told later on by another cop, they were most likely trying to make an example out of us, especially me. Having long hair, owning a fast car, and fitting the stereotype of a stoner aligned perfectly with some police back then. My tossing out a trifle amount of retaliatory guff evidently didn’t help matters.

The following Saturday, we drove by that parking lot, spotting newly installed, red and white No Parking signs on several light poles. The small writing underneath said this policy was intended for Saturdays and Sundays. Had those signs been there to begin with, I wouldn’t be writing this story.

Flash ahead fifty years to a recent Tuesday afternoon. After spending the morning cutting heavy brush on a vacant lot in Kingman, and being totally spent of energy, I stopped at the Kingman In-N-Out and ordered myself a burger and vanilla shake. I’ve done this countless times over the years, always driving and parking outside the entrance to the Chrysler Proving Grounds to eat.

Sitting there peacefully enjoying my food, I decided to snap a few photos of our Jeep Grand Cherokee before leaving, with a Stellantis Proving Grounds sign in the background. The Stellantis group are the ones having purchased Chrysler in 2021. No sooner had I taken three digital pictures, a man dressed in a fluorescent yellow security jacket walked up—demanding to know what I was doing.

“Sir, I Just finished an In-N-Out cheeseburger with extra grilled onions and tomatoes. You should try one fixed this way because they’re delicious!”

Ignoring my pleasantry, he quickly inquired about the camera, with me telling him I’d just taken photos of my Jeep purchased through Anderson Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep in Lake Havasu City. At that point, the fellow ordered me to delete all images, saying that I couldn’t have them. By this time another security agent rolled up in his car echoing the same.

I thought about giving them guff in return, but having a flashback to 1973, and what would undoubtedly happen afterwards if I did so made me bite my tongue. The two guards somewhat apologized before leaving saying that they were only doing their job.

During the drive home from Yucca, I couldn’t help but chuckle and think Déjà Vu had just taken place. The only difference being, that first incident in 1973 involved no signs and this one involved one sign. All I needed to complete the scene was for Jeff and Joleen to be with me, plus a box of Fudgsicles.

Telling my wife what transpired after I returned, she could only shake her head, asking why such bizarre stuff always happens to me. I didn’t have an answer, with her candidly replying that I’d been a trouble magnet for her since day one.

As far as those deleted photos go, it took about two minutes with a simple computer program to retrieve them from trash—so all was good.

Looking back on things, it appears putting the cuffs on guff that day was the wise thing for me to do!

A DeWalt cordless drill I own has a meter showing how much battery life remains before it’s dead. Sometimes it shows none, yet still has a few sparks remaining—good for a few more holes. I can then recharge and it’s ready for another two or three hours use. I suppose this would be called “life cycle” or “lifecycle” depending on what English teacher you talk to.

Humans don’t have a meter on their heads or arms to show how much time they have remaining and perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I’d handle this, especially if I was out on the road driving and the meter was almost on zero. Should I pull over or try to make it home?

Tim McGraw had a hit tune called, “Live Like You Were Dying” and it somewhat deals with a situation like this, yet in a serious manner.

The song lyrics talk about a man in his middle 40s discovering that he has cancer, with only a short time left to live. When asked what he planned to do during that time, he proceeds to describe a list.

Skydiving, Rocky Mountain climbing, ride an ornery ole bull named Fumanchu, love deeper, speak sweeter, forgive folks that he hadn’t forgiven, be a better husband, a truer friend, including reading The Good Book, which tells me he’s not talking about a Stephen King novel.

My cordless drill, when recharged, is good for a couple more hour’s use. There’s a distinct similarity between people and that tool and I’ll try to explain why in as few words as possible.

What Tim McGraw didn’t say in his song, most likely because he believes that listeners should already know this, is that the end of life isn’t the end to those of us knowing Jesus Christ. Upon acceptance of him as Savior we’re automatically recharged for eternity.

The only way my DeWalt drill will never go dead is if I leave it plugged in all the time. In essence, that’s what Jesus did for my life. He’s like a life extension cord. Once I plugged in to him there’s no turning me off. When I depart this world my soul moves on to another place, Heaven.

Going back to the Tim McGraw tune, what would I do if I knew the end was mere months away?

