I like to write junk…

a work in progress (unedited)

Social media along with some mainstream news agencies including television and newspapers are now being used as tools to spread erroneous information—this practice seemingly at an all-time high. I make this statement based upon my own personal observation, this after several years of using online forums of all type, along with watching television news, reading papers, or listening to radio talk shows before unrestrained bias reared its ugly head.

The days of Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, and David Brinkley are long gone. Although those deceased news anchors had their political sides, all three men were able to stay unbiased and neutral while reporting. Walter Cronkite was said to be an extreme leftist, yet I could never tell this because he was fair throughout his reporting. Some news announcers today are just the opposite, blatantly telling viewers how they should think.

Yellow Journalism is running amuck amongst several news agencies. Brian Williams, former NBC anchor, was found to have created sensationalistic stories about his time in Iraq during the war. Williams was ultimately given 6 months suspension by NBC before he eventually resigned.

CBS Correspondent Lara Logan was caught lying in her 60 Minutes report about a security contractor who fought a militant and scaled a wall of the Benghazi compound. In the fall of 2013, it was revealed to be entirely untrue and Logan was put on leave by CBS.

MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow was caught lying in 2011 when she accused Rush Limbaugh of racism and cited “birther” remarks he made after Obama’s birth certificate was released. She was forced to apologize to Limbaugh and on the air when NewsBusters reported the video she used was from before the certificate’s release, one year old rather than one day.

The New York Times staff reporter Jayson Blair was caught lying about entire stories, sometimes making up quotes and scenes that never even occurred. The Times called Blair’s lying a “low point in the 152-year history of the newspaper” and fired him on May 1, 2003.

Stephen Randall Glass is an American former journalist. He worked for The New Republic from 1995 to 1998 until it was revealed many of his published articles were fabrications.

Perhaps the biggest news spin that I’ve witnessed in my lifetime, are some journalists and politicians calling January 6, 2021, an insurrection in Washington DC. I watched tape after tape of this activity after they were finally released, seeing nothing more than an out of control political protest.

ANTIFA and BLM protestors did the same numerous times throughout the country, setting fires and causing mass destruction, and those were erroneously called peaceful protests by some news organizations. Going by the New York Times way of looking at things, if January 6 is an insurrection, then the 0.4 tremor hitting Alaska on December 22, 2023, was a full blown earthquake.

Lately, on social media, I’ve never witnessed so many misguided statements, blatant lies, or trolling remarks slung out by individuals for whatever reason, other than perhaps the intent to pull someone’s string or create an illusion. I’m fortunate to still be able to intellectually discern between true and false after researching the facts. Others can do the same but sometimes choose not to.

Some friends and family seem to follow this herd and don’t take time to look into stories, especially where politics is concerned. These folks accept that if a reporter, or anyone for that matter, merely claims that Donald Trump or Joe Biden did such and such, then it must be the gospel truth. Many don’t want to learn the truth because it would go against their own, chiseled-in-stone, biased opinions. The truth is always out there, yet you sometimes have to dig to uncover it.

A case in point is our government’s flawed explanation for the explosion of TWA Flight 800 almost 30 years ago. Mainstream media seemed to finally agree with the FBI that it was faulty wiring inside a fuel tank causing the Boeing 747 to crash, yet suppressed evidence proves otherwise. I’ll never be convinced that it wasn’t a missile, this viewpoint coming from my own simple logic. Too many credible witnesses saw this streak of light or missile heading towards the plane to discount such.

Where social media is concerned, early on, I got suckered like so many others. Over time I ultimately came to grips with the situation, realizing that there are some really slick and sick folks out there mentally speaking, with online forums being their daily playgrounds. I’ll give you several instances on what I’m talking about:

I belong to a group of Nexus RV owners and enjoy reading what they have to say about maintenance and repairs. On more than one occasion, a couple of individuals enter the discussion with nothing good to offer about a particular brand. They let it be known that they no longer own one, yet believe that other owners “need” to hear about their discontent.

