I like to write junk…

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!

My family owned the same television from 1957 all the way through the late 1960s. It was a black & white model with glass tubes. Dad was constantly removing tubes—taking them to the nearest electronics store and having them tested. Part of our television’s problem most likely came from him trying to repair it.

Whenever the picture went fuzzy or constantly rotated on the screen, my father smacked the top of it with his hand in an attempt to correct things. That generally worked for a while, but the picture would eventually go back to being the same, requiring another hard slap. Frequent pounding over time was undoubtedly tough on fragile tubes and circuits, let alone Dad’s hand.

My brother and I watched him do this and we’d repeat the same when the old man wasn’t around. I’m fairly sure Mom did her fair share of smacking it around as well. If abusing that black & white television was a crime—all four of us should’ve spent considerable time behind bars.

Dad finally purchased a new RCA television right before the United States put a man on the moon. That was 1969. He evidently still couldn’t afford color, because this newbie wasn’t any different than our old one. A good friend of mine had color and I’d often watch favorite shows with him including the moon landing.

Thank goodness the monumental moon walk took place before all of this non-binary gender confusion came out of the woodwork. I can visualize astronaut Neil Armstrong being forced by some woke dictating NASA official to utter the following as millions watch and listen,

“One small step for binary or non-binary being, one giant step for binary or nonbinary person-kind.”

Fortunately, for us seniors, the world was a saner place to live back then and we didn’t have to put up with such. Sadly, not the same case these days for our children and grandchildren.

The flatscreen on our living room wall is going on 16 years old. It still works fine, but in order to gleefully boot overly expensive cable out the front door, we need something called a smart TV. I had to look up the meaning and it’s basically a television with internet accessibility and computer like capability. The plan is to start streaming shows and hopefully save some money.

Our audio-video expert, Charles, knows the ins and outs of streaming, and swears it’s the wave of the future. I told him since this might be our last new television, to please order us a “Big Kahuna” and he did. It isn’t the largest, but where wall space is concerned, this set is as big as we can go. Surprisingly, it cost a lot less than the older Samsung.

I hate to see the old TV disappear, but there seems to be a time for everything to bite the dust in the name of progress. One thing that hasn’t for us are hand-operated can openers. We had an electric one for a short while but went back to using the antiques—they’re faster and can be cleaned without fear of electrocution.

My need for having a television has drastically changed over the years. Initially, as a boy, it was to watch cartoons and westerns on Saturday mornings. Over time, movies took over those two venues along with the evening news and weather.

Now, mainstream news has become so biased and politically selective on what they cover that we no longer go there. From here on out, I’ll be more in tune with streaming church services, as well as listening to music from YouTube on the same device.

Old reruns of westerns on Saturday night will make up the major portion of my TV viewing where movies are concerned. My biggest need for a “big television” is to be able to stream Microsoft Word off the laptop computer and use it as a gigantic screen. From twenty feet away, I should be able to sit on the couch and write without tiring already weary eyes.

We should have our new screen up and running within a couple of weeks. The components are on order and some work needs to be done with routing of wires for the soundboard. Hopefully, this new educated version is built strong enough to last as long as our less intelligent one.

Speaking of planned obsolescence: In 16 years I’ll be 85. What will life be like in 2039? As messed up as this world and people are right now—that thought alone should be more than enough to send shivers down the spine of every breathing, man, woman, boy, and girl. It does mine.

On the other hand, where the average expectancy for males is concerned, there’s a good chance I won’t be here to see what happens come that time.

The same can’t be said though, for that soon to be, Samsung, flatscreen, smart TV.

I came upon an accident scene at Mesquite & Lake Havasu Avenue the other day and was lucky to be at the rear of the pack. Debris was still being cleaned off the road, and before anyone had a chance to hem my car in, I was able to make a quick U-turn and drive the other way.

After giving myself a mental pat on the back for still having sharp reflexes, a different route was wisely chosen. For me, being at the tail end of a line sometimes works best, as it did on this occasion.

I’ve always preferred sitting in back of a building, whether it be a restaurant, movie theatre, church, work conference, or the like.  If I feel a need to leave, I want to be able to do so right now.