I’d probably attempt to emulate all of the things mentioned in the lyrics except for skydiving and riding Fumanchu. There’s good reason for this.

Death might be near, but there’s no need to expedite things!

Back in the day, some folks took up smoking just because most everyone else was doing it. For guys, it was looked upon as being cool to have a smoldering cigarette clenched between fingers, or dangling from lips.

Certain fellows would even stick a cigarette over their ear—unlit of course, or roll a pack up in their tee-shirt sleeve to be extra cool. The majority of honest smokers will testify that their lighting up is nothing more than a bad habit, an addictive one at that.

For gals, smoking was supposedly sexy. For whatever reason I never saw things that way. Thankfully, I didn’t date a girl back then that was a nicotine addict. A friend once told me that kissing a girl that smokes is akin to kissing an ashtray. I wouldn’t know because I’ve kissed neither.

People oftentimes inherently adopt the ways of the world. I see younger folks these days doing more vaping over that of smoking. My guess being that they see this as cool, just as the younger generation did of smoking in the 1940s and 1950s.

Not only is it uncool, but I’d say that attempting to drive while looking through a cloud of vapor is downright dangerous. Once again, those continuing to vape have acquired a bad habit, an unhealthy and unsafe one to boot. Smoking and vaping aren’t the only bad habits that people pick up.

Sitting in the phlebotomy lab waiting room the other morning, I looked around at five other people needing their blood drawn, with all of them transfixed on their electronic devices. The only thing I could do to pass time was gaze down at my sandals, wondering if I should buy another pair. There’s significant wear in the soft leather underneath both big toes.

Much like smokers before ‘No Smoking’ signs appeared, I constantly witness folks in public, staring into their devices while walking, jogging, in restaurants, doctors’ offices, baseball and football games, and even driving. Without question, this activity rates up there with smoking and vaping as addictive.

One area in similarity between smokers and device users is lighting up after a meal. Now, instead of cigarettes and cigars, device addicts light up the flat screens on their handheld computers after eating for enjoyment or entertainment.

Just the other evening, I watched a group of five middle-aged hens doing just that as they chatted and sipped on their cocktails. The luminous glow from several smartphones being randomly checked could be seen on occasion, somewhat reminding me of the distinct glow from cigarettes being puffed on. The only thing missing was a bluish haze hovering over their heads.

In the 1930s thru 1940s, some doctors recommended smoking as a form of stress relief, going so far as to appear in advertisements advocating certain brands. It eventually came to light that they were handing out harmful advice.

Certain studies funded by tobacco companies in the 40s and 50’s showed that smoking was basically harmless, and that some brands were safer than others. Of course, the research firms undertaking these tests weren’t being paid to report anything bad.

Our own government did little to prove smoking was deadly, until cancer statistics started rising so fast amongst the smoking crowd that they couldn’t be kept under wraps. It wasn’t until 1957 that the surgeon general put out an official notice, warning of the dangers of tobacco use where certain cancers are concerned.

Telecommunication companies are now trying hard to disprove that radiofrequency Radiation (RF) from smartphones and iPods are harmful to users. The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) is going along with their biased and bogus studies, most likely because of the immense power of telecommunication lobbyists. Mega dollars distributed to government and political leaders are helping fuel that power.

On the other side of the street, private studies performed by scientists and medical experts, show their is a direct correlation between certain cancers and RF energy in rats and mice where overexposure is concerned.

Realizing that our government isn’t to be trusted with policies regarding my health, especially after Covid swept through town, I’ve elected to first pray about things, and then make pertinent decisions based on logic and pure science, instead of what the next politically influenced Dr. Fauci has to say.

Thus far, I’ve decided to forego smartphone or iPod use, just recently grudgingly opting for a compact flip phone instead. Purchased for emergency use only, I never have it on me unless of course I’m in the desert or traveling somewhere, and even then it’s in my backpack.

It appears to me that the world is trying to force people to have these fancy phones, undoubtedly for marketing and tracking reasons. Hey, they’re even giving them to those folks crossing the border. The abbreviation “app” is synonymous with smartphone.