Countless times, forum readers tell them to move on but they don’t. I once made a statement that the habitual complainers evidently worked for competitors, which is probably true. That didn’t stop them. Like gum stuck to the sole of a shoe, they continued to toss out snide remarks not even pertinent to the subject on hand. I doubt these people ever owned the brand motorhome they were talking about. The administrators of this site should’ve tossed them off but didn’t.

A truck selling forum I belong to has similar riffraff, yet the trolls seem to be there for a different reason. I’ve watched person after person list their vehicle only to be attacked by someone sitting behind a computer. These troublemakers always start their uncalled for comments by saying the price is much too high—going on to mention that they’ve seen similar trucks in far better condition advertised for less. Before long, other trolls jump in having to offer their two cents. It’s pure recreation for these folks to stir the pot.

Smart sellers ignore these deadbeats and don’t reply back. There are some though that take it personally and retaliate. That’s what the instigators want. I’ve had a few trucks and cars to sell, yet avoided listing them on these free sites just because I don’t like going there. I place my ads on pay sites and don’t have to deal with tire kickers, creeps, and trolls.

Locally, here in Lake Havasu City, we have such an online site where people can toss out unwarranted or unproven information about businesses, even downright slander. I’ve read countless comments where someone eats at a local restaurant and they become incensed, perhaps just because their green beans were cold. At this point, others come out of the woodwork, detailing how they too suffered the same calamity.

They say that birds of a feather flock together, and this particular site is full of such people with nothing better to do than complain about nothing at all. Who really cares if a server was having a bad day and perhaps was a little slow or didn’t seem upbeat. It happens daily throughout the world. People aren’t perfect except for one.

I’ve often wanted to go on that site and write, “Get a life!,” yet doing so would only make things worse, along with making me a troll. Some forum members had the courage to do this with it instantly igniting a keg of dynamite.

A recent tragedy in Bullhead City, Arizona, involving the death of five children, sadly brought out the educationally uninformed along with troublesome trolls in droves on a couple of forums. Erroneous comments were made about the Bullhead Fire Department response time, with social media gadflies taking this unsubstantiated gossip and running with it.

That’s how social media seems to work. People read something, and then instead of investigating whether it’s true or not, instinctively put it out there on the grapevine for all to see. “A friend of a friend of a friend told me this and I’m telling you!”

On Facebook, I’ve seen post after post about this or that, supposedly the information being fact, when in reality their information is as bogus as folks claiming years ago that the earth was flat. These days, whenever I come across information that I deem to be suspicious, whether it be on social media or mainstream news, I think back to the last two lines of that classic piece of poetry at the end of “Nights in White Satin,” by the Moody Blues.

The ending lyrics to “Late Lament” align perfectly for those of us that are wise enough to take time to learn the truth. Unfortunately, many out there are incapable of further research for various reasons. Sadly, these are undoubtedly the ones believing everything they hear on their respective news channels where politics is concerned, and vote accordingly.

There are even people knowing that something’s fake, while at the same time brazenly spreading the word that it’s real. I can think of several politicians that are experts at this, yet will refrain from name dropping to avoid another keg of dynamite going off.

When I finally hear CNN broadcast journalist, Anderson Cooper, inform viewers that red is actually grey, and yellow without question, is white, I’ll know that we’ve reached the end of the road where fake news is concerned. With some news outlets going along with woke agendas and political correctness regarding male and female identity, we’re not that far off.

“LATE LAMENT”

Breathe deep the gathering gloom,

Watch lights fade from every room.

Bedsitter people look back and lament,

Another day’s useless energy spent.

Impassioned lovers wrestle as one.

Lonely man cries for love and has none.

New mother picks up and suckles her son.

Senior citizens wish they were young.

Cold-hearted orb that rules the night,

Removes the colours from our sight.

Red is grey and yellow white,

But we decide which is right

And which is an illusion.

It was always tradition while growing up for Mom to make black-eye peas and collard greens on New Year’s Day. She told me it was a southern thing and was supposed to give a person good luck and prosperity for the coming year.

