I like to write junk…

The other day I was thinking for a change instead of watching television, and came to the conclusion that I’ve never had an argument in Lake Havasu City, other than with my wife. I suppose age and maturity has something to do with this. Arguing takes energy and I have better places to use it like out in the desert or garage. My friends say that I’ve mellowed.

In my younger years, I found myself in heated discussions or arguments with family, friends, or perfect strangers a fair number of times. Perhaps two or three episodes a year to put things into perspective.

I’m not ashamed to say that I tried to have the last word when those type of conversations or disagreements came up, yet I wasn’t always successful. Dad was the same way—with my daughter seemingly following in our footsteps. I’ve never looked at having the last word as totally bad, because someone has to be that person, and it might as well be me.

In answering the two questions: why do some folks have to have the last word, and why did I choose to be this way on occasion, a small amount of research was undertaken on the subject. Some psychologists believe they have this figured out to a science. These professionals say it boils down to four distinct personality types.

Narcissistic personality is number one. Having egos that always need inflated, these folks have a constant goal to prove they’re better than anyone else. Not only do they have to have the last word, but they love to dominate a conversation as well.  I still wasn’t exactly sure what a narcissistic person was after reading this brief description, hoping the full elucidation didn’t fit my biological profile.

In a nutshell, a narcissist is someone with a sense of self-importance. They feel entitled and can only be around people who are important or special.  They’re preoccupied with power, success, and beauty. Arrogant is a common trait and they lack empathy for fellow man. They also must be admired. My slang definition for such is egomaniac.

The only trait out of all of those that I associate with me, is being around people who are important and special. Every one of my friends and family have those unique qualities.

Authoritarian personality is the second one. These folks like to exert their power, and have a righteousness to their opinions and beliefs. They’re very hesitant to give in to others where their opinions and beliefs are concerned. Stubborn and obstinate are part of their demeanor.

I definitely fit a portion of that description only where opinions and beliefs regarding religion and politics are concerned. There’s no changing my mind on either at this stage of life, and I won’t argue the reasoning why. In other words, I believe I’m totally right regarding both viewpoints and it’s Biblically driven.

Dominant personality is number three. These individuals seek to control everything and anything they’re involved with, including their friends and family members. They want to be in a position of power. The word I’ve always used for such people is: power freak. I definitely don’t fit that category, trying hard just to be an ordinary average guy.

Competitive personality is number four on the list. These folks are competitive by nature, and feel the need to flaunt their intellect around. Where debates and discussions are concerned, they see them as playing fields to prove their intellectual superiority and expertise. Ultimately, if someone has the last word or the final word in a discussion, argument, or disagreement, they see that person as the winner. I’m definitely competitive, but not where intellect is concerned, so I stay out of those games.

The biggest discoveries during my limited research were both logical and ideological:

1. Most people do like to have the final word, yet don’t push as hard as others to get there. Some are passive while others are aggressive in procuring it. Others just give up from the start.

2. Wanting the last word isn’t always a mental disorder—it’s more human nature than anything.

3. Never attempt to have the last word with your wife, boss, or a policeman, because you’ll lose each and every time.

4. We may make our plans, but God ultimately has the last word. Proverbs 16:1

5. There are some that’ll disagree with that last point, yet time will eventually prove them wrong.

* ruff draft (unedited) to a column piece I’m writing

In Alaska, during the 1960s, there was a stretch of the Seward Highway a few miles out of Anchorage, along Turnagain Arm, decimated with ugly spray paint messages. I’m talking about a scenic and beautiful section of road adored by locals and tourists alike. Most of the vandalism was undoubtedly performed by teenagers, either spraying their names on rocks, or favorite boyfriends or girlfriends. Peace symbols were popular and there were several in all different hues. I knew some of the guys and gals responsible.

This section of the Seward Highway eventually became a real eyesore, with the legislature eventually making it a crime to deface public lands. The Alaska State Troopers were strict on enforcement, and if someone was caught doing such they were prosecuted. After these painted messages were removed via sandblasting by volunteers and state workers, the graffiti stopped.

I just read an article about a family from Arizona traveling to Utah, and one of their children desecrating a scenic rock on BLM land. The defaced boulder is located near Catacomb Rock, a popular four-wheel driving destination near Moab, on land managed by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management. “The Finnfam – 2023” was written on it with a chalky substance.