As a Christian, I believe this phone craze is somewhat reminiscent of the Biblical, ‘Mark of the Beast’. There may come a day when all people are required to have the infamous app when purchasing certain items, namely food. I’ll leave the bulk of that controversial thought for theologians.

Monday morning while in a local grocery store, I spotted avocados on sale for .59 cents each. The limit was four. When I checked out, the total for these four avocados came to six bucks. Asking the cashier, “Why so high when they’re supposedly on sale?,” she then inquired of me, “Do you have the app?”

This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked such. A robot at McDonald’s drive-thru inquires all the time. I didn’t know what the app even was when first introduced and still don’t.

Over the past several years, I’ve mistakenly picked up items that were marked for sale, discovering at the checkout stand that I needed the app to get them for that special price. These days, I constantly look for this warning, but in the case of those avocados, the writing was miniscule enough for me not to see.

Telling a clerk that I didn’t have a fancy phone like most everyone does, she advised me, “You should think about getting one because you can save money using the app.” I didn’t inform her that 90% of my grocery purchases come from Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club, and Costco, and for now, these businesses don’t utilize discriminatory gimmicks like the app.

Watching so many people these days glued to their electronic devices, I wonder how healthy that activity is in comparison to tobacco use and vaping. You never hear our government leaders or doctors warning of the potential side effects, because a good majority of these folks are device users themselves. Some people I know, including family members, are habitually on their iPhones the minute they wake up until they go to bed.

Private research has proven that smartphones, iPods, and the like all give off small doses of radiation. At some point, ongoing scientific studies of placing these devices so close to the brain over long periods of time will be released. Most likely, the results won’t be pretty, especially where potential brain tumors and cancer is concerned.

Of course, not owning a device doesn’t make nonusers totally safe. With so many folks using these phones in close proximity, our being bombarded daily with secondhand RF radiation is undoubtedly doing some physical damage.

The next time someone in a grocery store asks me, “Do you have the app?,” I’ll have an immediate and confusing reply.

“No, thus far I’ve been able to avoid it, and for my health’s sake, I hope things stay that way!”

Run to the Sun is here, and for the second year in a row, “Ole Blue” is going. Hopefully, the truck arrives under its own power instead of via a tow hook. I generally only drive the rusty Chevy twice a year, with it parked the majority of time in my garage gathering dust. Sometimes it’s nice to just sit in the cab with a cup of coffee and think about those airmen that once sat behind the wheel. They’d all be in their 80s now or older if still alive.

“Ole Blue” is a 1950 Chevrolet—former USAF pickup. The vintage “Follow Me” truck basically looks the same as when I discovered it on a horse ranch in Alta Vista, Kansas. Last year it backfired and sputtered all the way to and from Bridgewater Links Golf Course because of bad fuel. Talk about embarrassing. I made sure to drain and refill the gas tank with fresh brew for this year’s automotive extravaganza.

Good things already happened to me on the day I signed up. As usual, not having greenbacks in my wallet besides a slew of credit cards, I needed ten dollars cash to pay for reserved parking. A kind and very lovely young lady standing in front of me picked up the tab. I couldn’t thank her enough. You’ll definitely not find a better group of folks than car people!

My wife and I have been attending Run to the Sun going back to 1983. Living in Alaska, we planned vacations around the function and were never disappointed. There were times when the Havasu heat got to me, including allergies from golf course grass, but I persevered and kept on truckin’ always with a cold lemonade in hand.

I generally wore a Chicago Cubs baseball cap for style more than anything, always coming away with a sunburned neck. There’s nothing worse than trying to sleep at night in a hotel with your skin on fire. Aloe vera juice can only do so much soothing. Folks constantly asked if I was from Chicago, with me telling them I’d never been to Illinois, yet have always been a Cubs’ fan. Like the old truck, that blue hat is a good conversation piece.

Because the show is so close to Halloween, several years ago I dressed the part of an Amish farmer just for kicks. I’d grown a beard down to my chest back then adding further creativity to the ensemble. That authentic look got a lot of quick glances and whispering behind my back, some even sneaking a photo or two with their phones.