I did some research on this and found the following information in a 12/31/2013 “Lubbock Avalanche-Journal” newspaper article written by Ellen Peffley. Ms. Peffley’s words pretty much sum up other articles I read on the same subject.

“Of Southern traditions, black-eye peas on New Year’s Day ranks right on top. Folklore tells that this tradition dates back to the Civil War when black-eye peas were called field peas and were considered to be food for animals.

When Sherman’s troops overtook and raided the food supplies of the Confederate South, Union soldiers regarded them as animal feed and left them behind in the fields. The Confederates, however, survived by eating this crop and considered themselves lucky to have had them and, so, the peas became symbolic of luck. Good luck to be gained by eating black-eye peas with greens, such as collards, comes from the symbols of peas as coins and greens as paper money.”

When we lived in Alabama, the black-eye peas Mom cooked were fresh from a vine, with collard greens recently harvested from Grandma’s garden. After moving to Texas, it was harder to find fresh collard greens so she switched to using turnip greens. Mother tossed in a few slices of bacon for flavor and they were quite tasty made this way. On occasion, our black-eye peas were of the frozen variety.

After our family relocated to Alaska—we’d have frozen or canned peas with canned collard or turnip greens. The fresh greens available in Anchorage grocery stores back then was not on the same fresh level as Alabama or Texas.

Sometimes, it appeared the opposite of rigor mortis had set in on their long trip north. Dollar conscious produce managers attempted to revive greens by drowning them in water. The word I’m looking for here is “rotten” and I’m not talking Johnny.

My wife followed through on this tradition and always uses canned for both entities these days. This year, she one-upped things by going with Sylvia’s Southern Style Black-Eye Peas, and Sylvia’s Turkey Flavor Collard Greens ordered online from Wal-Mart. These are supposed to have some added spices for that special southern flavor.

The late Sylvia Woods was a restaurant owner in Harlem, New York, and is still considered the Queen of Soul Food. She hailed from the south before moving east. This family continues to operate the business, having branched off into canned goods as well.

At one time there was a soul food eatery in Fairview, Alaska, called the Blue Bird Café. They served the best “fresh” soul food of any southern style restaurant I’ve ever visited. Unfortunately, it closed down many years ago as the building it was located in was condemned. I’m guessing it was on the same level as Sylvia’s where taste is concerned.

Unable to travel to Harlem for New Years and personally visit Sylvia’s Restaurant, those two 15-ounce cans on the top shelf in our pantry will have to satisfy any soul food craving for now, at least I thought they would.

Before finishing this story, I took a quick look to see what went into making both products, being extremely shocked at the first one—monosodium glutamate (MSG). The last time I ate anything having monosodium glutamate, my heart started pounding like drums in “Little Drummer Boy” (pah rumpa pum pum). To be fair, Sylvia’s isn’t the only brand of canned black-eye peas and collards having MSG in them.

I’ve stayed away from the flavor enhancer since then not wanting a self-inflicted heart attack. Dad had the same problem when he was alive. After eating a salad with MSG he was rushed to the hospital with heart palpitations.

There’s a restaurant here in Lake Havasu City that claims to not use MSG, but whenever I eat certain items from there my blood pressure goes off the chart. I heard through the grapevine by a former employee, that several of their entrees do contain monosodium glutamate.

Some of the other questionable ingredients in Sylvia’s collard greens and black-eye peas are: corn gluten, sodium phosphate, sodium diacetate, silicon dioxide, sodium inosinate, and smoked pork fat. The corn gluten and smoked pork fat seem healthy enough but not the rest. Even more amazing is a label on front claiming heart healthy; definitely not mine with all that MSG.

It appears this year might be the first that I don’t partake of Mom’s traditional New Year’s Day dishes, unless we go to frozen instead of cans. I’m not a believer in the good luck and prosperity part anyway. It seems more of an old wives’ tale than anything.

By declining to eat canned black-eye peas and collard greens cooked via Sylvia’s specially seasoned way, it appears I’ll “stay out of the box” come New Year’s Day. To me, that’s something especially worthy of celebrating.

Happy New Years!

Goin’ downtown with my britches draggin’.