The word “stealth” plays a key role here. The Biblical definition for stealth is twofold: It doesn’t just mean to do something in secret; the term also implies use of deceit, to be crafty. 

This desire to stealthily disappear without attracting undue attention goes way back in time—64 years to be exact.

The year was 1959 and I lived in Selma, Alabama, with our family attending Selmont Baptist Church on the outskirts of town.  This house of worship was in close proximity to Craig Air Force Base where Dad was stationed—also near Jones Trailer Park where we lived.

In Sunday school, it was customary on your birthday to bring a penny for each year of age.  I’d just turned five and Mom gave me a bright shiny nickel to use as a birthday tithe.  As unbelievable as it sounds, five cents would buy a candy bar back then.

Sitting in back of the class room, that Jefferson nickel was burning a hole in my pocket.  It was also speaking to me in a most devilish manner,

“Michael, you deserve a special treat today!”

The plan to voluntarily give up what I “wrongly regarded” to be my money got harder and harder with each passing second.  After two minutes, I couldn’t stand the thought of doing so.  Faking a trip to the restroom, I kept on trucking and never looked back.

Calculating that R&R Grocery on Highway 80 was a short distance away, I set off in pursuit of the noted candy oasis—heading the wrong direction.

Getting lost is something I was skilled at back then and still am.  I can’t tell you exactly how long I walked, but it must’ve been an hour or more.

When an older couple from our congregation rolled up in a cloud of dust I knew I was in trouble.  Fearing that something bad happened to me, those concerned folks informed me that countless people were beating the bushes looking for my carcass. Perhaps they weren’t that graphic or sensationalistic, but for added “flavor” to this story we’ll just assume that’s what they said.

As the three of us rolled up to the church entryway, standing outside was our pastor and other concerned brethren, who’d been praying for my safe return.  For several short minutes I was hugged and congratulated as being a hero—at least that’s how I viewed things. This perceived fanfare on my part quickly deteriorated as Dad drove us home.

I received a tongue lashing next to none and then the proverbial spanking.  Undoubtedly, to this day, ministers from all over creation use my escape from Selmont Baptist to demonstrate what robbing God of tithes will achieve.

Yes, I learned a valuable lesson that day. It seems each time I hear a sermon on tithing, that blotched attempt at escape comes to mind.

I still sit on the very last pew, yet not for the same reason as in 1959. There’s no need to fake a trip to the restroom these days. If you see me scurrying that direction—rest assured—it’s the real deal.

I was sitting at Highway 95 and Industrial Boulevard the other evening, when this young guy rolled up next to me with his stereo turned up to “Warp One” plus some. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the car had good quality speakers, which the Nissan Sentra didn’t.

His whole vehicle was rattling and vibrating from cheap tinny speakers, making things sound like a satanic death march. It was way beyond horrible.

Each time the bass boomed, I waited for a window to burst. Unfortunately, that never happened. Whatever music he was playing was lost to my ears. Rock, rap, country, soul, south of the border reggae, I couldn’t tell? One of the first things going through my mind: there must be a lot of loose nuts and bolts on that ride and not just the driver.

I’ve had to deal with overly loud music for the majority of my life as have most older folks still having working ears. Why anyone has to turn their volume up to enormous levels isn’t clear to me, yet I don’t waste valuable time analyzing such trivial things. It is what it is and I’m sure will continue once I’m dead and gone.

Back in my day, the guys I hung around with were more in tune with how cool their cars and trucks sounded, not how loud their 8-track stereos would play out an open window. There were a few squirrels doing such, with us thinking that was a geeky or nerdy thing to do, almost as bad as motorcyclists driving around town having their radios turned up full blast. “Hey, look at me!,” immediately comes to mind whenever I see these clowns.

Simply said though—I suppose those folks are merely trying to show off their sound systems. The guy at this stoplight definitely didn’t have anything to brag about.

Walking the channel at Rotary Park over Fourth of July weekend I had to chuckle. Not just one person was blasting their music, but it seemed everyone had their units turned up. When you combine rock, rap, country, soul, and south of the border reggae, it’s unlike anything you’ll ever hear. The word “Havatunes” sounds appropriate.