For those unfamiliar with the Amish doctrine, they generally don’t own motorized vehicles, yet can ride in one with a non-Amish driver. Horse and carriage is their standard mode of transportation. Although I did it as a joke, that was the first time I didn’t suffer a sunburnt neck thanks to the unique hat.

I’ve never come across any Amish person attending a car show and probably never will. It’s akin to seeing a U-Haul trailer being pulled behind a hearse, although several years back, my wife and I did witness this taking place on I-40 in Kansas.

The thing I won’t do again at a Run to the Sun or any other public event is wear a tee-shirt with “SEKURITY” emblazoned on front and back. The one time I did, folks came up asking all kinds of questions that I didn’t have answers to. It turned out to be a prank gone astray.

Joleen took a great shot of me wearing it while standing beside a row of Jack Pots portable latrines, arms crossed, posing as if I was watching over them. That was one reason I ordered the shirt to begin with, turning it into my own inexpensive Halloween costume.

The picture was then shared with family and friends at Christmas time and they got a kick out of it, actually believing that “Latrine Patrol” was my designated Run to the Sun duty. To this day some still do.

I’d love to see a show where on Saturday, attendees young and old dress up as zombies. That’d add a different touch to things with best costume awards given out by Relics and Rods. Some folks unknowingly look the part already, oohing and aahing at all the nice cars and trucks without watching where they’re going. I’m definitely part of that crowd.

This year you won’t find me sitting behind my vehicle like so many other attendees do. There’s a favorite tree near the Rotary Park entrance that Joleen and I like best. Being a former mechanic, there’s nothing better than a large shade tree to seek cover, having worked under a few as well. Hopefully, there’ll be plenty of lemonade on hand, because after looking at the weather report for Friday and Saturday, we’re going to need gallons.

That Amish hat with wide round brim, after being dusted off, will definitely make another Run to the Sun appearance. This time it’ll be put to good use in keeping my scalp from burning instead of just for grins. I’m sure that’s why the Amish prefer them over baseball caps. Unlike many of us, they’re smart enough to pick a hat for function over that of style.

The last day for this show is Sunday, with the grand finale that morning being a parade down McCulloch Boulevard. If you’re unable to attend yet hear a bunch of loud backfiring it won’t be “Ole Blue” this trip. Most likely, it’ll be another fellow’s rig with a sour tank of gas trying to spit and sputter its way home.

This is representative of how my rough draft blog pieces look after published. This one is in the 10/15/2023 – Today’s News-Herald – Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

For those that subscribe to my blog. The copy you will always see is the unedited rough draft version. Typos and misspelling abound. I go back later and clean things up. You’ll only see that revised copy by going to http://www.michael-hankins.com. It might be a day or two before I have them totally fit and trim. I’m always changing things after I first publish. This is just part of my writing process. mh

Christmas isn’t far away and I’m already seeing Christmas decorations appear in several stores. The only thing missing these past 30 years is the traditional Christmas toy catalogs. Sears had them including Montgomery Ward and J.C. Penney. My brother and I would gaze through these books time and time again, until pages became dogeared and torn.

I’m a traditional kind of guy. Searching page by page through those catalogs was a small part of the holiday ritual I loved most as a kid. Sadly, they’ve went the way of many things, such as fruitcakes and silver Christmas trees, although fruitcakes can still be found in certain stores.

Sadly, Christmas cards is another disappearing holiday tradition. For many years a good assortment arrived from family and friends. With so many of the older generation now gone, and younger people not sending them out, the number of cards received is getting fewer and fewer.

For years, one thing my family has always done before Christmas and throughout the year, is not patronize those places of business that replace the name Christmas with Xmas. I won’t play Monopoly anymore, because the game maker, Hasbro, still uses this blasphemous Xmas definition on one of their Community Chest cards. It’s actually been that way going back to 1935, when the Parker Brothers first released this game.

Tradition has a way of disappearing it seems in not just Christmas, but other areas. I’m a traditional church-music-guy over that of contemporary. There’s nothing wrong with musical instruments in a church service, but when things start sounding like a rock concert, I tune out.

I’ve shed many tears while singing “The Old Rugged Cross” with no instruments whatsoever. The words alone are what penetrated my heart—not booming Ludwig drums or a rattling tambourine. All in all though, if loud music is what draws a person to a place of worship, I’m okay with it. The message is what counts most.