These people were eventually caught, with the father telling BLM officials it wouldn’t happen again. No mention of a fine or punishment was mentioned in this story. Hopefully, something was done to the culprit, although with the BLM, I highly doubt it.

SARA Park is one of my favorite places to hike or just take in the scenery. Sadly, desecration of a large mound took place there sometime in the near past. As big a peace symbol as it is, people had to have seen the work taking place. Why it’s being left up is incomprehensible, as this circular collection of loose rocks takes away from the serenity of the area. I now call it Desecration Rock for good reason.

I understand that Lake Havasu City owns or manages the 1,082.11 acres. If that’s the case, why isn’t something being done to reel in those responsible for destroying this landscape? Those rocks need to be re-scattered. SARA Park doesn’t need an L.A. touch here by any means and I’m sure plenty of others will agree.

Ten years ago, two homeless people were camping on a hill not far from my house. I use the word homeless quite loosely here. Those folks were young enough and definitely physically capable of working. The word vagrant or bum is totally appropriate for me and that’s all that matters.

The guy and gal would hike up and start a campfire most every night, then hit the sack. They didn’t realize how far their voices and moaning sounds carried when it was dark and quiet outside. By sunrise they were gone. One neighbor said that he saw this couple at Rotary Park during the day, merely sitting, drinking, and smoking.

I climbed up one morning after they’d departed, finding trash of all kind scattered about. Making a call to the local BLM office, the receptionist connected me to an enforcement officer. This man said that he’d take care of things. Far as I know, the guy never came out to look because he was supposed to follow up.

Making another call to the same official several months later, I told him not to worry about removing all of that trash on the hill, because with one match, I was going to magically make things disappear. He got upset at this point, saying I couldn’t do that, regardless that there was no trees or shrubbery up there to catch fire. I’d evidently become the bad person in his mind, not the two people having created the mess. It was a big joke amongst a couple of friends in our neighborhood, that I was going to burn this rocky section of desert to the ground.

The vagrant’s trash consisted of discarded cardboard boxes, a well-used, slimy looking sleeping bag, plastic liquor and water bottles up the gazoo, soup cans, along with plenty of discarded hypodermic needles and syringes. The winds eventually dispersed things, and I’m sure it’s still out there, scattered from here to Tupelo.

If enforcement of our public lands is not a priority with BLM or city officials, Havasu and it’s surrounding area could soon resemble Los Angeles. Graffiti criminals are erroneously labeled as artists there. Let’s not follow in their footpath.

A clear message to say we don’t condone such destructive behavior in Lake Havasu City is for a group of volunteers to descend on Desecration Rock, and much like a giant human eraser, wipe the slate clean. I’m sure SARA would thank them greatly for it!

I just read an article about a woman who’s compiling a diary of her own dreams. She didn’t exactly call it a diary, but a journal instead. This lady keeps a notebook by her bedside, and right after wakening from a dream or nightmare, she jots things down.

I keep a notebook by my bed for ideas that pop into my head where new stories are concerned, but have never thought of compiling dreams. Some dreams I try and remember before going back to sleep, but rarely do I recall them the next morning, unless of course, it’s something worthy of such.

Some dreams are not imaginary. Years back, I woke up in the middle of the night believing that I was dreaming I’d left the drainplug out of a gearbox on a piece of heavy machinery. It was during winter and the snowblower was going to be used the next morning. It took several seconds to realize this wasn’t a dream.

Throwing my clothes, jacket, and hat on, I quickly drove back to the shop. Grabbing a flashlight, I crawled underneath this machine finding the drainplug sitting on top of the vehicle frame. Had some operator drove it with the plug out, thousands of dollars in damage would’ve undoubtedly occurred.

I’ve always been a dreamer and have had some doozies over the years. Most didn’t make sense and are long forgotten. These past few years I constantly dream I’m back at work. It happens quite often. Most of my dreaming is now attributed to a cholesterol lowering medication taken daily, but not all of them.

Sometimes I wake up and still remember finite details to the work dreams, telling them to my wife on occasion.  She once joked that I should send in a timesheet to my old workplace and see what happens. My reply back to her was, “If I worked for the federal government they’d probably mail me a check!”

A good friend of mine once told me that if you ever see a group of senior men sitting around a table telling stories about their youthful exploits, most likely half of the conversation is made up of either dreams or tall tales. The other morning in Basha’s grocery store, I observed such a table of individuals and had to chuckle, remembering what my pal said. I wanted to say something to these fellows yet held back as they didn’t know me from Adam.

