I like to write junk…

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!

There are two phrases that often pop up during friendly conversations.

“Do you remember?,” is the first.

“Have you ever?,” being the second.

Just the other day someone asked me, “Do you remember when Bob’s Big Boy restaurant was located in Havasu?” Of course I do, because I ate there several times before it ceased operation. Their burgers and French fries were some of the yummiest in town.

That conversation regarding Bob’s ultimately drifted to other food establishments no longer in our city.

Another question I’ve been asked more than once is, “Have you ever taken the shuttle across the lake to Havasu Landing Resort & Casino?”  Thus far I’ve replied, “No, but my wife and I plan to go someday.”

Someday has still yet to come, but perhaps this summer it will. My question back to those doing the inquiring is always the same, “Have you ever won anything?”

These two phrases, have you ever and do you remember, can be ice breakers in getting conversations started. Different locales open up a plethora of possibilities for each line.

In Alaska, asking someone have they ever caught a king salmon, saw a bear, rode a snowmachine, or visited Homer or Skagway, is quite common. I have a unique question of my own that on occasion I ask Alaskan visitors or residents,

“Have you ever ate at Kenny Rogers Roasters?”

Most all young folks I toss this question to don’t have a clue what Kenny Rogers Roasters is. At one time in Alaska, there was one of these restaurants located in Anchorage on Dimond Boulevard. We went there perhaps three occasions, with my biggest remembrance being how expensive it was. You had to pay extra for side dishes such as cornbread or mashed potatoes and gravy.

The upstart business only remained for a few years before closing. At their peak, there were 425 of these roasted chicken restaurants in the world, with all locations in the United States now gone. They’re still going strong in Asia.

In Arizona, the foremost question presented to residents without question is, “Have you ever seen a rattlesnake?”

I always reply back to that question with, “Yes,” having run across several of these reptiles at home and in the desert.

Our back patio area still has scars showing where I hacked one to death with a shovel. I did just as much physical damage to the cool-decking that I did to this three foot rattler. Unfortunately, I had to kill it because the rattler was coiled and ready to strike our little dog.

My Alabama related conversations generally end up with these questions.

“Have you ever visited Selma?,” or “Do you remember seeing any of the old plantation homes?”

“Yes,” can be answered to both. I have story after story to tell about living in Alabama, and all of them good. As a young boy, whatever negative I experienced there must’ve been minimal because I can’t recall any.

Hawaii is a different subject. I’ve only been to the Aloha State twice, and after telling folks this bit of my personal history, they generally inquire,

“Have you ever tried surfing?”

That question opens up a short novel of sorts because I have a painful story to tell.

I was in my late 20s the first time there. In Oahu, a snorkel and surfboard rental shack was located close by our hotel. A couple of friends that Joleen and I knew prodded me into renting a beginners board. Being fair skinned, and game enough to try anything new where sports is concerned, I obliged.

The surfboard I ended up with had an antislip material on top similar to that found in showers or bathtubs. Lying on my stomach and paddling out to where the waves started to crest, after so many trips back and forth, this sandpaper like material was doing its best to erase any memories of my male nipples. Believe it or not, they’re actually called that in numerous medical articles.

After almost an hour of spending more time on this board lying on my stomach rather than standing on feet, I was in severe pain. Saltwater hadn’t done the abrasions any good along with an overdose of sunburn on my back.

Blood started to appear on my right breast, and the fear of hungry sharks suddenly came to mind. I called it quits before any took notice.

Wearing Band-Aid pasties under my t-shirts the rest of that trip, I avoided the beach like a plague. After hearing this story I’m generally asked by people,

“Did you try aloe vera juice to ease the pain?”

Have you ever and do you remember are undoubtedly two phrases that seniors use more than any. It’s good to reflect back on the places we’ve been and crazy things done. In some cases, as I’ve pointed out, these memories can be funny and painful at the same time.

“Have you ever experienced or do you remember things similar?”