There was another older gentleman sitting on a bench, with me stopping and talking to him about that very subject for several minutes. We both found great humor in what we heard and saw.

Years ago, I was working in an auto parts store owned by my late father. Directly above the store was several apartments. One young fellow, an Army soldier, would constantly turn his stereo up to the point where we couldn’t hear customers. As store manager, I’d go up and politely ask him to tone things down, and he’d always oblige.

One Saturday morning, the apartment renter had things cranked to the max, with me heading up the stairs once again, but this time getting no answer at his door. The guy was evidently three sheets to the wind from partying the night before, and oblivious to anything happening around him that morning and the rest of the day.

Remembering that the main breaker to all of those apartments was in our storeroom—I started turning breakers on and off until hitting the right one. The rest of that morning and afternoon was most peaceful.

Before locking up and going home, another employee reminded me that I’d shut the fellow’s electricity off. This was like seven hours later. Walking back to the breaker box, I quickly flipped the switch hearing an enormous “POP” and then silence. I didn’t know what it was, but my co-worker Jerry Warren did, telling me that I’d just blown up the man’s bass speaker.

A couple of days later, this guy walked into the store telling us all about his experience. He didn’t know that I was the one responsible for his power being shut off, and I wasn’t about to fess up. The young enlisted soldier blamed the store he purchased his new high-dollar speakers from, claiming they sold him junk. From that point on, we could still hear his music at times, yet the sound was muffled and tinny, not clear and defined like it had been before.

I wish there’d been an outside switch on that Nissan the other evening like there was to that apartment, because I would’ve reached out my car window and gave it a quick off and on. On second thought—the way his speakers sounded—it appears someone already had.

I’ve never been to either place, but Darwin, Minnesota, and Cawker City, Kansas, have the world’s largest balls of twine. The ball in Darwin was rolled by one person, Francis A. Johnson, while the Cawker City ball is a community effort and still growing.

Lake Havasu City has no similar tourist attractions that I’m aware of, although the London Bridge and London Bridge Shopping Center aren’t far behind. For those laughing at my London Bridge Shopping Center remark, I did too when I first saw it.

Years ago, there was a classy sign visible from Highway 95 dictating that the place actually existed, but wisely, someone has now removed it. At that point, there was maybe ten retail businesses at the most, with Yellow Front being the largest general merchandise store, and Hussong’s one of the busiest eateries in town. A paint store was located in the center as well, until it went up in plumes of black smoke, slightly before the infamous Mexican restaurant did the same.

London Bridge Shopping Center, much like The Factory Outlet Mall on Lake Havasu City Avenue, sadly rode off into the sunset and never returned. On a brighter side, where the London Bridge Shopping Center name is concerned, London Bridge Plaza took its place; a more appropriate namesake by far with a large sign to signify where it’s located.

There’s an eclectic mix of unique shops and eateries in the plaza, with a few survivors from the shopping center days still there. Bump City Music, Lange Veterinary, and Novak Animal Care are three of the old-timers that come to mind. When the second bridge to the island finally becomes reality, London Bridge Plaza will really be ihopping.

Lake Havasu City does have one unique attraction besides the London Bridge that very few out-of-town visitors even know about, unless they’re jet ski or PWC fans. I’m not sure this enigma even has a name, thus, I simply call the spectacle, “HAVASTICKER,” to go along with my other Hava words, Havaniceday being a favorite.

At the entrance to Body Beach is where Havasticker’s located, and has been for some time. I recall when only a few colorful stickers were on it, but now there’s at least 100.

For the sake of future tourism, and on the same level of honesty as some politician’s use in claiming how many people were in attendance at their last rally, let’s just say for sensationalistic purposes, there are over 1,000 stickers plastered on that billboard.

The Havasticker billboard was originally a wood, handmade sign designating Body Beach, but over time it became a metal bulletin board for PWC manufacturer’s and race teams. There appear to be sticker names on this sign from all over the world, although some might be from Southern California and just look foreign to me; Azhiaziam being one.