Holiday names are also a traditional thing for me, and I see no reason to change them to satisfy a few.  An early episode of “Seinfeld” had George Costanza celebrating Festivus instead of Christmas or Hanukkah. The comical slogan for this event was, “Festivus for the rest of us.”  There’s no such holiday of course, and I believe it was a way to poke fun at Kwanza which ironically falls on December 26, one day after Christmas.

A group of folks are out to change Columbus Day to Indigenous Native Day. Please leave Columbus Day alone, and keep Indigenous Native Day separate. Christopher Columbus is a hero from my earliest days of studying history in school and always will be.

Yes, he was the first Italian explorer discovering this part of the world. Others may have been here first but that isn’t the point. I was the first person in McDonalds the other morning but that doesn’t mean I totally own the place. Others came in after me and they sat down as well.

Celebrating Columbus Day is a part of American tradition. History books from my era made no mention of slavery or torture of Indigenous people. If newly written books say otherwise, I’d suggest questioning the people that wrote them. How many of those writers were around in 1492 to actually observe this taking place?

Christopher Columbus and his crew may have used what would be construed as cruel methods when dealing with Native, Indian, or Indigenous people, but if you study the warriorlike Navajo, Comanche, Apache, and Tlingit’s, you’ll find they did the exact same thing to other tribes, along with the Aztecs in Mexico.

George Washington’s Birthday will always be George Washington’s Birthday, instead of the unofficial, President’s Day. Slyly changing names of an existing holiday to another is a sneaky way to invoke wokeness or political correctness. Most of us are wise enough to see through this.

Mt. McKinley will remain Mt. McKinley on my map. Just because former President Barack Obama officially changed the name doesn’t mean that I’ll conform to his way of thinking. If some folks want to refer to it as Denali instead of McKinley that’s okay.  My friend has a fully loaded 2018 with all the bells and whistles. It’s a big and luxurious SUV that’ll haul his large family with ease.

When I first moved to Alaska, the airport in Anchorage, was called Anchorage International Airport. Politicians in 2000, changed names to Ted Stevens International Airport. It would now be disrespectful to the late Senator Stevens, if some politicians saw fit to change things once again, as they did with Mt. McKinley. Such talk is being tossed around by leftist Democrats.

There’ll probably come a day when some obscure group decides that Big Rock Candy Mountain needs a name change as well. It wouldn’t surprise me. Of course, they’ll want to name it something that 99 percent of the population can’t pronounce. This seems to be the current line of thinking.

The word moon is of Latin origin. If you watch enough western movies, you’ll hear actors portraying American Indians as saying, “Many moons ago…” This wouldn’t have been the case until after they came in contact with Spanish missionaries.

Undoubtedly, these tribes had other names for the moon besides moon. The Hawaiian name is Mua’Dib. In Gwich’in, the word for moon is oozrii’. When I researched what other ancient names might be out there, I came up with several unpronounceable ones. The word tłʼéʼgonaʼáí is moon in Apache. “Many tłʼéʼgonaʼáí ago…” just doesn’t cut it where Cowboy and Indian movies are concerned.

Thus far, no Indigenous tribes that I know of have proposed changing moon back to their original tongue, with perhaps that being a good thing. Having some Choctaw blood in my veins, I feel I can make light of this subject without undue criticism. I’m sure my Indigenous ancestors wouldn’t mind, those with a sense of humor even getting a chuckle or two.

On a serious note, it goes against the grain for me to follow anyone attempting to change my mindset to theirs, especially politicians, where religion, politics, and history is concerned. I won’t conform to secular belief at all on these three subjects.

Over the years, I’ve observed some friends and family conforming to the way of the world, as well as television news channels, newspapers, and in one case, a pastor. Aligning with political correctness and woke policies instead of Biblical principle are good examples of conformity. The great evangelist Billy Graham said this about non-conformity:

“There are multitudes of people who do not give themselves to Jesus Christ, because they have conformed to this world. They are afraid of being called fanatic and pious. A true Christian is a nonconformist. This is our reasonable service to the Lord.”

To that I say, Amen.