The same friend offered up even more wisdom regarding fellows getting older by saying, “There’ll come a day when a dream is as good as it gets!” Jim Brownfield didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that, so I have to assume he was talking about riding motorcycles.

A couple of recent dreams are related to when I belonged to the Lion’s Club here in Havasu. I was on the Balloon Festival trash collection crew headed by the late, John Ballard, as well as helping pick up garbage for the club along Highway 95.

In the first dream, we did such a good job of policing golf course grounds, that Balloon Festival supervisors, Marquita McKnight and Jim Day, farmed out our crew to other such events throughout the state. Before long, we were living out of motorhomes, while pulling giant trailers filled with trash behind them.

Where the other dream’s concerned, Lion’s Club volunteers were picking up rubbish near Palo Verde and 95 as a long line of cars drove by. Drivers honked their horns at workers in appreciation. John told a group of us men, “Just smile and wave boys. Smile and wave!”

This wasn’t actually imaginary because it happened each and every time we were out there, although I don’t recall John Ballard using that famous line from the popular animated movie, “Madagascar.” Sadly, Marquita McKnight and John Ballard left us way too early. I’m happy their smiling faces reappeared in my dream, believing there’s a special reason for such. It was a way to let me know that all’s okay on the other side. Thankfully, Jim Day’s still orchestrating his many talents throughout our city.

I’m not sure what the woman at the beginning of my story will do with her diary of dreams. If she plans on using them in a future manuscript, good luck selling it. A book of someone else’s dreams isn’t something I’d be interested in buying and reading.

Where some of my dreams are concerned, regarding things that actually happened—I’m happy whenever they occur to go back and reenter certain periods of time, especially my Balloon Festival days. John Ballard made picking up trash “a gas.” I never saw Marquita McKnight without a smile.

Being reunited with my late parents, grandparents, family, friends, and pets in an occasional dream is like icing on a cake to a good night’s sleep. As a believer in life after death through the saving grace of Jesus Christ, there’ll come a time when I won’t dream at all. Try putting that thought in perspective with “eternity” and it’ll definitely have you thinking.

Most everyone’s had to deal with ‘walking on eggshells’ at some point in their life. I’m not talking about working on a poultry farm or in a kitchen. The general description for walking on eggshells is: “To be very careful about what you do or say to someone, because they are easily upset or offended.”

I worked with a guy for several years, and on some days if you said, “Good morning,” it would set him off. After so many years of not knowing what mood the co-worker was in, I’d merely nod when he walked in the door. I’m not sure what was happening upstairs, but others simply said he got up on the wrong side of the bed.

I believe there was more to it than that, because this man abruptly quit one day, with him and his wife quickly leaving for another state. I never heard the reason why, yet something drastic had definitely taken place forcing him to desert a perfectly good job.

My wife shared the same office with a fellow that she says was always cordial and polite. One day Joleen was talking to him and she mentioned the Vietnam War. That’s all it took for the former soldier to go from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. He was insistent to her that there was never any such war and it was a conflict. His threatening demeanor and abrupt posturing actually scared my wife. Joleen said from that point on he was less communicative.

The common definition for Jekyll and Hyde is the following: “Used in reference to a person or thing that alternately displays two different sides to their character or nature.” Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was evidently lurking under this man’s skin causing him to act that way.

Later in life I came to realize there is a correlation between Jekyll and Hyde personalities and bi-polar disorder. This all came to be after an encounter with a now deceased family member.

Trudy (not her real name) seemed to be either warm or cold each time we met up. When I say warm I mean she was receptive to carrying on a decent conversation. With the snap of a switch she’d become argumentative and hostile.

I didn’t know what was taking place, believing that it was my highly opinionated and conservative viewpoint that lit her fuse. Sadly, it was too late after I came to realize that she had a mental problem. At this point, dementia had already set in, and there was no chance of reconciliation. Trudy died soon afterward. Since that time, I have more empathy for those struggling with severe depression-like conditions.

At one time I was a bit abrasive and vocal towards those of differing opinion. There was nothing worse than sitting in a restaurant or diner hearing someone verbally trash my president, and I’m not talking Joe Biden. These days, I’ve learned to not retaliate, and simply sit back and listen. Keeping my trap shut, I fight back via sending contributions to select political candidates, as well as voting for them at the ballot box.