Gotta stay out’ta da paddy wagon.

Fired from a job for the umpteenth time.

Work starts at six, wasn’t up by nine. Umph!

Old lady left me for a worthless stiff.

Not the first time and I’ll tell you dis.

This dude don’t blong to jus’ one gal.

Eighty nine befo losin’ count. Umph!

Freddy Brown still peddlin’ on the street.

Most think it’s drugs, but it’s or-gan-ic meat.

Tender chicken breasts and grain fed beef.

Taken frum stores, he sellz stuff cheap. Umph!

Fast Leroy Blunt, loves to steal Dodge cars.

No bread for gas, don’t drive them far.

We rides along, windows all down.

Four alley cats checkin’ out the town. Umph!

Chorus

I compose what they say is a worthless tune.

No responsibilities. Gots nuthin’ to lose.

Hang with my besties, listnin’ to obscene rap.

That’s what I do, jus’ shut yur trap. Umph!

Cops know me on a first name basis.

They picks me up and takes me places.

Much like Uber, yet with no fee.

I rides in back, and it’s all for free. Umph!

Homies blame the world for misfortune.

Ma always said, you can make it son.

Teacher not so nice, putz a spell on me.

Gives me the title, Mister Lay A Zee. Umph!

Time will tell whether I sink or swim.

Being parttime gangsta, for now I’s in.

Maybe someday I’ll gets somewhere.

For the moment though, jus’ don’t care. Umph!

Final Chorus

I compose what they say is a worthless tune.

No responsibilities. Gots nuthin’ ta lose.

Hang with my besties, listnin’ to awful rap.

That’s what I do, don’t give me krap. Umph!

I’ve never been a poet or had any musical talent. This Christmas, just for grins, I decided to try and compose a Christmas rap song, or at the minimum, a rap poem about life in our great city.

The hardest part I had in writing was deciding whether to use one particular word in particular, exactly the way it’s spelled. Most L.A. rap artists, of course, wouldn’t have this problem.

I’d been told by my parents early on that it’s a bad word, yet on the other hand, I’ve heard minister after minister say it all the time. I’ve never run across the word in a family newspaper, so I erred on the safe side.

There’s a town in Kansas named this, and undoubtedly that’s the place Rudolph’s talking about, or at least we’ll have to assume he is. Having been through this area when humidity’s up around 70%, I know what the red-nosed reindeer’s talking about!

CHRISTMAS IN HAVASU

The city comes alive with loud Harleys and trucks.

Snowbirds in bunches, some waddlin’ like Oregon ducks.

London Bridge all aglow, with red, white, and blue.

There’s nothin’ like Christmas time, in scenic Lake Havasu.

No snow on the ground, or Jack Frost anywhere.

Folks wearin’ bright shorts—they don’t seem to care.

Santa arrives each Christmas Eve and stays for a brief spell,

Rudolph always sayin’, “Rooftops get hotter than Hale!”

Christmas in Havasu, with lotsa cheer and good will.

Visitors from Canada, eh-scapin’ arctic chill.

Some bring huge RV’s, while dragging tiny cars.

Retired folks aplenty, a few being stars.

Ice skating outdoors, what a sight to see.

Homes lit with colored lights, most all L-E-D.

Inflatables in yards, making soft whirring sounds.

Tall vinyl snowmen, wind often takes them down.

From Aloha Lane, Felicidad Circle, to Quiero Drive,

The jolly one’s on his way, he’s soon to arrive.

With most Havasu homes lacking fireplace chimneys,

It’s good ole Saint Nick knows how to jimmy.

Deadbolt locks aplenty in this college town.

He cracks them open without the slightest sound.

Inside homes and apartments in the blink of an eye.

Dropping his presents, those reindeer then must fly.

When Christmas is over, he’ll be back come June.

Kris and his missus rent a condo and pontoon.

Strolling through local shops, totally incognito,

Mrs. Claus often tell folks, “We’re the Kringles from San Bernadino!”