Hopefully not where surfing is concerned. I’ve never heard tell of another person going through that unforgettable ordeal!

My wife and I have owned our little 2009 Chevrolet HHR Panel since new. Purchased in Alaska at Alaska Sales & Service, it saw limited driving time in “The Last Frontier” before being shipped south to Seattle.

Joleen and I flew to Washington State during spring where we then drove it to Arizona. The pure white car that we named “Casper” became our #1 vehicle to use because it provided a comfortable place in back for Carly & Simon to ride. They’re both Pekingese dogs, sadly, no longer with us. A thick quilt allowed them to snooze on long trips.

This car has been through hail so to speak, skirting a storm containing the damaging pellets in Idaho without a dimple in the roof or hood. It smacked a large semi-tire-remnant on Highway 95 out of Parker, Arizona, suffering only minor road rash. I rubbed a few scratches out the next day with Simoniz and the paint looks good as new.

Casper has led a pampered life, with me fixing every mechanical thing that cropped up, including doing all maintenance work. New motor mounts, a starter, shocks and struts, complete brake jobs several times, new muffler and tailpipe, are a few of the things done with the list going on and on.

Our intention is to never sell it—leaving it for the kids to fight over. I’ll make sure they can’t get rid of Casper by hiding the title. Just kidding. We basically put our car in mothballs over the past year, purchasing a waterproof cover and properly securing it so that wind wouldn’t rips things apart. Casper sat there until just the other day when I decided it was time for a spin.

The battery was dead, so $249 dollars later all was good. Pulling out of the driveway, a check engine light instantly came on yet I continued driving. I could tell things weren’t quite the same because it lacked power.

Wheeling around the block, with my OBD11 scanner plugged in, the test instrument showed seven different codes. That told me that something big had happened while in hibernation. Both oxygen sensors turned out not to be working, along with the exhaust and intake cam position sensors, a MAP sensor, coolant temperature sensor, and mass airflow sensor. Eventually, Casper died and wouldn’t start.

Popping the hood and instantly smelling something rank, I removed the air cleaner, finding a petrified mouse underneath. The now hardened carcass was grabbed with a pair of plyers and tossed into the street. I’m sure a hungry Roadrunner thought it tasted like jerky. This mouse had been like Kryptonite to Casper.

Remnants of wiring and plastic loom were everywhere. The rodents teeth were sharp enough to eat clear through the outer covering—copper strands as well Evidently, a good dose of wire was what killed him, yet not before the pest did a number on engine wiring harnesses and looms.

It seems remarkable that one tiny mouse had brought Casper to its knees. That got me to thinking about other cars around town sitting in the open. Driving throughout the city, I see them in almost every neighborhood, some covered and others not. If one of these rodents can disable a car, it could definitely do the same with airplanes. That’s a sobering thought for a pilot just taking off.

Thankfully, I was able to repair things after spending $200 on parts. The hardest part was working with tiny wires in places where large hands barely fit. Had that job been performed by an automotive shop, the bill would’ve easily been in the thousands. It would have exceeded the value of the 15-year-old car. Casper now purrs like a kitten. I won’t ever leave him outside again for extended periods as I learned a valuable lesson from this experience.

One of my favorite movies is named “Casper.” Actors and actor’s voices in this highly acclaimed film include, Rodney Dangerfield, Clint Eastwood, Dan Aykroyd, Mel Gibson, and Fred Rogers. Steven Spielberg is executive producer.

In the 1995 motion picture, Casper the Friendly Ghost falls in in love with a girl named Kat. She asks him a poignant question and he has a simplistic, remarkable answer, one that I can equate to my own life in having accepted Jesus Christ as Savior.

Kat: “What’s it like to die?”

Casper: “Like… being born, only backwards.”

I interpret this to mean: starting a new life, and through God’s promise, for that life to never end for all of eternity.

The very last thing that Casper whispers to Kat fits perfectly with our little Chevrolet HHR.

“Can I keep you?”

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!