I’ve also become much more diplomatic in later years, deciding it’s wiser to keep all political opinions to myself, especially where strangers are concerned. I now listen to folks with different viewpoints and merely chastise or condemn them under my breath instead of out loud. In doing so, they often believe I agree with their ideology, keeping potential inflammatory conversations to a minimum.

Everyone’s heard the saying, “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.” It’s a good statement after an argument and I’ve used it a time or two myself. Generally, after I’m forced to utter such, I still have unanswered questions at the tip of my tongue on why they don’t quite see things my way.

My lips have yearned to politely blurt out as we parted company, wanting the last word of course, “Perhaps if you educate yourself on this subject a tad more, you’ll see things much more clearly!”

Common sense dictates that if I ever did this, depending on the person it’s said to, something besides eggshells might be broken!

My marketing manager asked that I update my bio photo for any new fiction book releases. The photo I’ve been using is at least 10 years old, and it’s an outdoor shot taken in the desert. She wanted one of me sitting behind a desk of all places. When I mentioned that looks have changed drastically since that last picture was taken, the woman tried to reassure me by saying, “You’ve more than likely aged gracefully since then!”

I’ve heard that term “aging gracefully” from time to time, yet never knew what it exactly meant, always thinking that Clint Eastwood or Christie Brinkley fit the mold. After looking things up, I discovered the following:

Aging gracefully is often used as a euphemism for “looking old, but still holding on” or “showing signs of aging—yet still moving forward with life.” That definition fits not just Hollywood types, but all of my senior friends.

Some have hit their fair share of potholes in the road but continue to motor along. I fit that category as does my wife. I’d love to share some details here, but our life problems haven’t been much different than anyone else’s.

Some of my friends had catastrophic things happen to them over the years, but overcame, while others didn’t. I’m not one to disclose personal information of anyone just for a story, and I’d hope they’d do the same. Some of them have some outstanding tales to tell if they ever elect to share them.

Getting back to my definition of aging gracefully: I know that if Clint Eastwood walked into a local restaurant, all attention would immediately focus his direction. The same would happen with Christie Brinkley.

Christie was born on February 2, 1954, some 66 days before me, yet she looks 30 years younger. Clint Eastwood is 93 years old, but you can’t tell, at least I can’t. They’ve both definitely aged well.

I can associate aging gracefully more with an automobile than anything. Attend any car show and you’ll see what I’m referring to. Vintage cars such as Camaros and Corvettes still elicit mega attention, even from the younger crowd. I’d equate those vehicles as being a Clint Eastwood or Christie Brinkley. Crowds gather around them like bees on honey.

If I were an automobile and was at a car show, I’d be more akin to a 1972 AMC Gremlin with rust and dents. Still able to motor in and then drive out under my own power, where aging gracefully is concerned, that’s more than I could ask for. There’d definitely be no crowds standing around oohing and aahing for sure.

People would stroll by barely giving me a second glance, and every so often someone would stop and say, “That’s an oldie for sure. I wonder if they had to tow it here?”

Still being able to move forward means a lot to me. If that’s as good as things get from here on out, I’ll be happy.  

These days, my wife and I won’t travel anywhere, unless each and every night we’re on the road, we know exactly where we’ll be sleeping beforehand. That wasn’t the case years ago. I’d drive until tired and then pull over to take a snooze. Younger folks can still get away with such.

Years ago, Motel 6 had a commercial where spokesperson, Tom Bodette, at the end of his spiel announced, “We’ll leave the light on for you!” Possibly, that’s one of the best advertising slogans to ever come along, because it advocates travel reassurance which is a necessity for older folks like me.

I’ve stayed at Motel 6s throughout the country, partly from hearing that commercial alone, and the other being price. There’s nothing like after a hard day of driving, pulling into a motel or hotel, and being handed a key to your room with no hassle.

When I was more adventurous, I’d simply look for a safe place to park the car or truck, hoping that someone wouldn’t do a drive by shooting while we were resting. On one occasion in Canada, my family woke up to huge buffalo looking in our Chevrolet Blazer windows. That’s still safer than some stray cat in a hoodie toting a Glock doing the same.