Merry Christmas

Christmas is near, with most boys and girls not expecting to find a lump of coal in their stockings. The ones expecting coal are on Santa’s naughty list. Evidently, I never made that notorious list because coal was not one of my gifts. The closest I came was one year getting black licorice. I don’t know how anyone can eat that horrible stuff!

My grandparents on the Hankins side were very poor. Grandpa Hankins worked as a painter and wall paperer, yet when jobs were hard to come by, Grandpa and Grandma barely made ends meet. I’m positive that my parents helped them at times although this was never mentioned to us boys. I only know about it from eavesdropping as a kid.

My father had connections to coal, as did my late cousin Randall McDaniel. Randall was a geologist and spent most of his working life in that occupation in the Birmingham, Alabama, area, a good portion of his career studying rock formations below ground. Before this took place, he proudly served four years in the US Marine Corp.

Dad’s stint in the coal business was on a different level. Sometime early on in life he dropped out of school and went to work delivering coal, wood, and other things to help supplement his parent’s meager income. I’m not sure if they expected him to help out but he did so regardless.

Eventually, making enough money to go in partners with a friend, Dad and his pal purchased a truck and ventured out on their own. I have a picture of him standing in front of this vehicle. Undoubtedly it wasn’t a huge success because a few years later, after getting his GED, my father joined the Air Force.

He still sent his folks money, because once again, I recall Dad and Mom talking about how much should they write the check for. My parents were struggling financially, yet still made it a point to send them something.

During Christmas season sometime in the late 1950s, we traveled to Vernon, Alabama, to spend time with both sets of grandparents. Stopping at Grandpa and Grandma Hankins’s house overlooking town, Dad found that they didn’t have any coal or wood for their fireplace. I remember him being upset because they hadn’t wrote and told them—with it freezing cold in the drafty old home. Dad immediately ordered a load of coal and wood.

My brother and I enjoyed combing through the coal pile, because on occasion we’d find a chunk with the imprint of a prehistoric leaf on one side. We were generally black with coal dust afterwards—ordered to bathe in a galvanized steel tub with water heated on an old wood stove. I’m sure my dad considered this a waste of precious wood, and probably gave us a lecture on wastefulness.

At night, Grandma made sure Jim and I were warm by giving us extra quilts for after the fire went out. There were no extra beds so the four of us visitors slept on the floor which had cracks throughout. It’s something I’ll never forget, and I wouldn’t trade this memorable experience for the same in a comfy, king-size-bed in Marriott’s ritziest hotel.

After my grandparents died, their decrepit wood house built in the late 1800s was razed, and a road now goes through where it once sat. In 1977, we traveled through Vernon and stopped at the exact spot where this house once stood. It was a sad experience.

Trying to figure out where everything was originally situated, we came across an area with coal particles still dotting the ground. Kicking around at the soil, I uncovered a small chunk of coal and pocketed it. I still have that lump stashed with other significant mementoes.

The worthless blob of coal means much to me, yet after I’m gone, and the kids go through my treasures, they’ll come across it and undoubtedly contemplate giving things a toss. If they still have a keen sense of humor, Gunnar and Miranda will immediately seize the opportunity for a joke,

“It appears the old man was on Santa’s naughty list!”

What they won’t realize by holding it, is that a simple load of coal delivered on a freezing winter day, was undoubtedly one of the best Christmas gifts that their great grandparents ever received!

It’s been almost 20 years since I woke up early one morning, stuck a toothbrush in my mouth and quickly discovered something wasn’t right. Looking in the mirror, I saw that the left side of my face was drooping like crazy. The left eye sagged as well. Speech was slurred like a drunk person with drool coming out of my mouth uncontrollably.

A quick trip to the doctor with him running several tests, confirmed that I was fortunate it was only Bell’s palsy (BP) and not a stroke or Cerebral palsy (CP). I’d never heard of the ailment, with Doctor Meinhardt in Anchorage, Alaska, saying it’s quite rare. Research shows that approximately 40,000 people a year get the BP nerve disorder.