Picking an appropriate title to one of my stories is perhaps the hardest part of writing them. I try to keep titles no longer than three words—just because that seems the proper thing to do. For this piece, Galveston might seem a bit odd, yet will make perfect sense at the end.

More than one person has told me, that dealing with the public is one of the toughest jobs there is. Customers can be demanding and rude at times. Over the course of 60 years, I have bumped into several such people.

The other morning in a convenience store, I stood in line waiting to pay for my breakfast burrito when a guy rambled on and on regarding the price of diesel. The tone in which he was venting made it seem the clerk was responsible. I wanted to interject, saying that perhaps he should place the blame where it belongs—on the big guy in Washington, DC—yet didn’t. I’m sure those customers standing at the back of the line were glad I refrained.

Grocery stores are always good places to hear people whine. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in a supermarket, hearing someone behind me pipe up for everyone to hear, “Somebody needs to call another checker!”

The best comeback I’ve ever witnessed, and probably never will see again, is when an old guy blurted out for the cashier to call for backup help. This was early in the morning, minutes after the store opened. Hearing this request, the veteran employee stopped what she was doing, and then politely called over the intercom,

“Rhonda, would you check please, Rhonda.”

Without hesitation, the man moved out of line with his hand basket and scurried to the adjoining register, obviously anticipating he’d be next. At the most one minute went by with no new clerk appearing. The impatient Havasuian then demanded one more time,

“You need to page her again!”

At this point, the cool and calm store worker offered up the following,

“She heard me the first time. My name’s Rhonda and I’m the only checker here at the moment!”

Our Lake Havasu City Post Office is always a good place to hear whining and negative comments. The hard working folks working there do a tremendous job, yet there’s always someone in line thinking they’re not moving quite fast enough for them. Whenever I hear one of these complainers moaning about such, especially if they’re standing at the rear, I sometimes give them the 30-second stare.

Try staring at someone for 30 seconds without cracking a smile. It’s not easy. If they complain a second time, another stare session is in order. This usually cures them of their impatience. If the person’s directly in front of me, I merely burn a hole through the back of their head with my eyes.

It was in 1971 when the following happened to me. A beautiful and sunny Sunday—I was the only employee running my father and his partner’s Texaco gas station that day.

Sometime in the late afternoon, a young military man behind the wheel of a red convertible Mustang drove through, ringing the bell out front signaling he needed fuel. Back then, a rubber hose ran across the gas station driveway, and when a car or truck rolled over the hose, the suddenly compressed air inside of it rang a loud bell.

Hurrying outside to wait on him, the man replied, “Could you please check all four tires.”

My job was to take care of such requests, but I also wondered why this perfectly healthy guy didn’t check his own tires. Afterall, the gauge was on the end of the hose. I’d easily copped a negative attitude having to do this for him, yet kept my composure knowing that was what they paid me for.

After inspecting all four tires, out of the blue, this young Army soldier wearing a black cowboy hat, stuck his hand out with a couple of dollar bills. I only knew he was military by the large Fort Richardson Army sticker on his Mustang front bumper.

With the offer was so out of the norm, initially, I refused his money saying that air’s free, but he was insistent. Taking the cash, I stuck it in my coverall’s pocket and thanked him.

Before leaving the station, the fellow plugged an 8-track tape into his car stereo. It was a Glenn Campbell tape with the song “Galveston” suddenly booming from both rear speakers. Now 52 years later, I can still visualize the scene perfectly. That song greatly helped me remember things.

As he quickly drove away with music blaring, a small amount of dust and sand particles from unswept concrete lingered in the air. Sunlight reflected off it for a brief few seconds. I stood there somewhat shocked until he disappeared from sight. I’ve never forgotten that moment nor the kind act left behind by this perfect stranger. Strangely enough, I never saw him again because I would’ve been more than happy to check the air in his tires.

Years ago, I was telling my late Mom this story and she had a perfect explanation. During the 1940s, Mother worked in a small café in Vernon, Alabama. This was during her teenage years.

Mom told me that she didn’t exactly recall those folks stiffing her on tips, which happened all the time, yet remembered instead those few customers always leaving behind a nice tip, sometimes a couple of quarters just for a cup of coffee. Their kind faces evidently stuck in her brain like that soldier’s did mine.