There was more than one occasion when we drove for hours, pulling into a town expecting a room and finding “No Vacancy” signs everywhere. I recall one time having to put the family up in a seedy motel directly above a beer joint. Stale cigarette smoke permeated the room, and a jukebox directly below us bellowed until the wee hours of morning.

Now that I’m well into the golden years, not only do I want to know where I’ll be sleeping each and every night, but I want to know the same once I take the biggest trip of my life, and I’m not talking Lake Minnetonka.

Much like Tom Bodette did for weary highway travelers, Jesus Christ does the same for those leaving this world for good. In John 8:12 (NIV) he tells his followers: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

That’s all the assuredness I need for my final journey. After studying various religions during my early years, not once did I find more comforting words than these.

I suppose the term Bahama Mama has different meaning to different folks. For me, it best sums up a tantalizing drink my children loved early on. I believe it was either Appleby’s or Red Robin back in the 80s that served a nonalcohol version, and that’s the one I’m talking about.

This concoction had coconut juice, orange, as well as pineapple and grapefruit juice, along with grenadine syrup, but don’t hold me to the exact ingredients. The kids loved them, along with their Shirley Temples and Bahama Mama Shakes.

There’s a song called “Bahama Mama” sung by a German/Caribbean group called Boney M. I’ve only listened to it once—finding the lyrics somewhat amusing, although they could be construed as offensive to some overweight folks.

From my take on things after hearing this tune, Bahama Mama lives in the biggest dwelling in town, along with six, beautiful, unmarried daughters. The girls are evidently eating her out of house and home.

What brought Bahama Mama to my mind isn’t a drink nor the song. It came to me after several trips to one of Havasu’s best kept secrets. The Bonfire Grill is within walking distance of my place, and I’ve made that trip on foot numerous times, generally for breakfast sandwiches or burritos. Hands down they have the best breakfast selection on the southside of town, especially where price is concerned. Everything’s made fresh in their kitchen.

The golden star of their menu is the steak nachos. I indulge once a month generally using my bonus points earned from purchases to score a free one. I think my wife and I have sampled just about everything, finding nothing to our distaste. There’s one menu item we’ve shied away from—Jalapeño Bahama Mama Wrap. The word jalapeño brings back haunting memories to me after a dining experience in Lake Havasu City.

It was at the now defunct Hussong’s Mexican restaurant on a vacation in 1983 that I encountered jalapeños seemingly out to kill me. I’d never had jalapeños at that time, and my chicken enchilada contained several of the El Scorcho peppers. After one bite my mouth was literally on fire.

That wasn’t the worst part. Quickly pulling the evil green peppers off my food with two fingers, I rubbed both watering eyes. That burning sensation basically blinded me, and I ended up stumbling to their restroom and splashing cold water in my face for several minutes. Those having done this before will know what I’m talking about.

The pain didn’t fully subside until a couple of hours later. The next morning in our hotel room, I felt burning once again, but in other places. Since that time, anything with jalapeño written on it is totally avoided.

My wife’s just the opposite. She has no problem with them and makes sure her Mexican food includes plenty of this fiery fruit. You read things right. Some botanists claim that jalapeño peppers are in the fruit category. Look things up because I did several times just to make sure it was true.

Joleen eventually came to the point where she asked to try one of their Jalapeño Bahama Mama Wraps. According to an employee working at the grill, this particular wrap is a favorite amongst construction workers, which is easy to believe. I’d tend to think those type of customers undoubtedly have seared taste buds or iron stomachs—perhaps both.

My wife incurred no problem eating hers, and claimed that the jalapeños inside the sausage like hotdog had jus the right amount of spicy flavor. Come to think of it, I believe that’s what she said at Hussong’s Mexican restaurant some 40 years ago.

My wife and I are happy that Bonfire Grill came to town. It’s made life so much more convenient for us where needing a quick bite to eat is concerned. Something tells me that if Bahama Mama and her six beautiful daughters lived on our block, they’d be making the same walk.

Moon Pie has been one of my favorite treats for over 60 years. I believe it was Grandma Hankins that first turned me on to the delicious graham cracker and marshmallow sandwich. I was around five and we were living in Alabama at the time. Moon Pies were strictly a southern thing back then. Today, they’re available nationwide including here in Lake Havasu City.

After moving to Texas in 1963, the only way we came by the delicacies was via Mom’s sisters sending her a box every so often. She’d divvy the goodies out to my brother and I, one a week, in an attempt to make them last. With only 12 in a box they were gone in short order. The same logistics problem in Texas arose after moving to Alaska.