Hopkins medical website lists the following about this malady: Bell’s palsy is an unexplained episode of facial muscle weakness or paralysis. It begins suddenly and worsens over 48 hours. This condition results from damage to the facial nerve (the 7th cranial nerve). Pain and discomfort usually occur on one side of the face or head.

Bell’s palsy can strike anyone at any age. It occurs most often in pregnant women, and people who have diabetes, influenza, a cold, or another upper respiratory ailment. Bell’s palsy affects men and women equally. It is less common before age 15 or after age 60.

Bell’s palsy is not considered permanent, but in rare cases, it does not disappear. Currently, there is no known cure for Bell’s palsy; however, recovery usually begins 2 weeks to 6 months from the onset of the symptoms. Most people with Bell’s palsy recover full facial strength and expression.

Back to work two days later, co-workers noticed things were askew the moment I hit the building. I’d been prescribed a high dose of prednisone which made my face swell up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Extra weight followed. Telling them that I had Bell’s Palsy—a couple of guys wondered right away if it was something they’d catch.

I quickly made a sign and taped it outside my office door saying: Come On In – I’m Not Contagious! A smiley face was added to try and inject some humor into the ordeal. Deep inside though, I wondered if I’d be like this forever, asking God more than once, “Why me?” I did all I could to stay out of the public eye.

Timing couldn’t have been worse because I was slated to make a commercial for the local Anchorage Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep dealership that week. A co-worker, Ralph Gorder, and I promised an advertising firm that we’d go on camera with our recently purchased Hemi Ram trucks. With me wanting to back out, Ralph was disappointed, saying that he wouldn’t go it alone.

Chuck Talsky, the owner of the advertising firm reassured me that camera angle would take care of any unusual extremities. Hearing that, I agreed, making Ralph happy. A few days after our “gig” was filmed, the commercial ran and I quickly saw that camera angle didn’t solve all of the problem.

Friends viewing the ad started calling the house immediately afterwards asking what was wrong with my face and voice. Ralph on the other hand, he came across cool and calm. My coworker jokingly remarked that the video made him a movie star with his pals and family.

The commercial ran for at least a year. Each time it aired I refused to watch feeling total embarrassment. My Bell’s palsy symptoms eventually went away except for a pronounced crooked smile. One side of my lips refused to totally cooperate—a moustache and beard now help cover up that anomality.

I always hoped the commercial remained buried forever, yet somehow my son came across a copy and brought it over for Thanksgiving. I was finally able to watch and chuckle unlike previous years.

On occasion, I come cross someone with a drooping lip or cheek believing that they too incurred Bell’s Palsy in their life. Out of privacy and rudeness I never ask. Actor George Clooney suffered a bout yet it didn’t hurt his looks or smile one iota.

The other day, I walked into a grocery store on McCulloch Boulevard and a person shopping there undoubtedly had Cerebral Palsy. Unlike Bell’s Palsy, CP remains with a person until death.

I’ve come across a couple of folks over the years having CP—all of them overachievers in spite of such. My son’s mother-in-law, Simone Robertson was born with it. She had more energy and courage than most people I know. It wasn’t out of the norm for Simone to drive halfway across the country by herself to visit friends and family. She did this up until succumbing from complications of dementia at age 75.

David Ring is an evangelist and motivational speaker having CP. His unusual way of talking and moving does not prevent him from getting a strong message across. To this day David still jokes about his malady. There’s quite a list of highly successful people having Cerebral palsy, with Anne McDonald (author), Dan Keplinger (screenwriter), Josh Blue (comedian), Nicolas Hamilton (racecar driver), and Stephen Hawking (theoretical physicist) being just a few.

Early on, I was one of those people that after noticing someone talking or walking strange, I immediately felt sorry for them, wondering why God would allow this to happen. Now looking back on things, I believe he picked certain people because of their strength. Not everyone can go through life, enduring constant stares and behind-the-back whispers, yet still leave a positive influence on those around them.

Unlike me, who wanted to remained hidden during my Bell’s palsy episode, most of the folks having Cerebral palsy are out and about, living their lives with zest to the fullest. To them, a bout with Bell’s palsy would be no more than a Sunday walk in the park!