Now, whenever I hear “Galveston” playing on the radio, I flash back to 1971 and that urban cowboy. He definitely left a positive impression on me. In an attempt to emulate the man, I make a humble effort to treat all employees of businesses with respect, no matter where they stand on the company ladder. One such way is by giving those folks bringing food or drink out to my car, a small token of appreciation—usually a dollar.

In the long run, people will undoubtedly remember me more this way, than if I’d treated them with rudeness and disrespect.

There’s a popular song from 1968 by singer/songwriter, Bobby Goldsboro, with the ending lyrics,

“See the tree, how big it’s grown, but friend it hasn’t been too long, it wasn’t big. And I laughed at her, and she got mad, the first day that she planted it—was just a twig.”

This sad tune is about a young married woman named Honey, and the different phases of life she went through before dying at an early age. The story’s told through her husband’s perspective on life. It was the #1 hit in 1968.

In the lyrics, they tell about Honey planting a seedling, with her passing away a few years after doing so. The grieving husband is reminded of her each time he sees this tree. I remember several of my teenage gal friends crying back then whenever this tune came on. It was that powerful. I won’t say that I didn’t shed a few tears myself.

At Rotary Park in Lake Havasu City, hundreds of trees have been planted in memory of lost ones. When time allows, I like to stroll through the grounds and check out the name plaques in front of each. Some of the trees are now huge having been planted many years ago.

Unfortunately, as is the case with trees and anything green; disease, weather, bugs, and vandalism have taken a toll on a few. One of my favorites sat in an area where I like to park, as it helped block the afternoon sun. This tree was planted in 2011, in memory of Robert L. Pleasant.

Sadly, city workers had to cut down the Pleasant tree last week, and it was a huge undertaking with several large trucks needed to haul things away. That tree base was as big as any in the park. I didn’t ask why they removed it, knowing that someone in the know evidently saw fit to do so. I can only hope it was removed for a valid reason.

I didn’t know Mr. Pleasant, but after finding his obituary on the Lietz-Fraze Funeral & Crematory website, I recognized his photo from working at K-Mart here in town. It was a short, but very well written documentary on Robert’s life, telling me beyond all measure that he was truly loved. I can only hope my family compose something similar about me.

“Robert Lee Pleasant passed away on Friday April 8, 2011, in Lake Havasu City, at the age of 64. Bob was born on September 30, 1946, in Indiana.

Bob moved to Arizona 23 years ago from LaVerne, California, and for the past 15 years was owner and operator of Crystal Clear Pool Service in Lake Havasu City. Bob had also worked as a Department Manager for K-Mart and was a past member of Eagles and Elks Lodge in Lake Havasu City.  He was an amazing husband, step-father (which was more like a father figure) and awesome “Papa”.

Remembering his first time babysitting his little granddaughter, Skylar, we remember getting his S.O.S. call to come and help him, because he didn’t know what to do with her crying, and poopy diaper. What a trooper he was!  To this day, his grandson Dalton always remembers having his chocolate chip cookies and milk with Papa before his bedtime.  He was an awesome handyman and would ALWAYS come to Kristin’s aid, while in the middle of the heat to rescue her with her car issues and whatever other issues she had.  He definitely was a life saver even if it was in the 120 degree heat.

Bob is survived by his loving wife of 11 years, Barbara Childress Pleasant, step-daughter, Kristin Jonker, step-son Chuck Childress, both of Lake Havasu City, as well as his 2 precious grandchildren, Skylar and Dalton Jonker of Lake Havasu City, Arizona.  

He will be dearly missed. No services will be held. There will be a tree dedication ceremony for Bob on October 22, 2011. In lieu of flowers, donation in Bob’s name may be made to Hospice of Havasu, (Polidori House). P.O. Box 597, Lake Havasu City, Arizona 86405.”

That tree trunk along with the plaque are all that remain of Robert’s memorial. Undoubtedly—the trunk will soon be removed. At that point in time hopefully another tree’s planted in Robert Pleasant’s memory.

The song “Honey” is now 55 years old and still with us. There’s no reason that the Robert Pleasant tree memorial can’t continue on as well!