Burlington, Vermont, is known for having the largest ball of stickers, and is listed in the “Guinness Book of World Records” for such. I couldn’t find any record for largest collection of stickers on a board—believing we may have the title here in Havasu and don’t even know it.

There’s a need to go even bigger, because that old Body Beach sign is now totally filled. Surely, there’s a construction company in town that could use the significant name recognition on creating a larger one. I’ve thought of doing this myself, but that thought quickly passed after looking at the thermometer, and the price of steel.

What better way for Lake Havasu City to be world renown than having the largest sticker bulletin board located at the gateway to famous Body Beach.

With our attraction being a community project, The World’s Largest Balls of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas, and Darwin, Minnesota, would pale in comparison to Havasticker, and quickly start to unravel where garnering future tourism visitors is concerned.

Much like junk mail that’s lucky enough to be sent via airplane instead of by truck, I travel third-class as do most people. That’s always been my mode of travel when flying because of cost. I once flew fourth-class or “cargo status” in a tiny Cherokee Arrow aircraft, sitting on cases of food destined for a rural Alaskan village. There was no seat or seatbelt.

My tail was frigid by the time we arrived—warm flesh becoming well-acquainted with Green Giant brand frozen vegetables before touching down in Flat, Alaska.

A friend tells folks he strictly flies first-class. I once corrected him by saying he actually travels second-class. That upset the fellow and he quickly responded,

“There’s no such thing as second-class!”

I’ve had other friends, family, and acquaintances tell me the same with them all being wrong. By now, you’re probably wondering what is this guy talking about? Keep reading and you’ll see.

I thought I’d flown “first-class” twice in my life, but eventually came to the realization it wasn’t true. The first time I believed this happened was when I transported our Yellow Nape Amazon parrot “Jesse” from Alaska to Arizona.

Alaska Airlines made me purchase a supposed first-class ticket, saying there’d be more room up front where his small traveling cage was concerned. It cost me a few extra dollars to do so but was worth it in the end (pun intended).

The airline should’ve paid me, because Jesse entertained the dozen or so passengers around me from takeoff to landing.

The second time was when a flight attendant politely inquired if I’d mind sitting in the first row. They’d overbooked coach and my seat was needed. Why they picked my carcass I’ll never know. I’m sure it had nothing to do with good looks. Believing that I was flying first-class those two times was actually a misnomer.

Leaning back in my cushy leather seat on that second trip, I was on top of the world. The flight attendant had just brought a steamy hot towel, at the same time, asking what entrée I wanted for dinner—miraculously there was a choice. It was during this second excursion that I “saw the light” regarding what first-class really is.

Glancing around the cabin, I observed what appeared to be business people, yet recognized no celebrities, sports jocks, or politicians. Business folks generally sit up front because of their abundant frequent flier miles and nothing else. Frugal folks like me choose to save a few bucks and join the commoners in back.

On that second, supposed first-class experience—as we waited for a motorized tug to pull the Boeing 747 away from our terminal, I looked out the window spotting something that immediately caught my eye. Several hundred feet away was a red brick, two-story, executive flight facility, with sleek Lear Jets and Cessna Citations parked on the asphalt tarmac in front of it.

“Just one time,” I thought to myself.

As I continued staring, a shiny black limousine rolled up. The driver stopped in front of a short set of stairs connected to one of the executive jets. A man in a suit quickly exited, and then walked to the rear of his limo, opening doors for a middle-aged couple and their two children.

The family looked excited as they boarded their stylish jet. Continuing to stare as the limousine driver unloaded bags, he accepted a tip from what I assumed to be a crew member. That’s when reality slapped me upside the head.

“Now, that’s first-class!”

From that point on, first class on a commercial jet became second-class to me. For those wanting to argue the point, go ahead. Each time I drive by the Lake Havasu City Airport, I generally see a couple of sleek jets parked outside. Without question, this is the ultimate way to fly, and I’m sure the lucky folks owning or leasing these multi-million dollar planes will agree.

Years ago, my brother equated passengers boarding airplanes to cattle being herded onto trucks. That unique thought stuck in my mind and hasn’t let go. On a car show junket several years back, my brother-in-law, Calvin, bellowed like a steer upon entering the cabin. He could imitate this animal sound to perfection. As if rehearsed, another guy standing behind him let out another perfect,

“Mooooooo.”