Christmas is near, which always reminds me of my mother’s decorated sugar cookies and milk, and Jesus’ birth, of course. Mom would leave a freshly baked cookie and small glass of milk on the coffee table for Santa. When my brother and I woke up Christmas morning, a bite would be taken from this cookie, with the milk long gone.

Jim always made it a point to polish the cookie off, mostly because I had and still have this thing about eating after someone else has touched things. Heaven only knows where Santa’s hands had been. Mom’s cookies were the greatest, but the longer they remained uneaten the harder they got.

I’ve come across some tough cookies in my life and I’m not talking about sweet ones. Steve Leffel was a co-worker at a grocery store in Eagle River, Alaska, and a WWII veteran. He’d been a British Commando during the war—and even at 60—wasn’t a person you’d want to get on the wrong side of. Not big in stature, Steve was solid as a rock.

I was eating lunch one day with a group of other adolescent workers when a beautiful young lady walked into the café. One of the box boys made a crude sexual remark about the gal, and before he’d finished his crusty statement, Steve Leffel’s hand reached out and slapped him silly upside the cheek.

Turns out the girl was Steve’s granddaughter. I’d never seen anyone move so fast and neither did the box boy. Undoubtedly, the young man was taught a lesson that day about verbally demeaning females and rightly so. Steve was a real gentleman in that sense and expected other guys to follow suit.

The Anchorage Times newspaper in the early 1970s reported that Steve and his son, Lance, were accosted by a trio of Alaska Railroad personnel in Healy, Alaska. Over the years I heard this story many times from various people and know it’s true.

The railroad men, big and burly, made a bad decision to pick a fight with the Leffels, ending up in a hospital with numerous lacerations and several broken bones afterwards.

Lance Leffel had been a US Army Green Beret having served in Vietnam before being discharged, and was no rookie where martial arts is concerned. Neither of the Leffel’s were bullies, and to meet them on the street you’d never know of their military training, as they never talked about it unless asked. Even then, they’d only say so much. Steve and Lance earn the title, “tough cookie” for their physical attributes.

Kurt Rogers is another tough cookie. I worked with Kurt during my tenure with the State of Alaska as a mechanic. Kurt was severely burned when a fuel tank exploded, with my friend crediting his survival to the Good Lord watching over him. A shop door was unlocked and the blast blew him outside the building. Had that garage door been locked as it often was he would’ve perished.

Rogers was burned over 70 percent of his body, with face and arms suffering the most damage. After countless painful skin grafts he eventually came back to work. Always having a sense of humor, Kurt often mentioned that he’d not win any more Mr. America titles.

I bestow the tough cookie award to him for his strength and determination to recover against impossible odds. His fighting skills were much different than Steve and Lance Leffels, yet just as significant.

John Ballard is a tough cookie. I worked alongside him here in Lake Havasu City for a good many years. Although he was several years older, I couldn’t keep pace. John would work from sunup to quitting time, and then head off to play several games of ping pong. He was like the Energizer Bunny. His work ethic and stamina were beyond reproach.

Me, on the other hand, I’d go to bed soon after eating knowing that come morning, John would be back at it eager for another day’s accomplishment. Unfortunately, mesothelioma took John way too early.

Bill Lowe is the final tough cookie out of five and he’s also a good friend of mine. I met Bill at East Anchorage High, where he was a standout athlete, especially in track and field. Bill set the Alaska high school record in 1972 at 12 foot – 9 inches. I believe this record still stands.

That same summer after graduating, Bill was mining for gold with another friend, Mike Kelly, on Gulch Creek near Hope, Alaska. Mike fell into the swift moving water and Bill jumped in to try and save him. Unfortunately, Mike Kelly hit his head on a rock and was knocked unconscious. Sadly, he drowned.

I was in Hope that day with another pal, Jeff Thimsen. We saw the ambulance and police cars and didn’t find out what happened until returning home. I’m told that accident bothered Bill the rest of his life and he rarely talked about it. I believe it played a big part in his ultimate life decision to become a believer in Jesus Christ. His wife’s death just a few years back from cancer might’ve also had something to do with it.