Moon Pies first came to be in 1917 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. A Chattanooga Bakery worker named Earl Mitchell invented them after asking several coal mine workers what they were looking for in a cookie.

“Big,” was the unanimous response.

This bakery has made millions of them since they first came on the market, with the Campbell family of Tennessee owning this bakery since 1930. They were popular with soldiers during WWII, as well as being inside the lunchboxes of lucky school children. The snacks were good trading material when I was in grade school in Selma, Alabama, not that I remember letting go of any. I do remember classmates always asking though.

My brother and I generally enjoyed ours with a RC COLA. This drink was another southern favorite yet our reason for indulging was perhaps a bit different than others. A good friend, Randy Coggins, had the same initials as the drink thus we felt obligated to drink the pop. I have an original 1959 bottle of RC COLA in my collectibles, and amazingly, it’s still full although the steel cap appears to be disintegrating from corrosive liquid.

I see where Moon Pie has a pumpkin spice flavor yet I haven’t seen or tasted one. Walmart is where we get our supply, so hopefully their ordering person brings in a pallet or two for the holidays. I tell my wife that I’m often reminded of Moon Pies during each full Moon. The banana flavored pies are bright yellow like the real thing.

The perfect time to enjoy one would be while sitting outside on the patio watching the stars. A Moon Pie and Blue Moon would definitely be a unique combination while doing so.

Nuke a pie in the microwave for 15 seconds with a dollop of vanilla ice cream afterwards to add that special Southwestern touch. I’ll forego the Blue Moon and replace it with a Root Beer instead. I call this western variation Havasu Pie.

One thing I won’t be doing is tapping that bottle of vintage 1959 RC COLA anytime soon. Judging by chunky crud floating around in the bottom of it, this toxic liquid for the safety of our neighborhood had best remain capped.

Several years ago, my daughter visited us, and after looking in our garbage can asked, “Don’t you guys recycle?” The answer at that time was no. This was before Republic Services supplied everyone with those receptacles with baby blue lids. The black lidded ones are for trash.

Never considering myself green, I’d collected aluminum cans many years back strictly for the cash. I wasn’t even doing that at the time Miranda stopped by, not wanting to put up with the sticky soda goo still in them and incessant flies.

“Let somebody else have at it!,” was my exact thoughts.

When we were given those recycling bins things changed. Virtually overnight, I became a recycling freak. My wife claims recycling went to my head in more ways than one. I tried to recycle everything, including empty peanut butter jar. Try washing one of those. Since that time, they all go in the trash.

There’s a label on our Republic Services receptacle that explains what should go inside and what can’t. This is somewhat confusing to me, because that little triangle recycle emblem is on lots more stuff than what’s on their list. I can understand them not wanting Styrofoam packing peanuts, because none of the peanuts ever make it into their truck, let alone back to the recycling facility.

I find these things all the time on trash day in my driveway. Have you ever dropped a few on a garage floor and tried sweeping or picking them up when the door’s open? They’re faster than Jamaican runner, Usain Bolt, especially with a small breeze behind them. The peanuts are also extremely clingy with static electricity and love sticking like glue to clothing.

Joleen thinks I’m crazy by recycling toilet paper and paper towel tubes, but I doubt I’m the only one doing so. Toothpaste and cereal boxes go in that hopper along with baby food jars. Our little Pekingese loves chicken baby food, and after the jars are empty, I wash them out and place the cap back on top.

The aluminum lids are recyclable, but I’m not sure they should be reattached to the glass. It doesn’t tell you what to do on the Republic Services label, so I make this big decision myself.

Newspapers go in that container along with brown packing paper, but not the bubble wrap. I’m not sure why because it’s made of plastic. We have a whole box of the wrap saved for future use, some of it dating back twenty years or more.

There’ve been times when I drove through neighborhoods, spotting garbage hanging out of a recycle container. Some folks evidently don’t read the label—or can’t read. It kind of miffs me because of all the work I go through, along with others, to make sure our recyclables are reusable. Hopefully, when a truck driver rolls by these homes they step on the gas and fly on past.

I keep hearing that recycling might possibly go away, with foreign countries such as China and Taiwan no longer wanting all of our glass and plastic. Should that happen, I may go nuts trying to find something else to occupy my time. Recycling has become somewhat of a hobby. Psycho perhaps? Not quite on that level.