Several people in line laughed with a flight attendant doing the same. As we slowly moved through the second-class section, not one chuckle came from those folks.

If you were to ask me why, I’d say they didn’t want anyone thinking they came from the same herd!

I love it when carnivals come to town. The sweet smell of cotton candy and caramel corn permeating the air takes me back in time. There’s generally a carnival at the Havasu Balloon Festival, and years ago, one came to Lake Havasu City about once a year, setting up on an open lot on Lake Havasu Avenue. I don’t believe it’s been there for some time now.

My family first visited Disneyland in 1957, when there were many more “stress free” attractions for little kids back then. For me, three years old at the time, Disneyland was a large carnival. I liked the Teacups and vintage automobile rides best, avoiding anything beyond that level of excitement.

My late dad’s favorite was a 3-D theatre attraction called: Rocket to the Moon.  This venue was located inside a building which sat opposite a futuristic looking rocket. Ticket holders sat in chairs watching this supposedly realistic movie about a rocket ride to the moon and back. I wouldn’t know—never surviving blastoff. The mere resemblance of motion was enough to turn my stomach inside out. Mom grabbed my sick carcass from a chair just in the nick of time, although someone did have to cleanup the concrete walkway afterwards.

I remember my first carnival roller coaster. It was in Selma, Alabama, either in 1961 or 1962. My brother and I climbed in the front car, and after only a few times around, I was screaming to the top of my lungs wanting out. Mom once again filled me in on the rest. Seeing that I was petrified with fear, she asked the person running this ride to please stop and let me off—which he did. To this day, I’ve refused to get on another roller coaster and never will.

My brother, a couple of years later in Lubbock, Texas, coaxed me into riding a mechanical creation called the Tilt-A-Whirl. He said it wasn’t bad—most likely thinking of scary carnival rides he’d been on before like: The Hammer and The Scrambler. Jim could conquer them all with no problem, including that wild roller coaster in Las Vegas named: High Roller.

Telling myself that I’d be okay that night, I came uncorked before the Tilt-A-Whirl ride ended, sending spray everywhere. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time this happened. From that point on, the only carnival ride I’ve taken part in is a Ferris Wheel. To me, they’re much like a giant swing set and my stomach can handle things with ease.

In 1972, having just graduated from high school, three friends from East High, along with me, late one night went to a small carnival next to the Valu-Mart shopping center. All went well until Jeff, Michelle, and Cathy, decided we needed to ride the Tilt-A Whirl. I wasn’t keen on the idea, remembering the last time I tried such, but didn’t want to come across as being wimpy.

Making it through the whole ordeal without getting sick, I quickly excused myself after getting off, finding a spot behind the generator trailer to hurl. My friends never knew. The next morning around five, noticing my wallet was missing, I drove back to that carnival, checking different Tilt-A-Whirl cars until finding it on the floor of one.

It was probably a good thing, because a former carnival employee told me that after closing, “carnies” have a field day going through all the rides looking for lost change, money, wallets, clutch purses, jewelry, and watches. He mentioned they found others things as well like baggies of pot and coke. This guy said that The Hammer and Scrambler were the worst for robbing people of their earthly goods along with breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

I always wondered why I couldn’t handle extreme rides like other kids, not finding out until age 40 that I have vertigo, along with something called Meniere’s Disease. Without going into a long drawn-out medical explanation, both ailments have something to do with the inner ear. With a carnival slated to return to the Havasu Balloon Festival in 2024, I was prepared to give the Tilt-A-Whirl one last try, just to prove I can master it without getting sick.

After recently reading about a carnival in Canada having one of their Tilt-A-Whirl cars come completely off its circular track when a large pin broke, injuring several people, plans have quickly changed. I’ll still be going to that carnival, riding their Ferris Wheel and eating caramel corn, while pulling sticky cotton candy from my beard and shirt. If there’s a Tilt-A-Whirl, Hammer, or Scrambler at this venue, I’ll give them wide berth while walking past. You see, I don’t want anyone’s spray coming my way.