Throughout Bill’s life he worked many interesting jobs, early on, a bouncer at several rough and tumble nightclubs in Anchorage, Alaska. The forty ninth state was like the wild west during the Alaska pipeline years, with Bill saying that he incurred a fair number of fights trying to toss unruly patrons out of certain establishments.

Afterwards, he worked the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay and also on Amchitka Island in the Aleutian Chain—this after three atomic bombs had been detonated there. Bill believes that particular job is the one that permanently damaged both of his lungs, to the extent that he needed a double lung transplant some forty years later.

Bill underwent this risky procedure in 2018 at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and just recently celebrated five years of success. Never one to back down or admit defeat, my friend reopened his antique store during this time, constructed a log cabin, and hoped to return to gold mining. He wasn’t going to let “anything” deter future goals. That was our East High motto: “Future Goals We Will Pursue – Senior Class Of ’72.”

His plans were to someday travel to Lake Havasu City with his son, William Jr., and visit his cousin, Kathy, and her husband, Dean, as well as stop by our place. Unfortunately, that’ll never happen as Bill unexpectedly passed away on November 15.

All of them believers, Steve, Lance, Kurt, John, and Bill, are now gone. These are some of the toughest cookies I’ve ever come in contact with. It’s reassuring to me in knowing that I’ll see them again in due time.

Hopefully, the same can be said for all of my friends and family!

Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching and our Butterball turkey’s still safe in the freezer. I just recently named him Tom. He’s been there since 2020, and will remain that way through 2023.

It’s not that my wife and I have become vegan or anything of the like, nor bow to the wishes of PETA (people for the ethical treatment of animals.) These folks are against Thanksgiving dinner where any kind of meat is served.

Our reason for not baking Tom has nothing to do with either. I calculated a couple of years ago that going out to eat for Thanksgiving was far cheaper than staying at home.

Not only do food items cost significantly more because of record breaking inflation, but combine that with the work involved in making a big meal quickly adds up. With the minimum wage here in Arizona $13.85 an hour, and calculating that it takes my wife a good six hours to prepare everything, including setting the table, her labor alone amounts to $83.10. That doesn’t include the electricity used for oven or stove.

My estimate for cost of a turkey and ham, sweet yams—no Thanksgiving dinner is complete without marshmallow covered sweet yams—green bean casserole with French onions on top, several packets of McCormick brown gravy, four large Yukon potatoes, a pack of Wonder brand Brown-n-Serve rolls, box of Kraft brand Stove Top stuffing, Dole salad mix, and an exquisite Patti LaBelle pecan pie from Walmart for dessert, complete with Reddi whip topping from a refrigerated spray can, easily tops $100.

Our preferred drink for Thanksgiving is several bottles of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider at $2.99 a bottle. Four bottles is approximately $12. The total for all required food and drink items is $112. Combined with labor for cooking the stuff we’re now up to $195.10 yet the real kicker’s still to come.

I’m the designated dishwasher, and since our GE dishwasher is temporarily out of commission, my fee for washing dishes is not much out of line with what a struggling dentist, realtor, lawyer, or plumber makes hourly on a slow day. I’d say that $150 is a good number. Split that in half because it’ll only take me 30 minutes to wash silverware, plates, pots, and pans. That brings the total up to $270.10 for a stay-home Thanksgiving meal.

This year, we’ll be going out once again and spend far less for a scrumptious smorgasbord at Shugrue’s, enjoying much more food than what Joleen would even care to make. Afterwards, washing dishes will be taken care of by someone else which takes a load off my aching shoulders. A good accountant would say that numbers alone dictate eating out is the best route to follow. There’s one additional thing worth mentioning about Turkey Day.

On Thanksgiving, President Biden will once again pardon some poor turkey, giving the bird a reprieve from someone’s dinner table. In a way, we’ve done the same for our 12 pound frozen gobbler. Unless Joleen decides to eventually clean the freezer out, it appears Tom will be safe for years to come.

I have to assume that PETA will be especially happy with this decision.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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!