Trying to go back to how things were before Republic Services handed out those bins would be tough. At this point in my life—recycling has become routine, much like tossing everything in the trash was six years ago. For the good of the country, we can only hope that history doesn’t repeat itself!

The late singer, John Denver, wrote and sang a song called, “Rocky Mountain High.” This tune was very popular from the start and I still hear it almost daily on Sirius channel 7.

I’ve been to Colorado numerous times, but fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at things, never experienced a Rocky Mountain high, that is, unless having shortness of breath in Colorado Springs is the same. Just climbing a set of stairs there had my heart thumping. Here in Arizona, a pumpkin spice high is another story.

Fall’s in the air, and it’s that time of year again throughout the country for pumpkin spice goodies. English muffins, coffee creamer, cookies, cheesecake, body lotion, coffee, beer, pancakes, cereal, doggie treats, donuts, you name it. Perhaps I’m over exaggerating, but it seems come September or October, most every food product has a pumpkin spice label on it.

I crave the pumpkin spiced donuts. If I eat two or three of the small glazed ones, a slight buzz is felt from the natural sugar. It doesn’t last if I’m doing something physical, or have plenty of liquid to wash things down. I’d hate to be an office worker sitting at a desk eating the same, one after another.

Perhaps the top pumpkin drink of all, at least for gals, is a pumpkin spice latte or frappe. A bit too spendy for my wife on an everyday basis—she opts for Nestlé Coffee mate, sugar-free pumpkin spice creamer, poured into a cup of freshly ground, steaming hot, Colombian grown coffee. Joleen has a special porcelain mug that she likes to sip out of given to her by a good friend.

This particular coffee seems to meld with the pumpkin spice creamer better than most, perhaps because it’s mountain grown. National Association of Colombian Coffee Growers Federation spokesperson, Juan Valdez, claims that coffee beans from his country are the best, and who am I to dispute this acclaimed expert.

Off the record, I’d say that Hawaiian grown coffee is just as savory to the pallet, yet please don’t let Señor Valdez or the Colombian coffee cartel know that I said so.

My favorite holiday drink is a peppermint mocha. I like those from the trendy espresso stands as well, but once again, generally opt for the poor man special, which is a cup of hot chocolate with a peppermint stick dropped inside. A word of caution: You want the peppermint stick to completely melt or risk having it lodge in your throat like it once did mine.

There’s a segment from a popular childhood limerick that young children often repeat, accredited to acclaimed English poet, Robert Southey, which sums up best the love most women feel for pumpkin spice. I tweaked it a bit just in case you notice something different.

“What are little girls made of?
Sugar, pumpkin spice,
and everything nice.
That’s what little girls are made of.”

I suppose there are some feminists and woke advocates that despise Southey’s poem, and to them I’d say, “Chill my friends.” These easily offended folks can veg by opting for a frigidly cold, iced to the brim, pumpkin spice Macchiato, contained within an environmentally friendly, recycled paper cup.

For those tough men and women enjoying their brew from a stainless steel thermos, Nestlé Coffee mate makes pumpkin spice creamer in powdered form. Carry a carton in your truck or car, and you’re off to the races each time you feel the need for a little extra flavoring.

For those on a tight budget, toss some cubes of ice into a blender along with 32 ounces of Juan Valdez’s coffee, and just enough pumpkin spice creamer to sweeten things up. For a touch of elegance, add a squirt of Reddi-wip whipped cream to your cup or glass afterwards, but don’t over do it. Save a squirt or two for that oven fresh, Sara Lee pumpkin pie in the fridge.

It’s now a perfect opportunity to sit back and enjoy, while at the same time, toast Juan Valdez and his surefooted workers for the excellent coffee beans they harvest, Robert Southey for his insightful limerick, dairy cows for their milk used to make coffee creamer, and especially those hard working, pumpkin-spice-farmers around the world. Without these nameless people, it’d be just another bland cup of joe held in your hand.

You can even go one step further. Next time you visit one of the upscale coffee shacks, purchase one of their reusable coffee tumblers with business name printed on the side. Pour your homebrew into it each morning, and co-workers will never know that you didn’t hit a drive-thru on the way to work.

With the money saved by doing so, you can easily afford to bring three dozen of my favorite donuts into the office, and give your boss and colleagues a pumpkin spice high they’ll never forget!