I like to write junk…

Insignificant things that happen to us sometimes have significant meaning. To fully understand, we have to sit back and take a moment to ponder them. I find this to be especially true today.

Although I had this story mostly complete in my mind, never did I think the unfinished ending would be handed to me in a most unusual manner.

For as long as I can remember—I’ve loved what’s referred to as show-n-tell. Even before grade school, if I found something unique such as a large leaf, pinecone, or ugly bug, I felt the need to show my parents or grandparents.

Elementary school years took things to a different level, because on occasion, there was an official show-n-tell day. The assorted junk I hauled into class were generally polished rocks or boyish items received for Christmas or birthdays, such as cap guns or Slinkys.

One year, most likely 1964, I brought a small plastic bubblegum machine that my folks gave me as a gift. This machine would discharge one bubblegum ball for a penny, although anything round, and up to the size of a quarter worked just fine. Because of this, kids used their milk or lunch money to buy gum from me.

I made a killing for several days until being told not to bring my device to class anymore. What entrepreneur spirit I possessed back then was nearly destroyed that day. Dreams of placing actual bubblegum machines in laundromats throughout Texas, still remained with me, yet I never pursued the idea, being much too young to even know how.

In junior high, speech class was about as close as we got to show-n-tell. I was extremely shy at this point, and developed the jitters having to stand in front of my peers. Pimples seemed to appear out of nowhere from this stress, and I recall one humongous one breaking out on my forehead the day of a speech.

No amount of Clearasil would cover things up, and I’m sure as I gave my five minute talk, all eyes were focused on the zit instead of what I had to say. I only mention that because had it been someone else talking looking like Cyclops, my eyes would’ve been doing the same.

High school was a bit different. I’d lost some of my shyness, and actually looked forward to speech class, always searching for something unique to talk about. That generally wasn’t hard for me to do.

One year, I gave a demonstration on how a pencil was made. Beforehand, I sanded off all of the yellow paint, severing the eraser and attachment band with a knife as well. The remaining pencil was then placed in boiling water which loosened the glue—allowing both halves and lead to separate.

My instructor was most impressed, especially when I told the class that one tree produced 170,000 pencils. Encyclopedia Britannica gave me that information and not Google. That creative speech earned an A.

College was a bit different for me where presentations were concerned, because I started late in life, and most of the other students were half my age. At that point stage fright was a thing of the past.

In Speech 101, I gave a eulogy on Spuds McKenzie. Spuds was the official mascot and spokesperson at that time for Budweiser Beer. A portrait of the bull terrier dog sat on my podium including a box of Kleenex. The crude artwork made by me using staples and glue to hold things together now hangs on my garage wall. I still chuckle on occasion looking at it.

After finishing my eulogy, then wiping both eyes with a tissue, some students laughed while others asked if Spuds had really died. This presentation was one of my best yet. I aced that class including most all college classes I took, receiving A’s. It’s strange how hard a person studies when they’re footing the bill.

While working for the State of Alaska, I put together a roast of my boss for his retirement party. Keith Nelson sported a beard, and the Viking helmet made for him by me using a hardhat and two pointed ice cream cones came out to perfection. My humorous speech after presenting him with this gift received much laughter. Keith thanked me afterwards for recognizing him.

Facebook has been my venue for show-n-tell since college and those working years. I’ve enjoyed sharing things about my life, yet reading what others have to say is the main reason I joined, along with reconnecting with friends and family. My wife, Joleen, has often said that I share way too much. That goes with being a writer I suppose.

A couple of years ago, I told myself that I’d stop using Facebook as show-n-tell once I reached a certain age, figuring that I’ve shared just about everything I can. I’ve been gradually slowing down the past year, with April of this year, my official month to go into fb retirement mode. That doesn’t mean I still won’t be reading stuff.

The last thing I shared was finding an old Colt revolver in the desert, figuring this was an excellent ending. Something happened soon after while metal detecting that far exceeds the last discovery, and what I believe is a miracle of sorts. You’ll have to be judge of that yourself.

In 2014, ten years ago, Joleen and I were in the desert south of Lake Havasu City, metal detecting. A set of house keys were in my pocket that I randomly dropped, checking to see if the detector was working properly working. There’s nothing worse than walking around for 15 minutes, not finding anything, and then looking down to see that the machine was accidentally turned off.

Somewhere along the way on that most memorable day, a decade ago, I dropped the whole key ring as a test of my detector, forgetting to pick them up. Realizing this perhaps a minute later, if even that, I turned around to see a large raven fly away.

The bird had been watching me for some time from a small knoll, probably trying to see what I was snacking on. Granola bars go a long way in keeping the energy fire lit and there was one in my hand. Quickly retracing steps, with Joleen helping me search, nothing was found of the missing keys.

Each key to our house and yard had a different colored plastic marker to identify what it went to. Undoubtedly, the raven was attracted to bright colors and snagged them behind my back. I thought I’d never see those keys again, telling my wife, family, and friends over the years they were lost for good.

Wednesday afternoon, I was metal detecting in an area of desert approximately two miles north of where I lost the key ring. Heading back to our Jeep after spending 30 minutes poking around and finding nothing exciting, I got a low-pitched beep on my machine showing that something made of steel or iron was in the ground.

Using a hand rake, I scraped through hard Arizona rock for a short stint until one key suddenly popped up. I didn’t think much of the find, as a single key had been discovered the week previous. I’m always coming across lone or broken keys along with nails.

Grabbing that dirty key and giving it a good tug, a whole ring of them came out of the ground. It took several seconds for my brain to realize they were mine. The colorful plastic was hard and brittle, with most of it broken off, yet some faded pieces still remained. Contemplating this for several hours afterwards, I came to the conclusion that the odds of this happening are off the chart.

I first knew they were my keys by the silver colored fish ornament. The Miami Dolphins are my team and I picked out that keyring solely for this reason. Made of stainless steel, it held up well under adverse conditions unlike the football team.

There’s more to this story than a simple lost & found. I believe God led me to these keys, as his way to show me, just because something’s lost for a period of time, doesn’t mean it can’t be found.

This is not only true with keys, but people as well. Yes, I needed a refresher course on that life lesson, because I’m guilty here lately of giving up on some lost folks, especially a slew of them in Washington D.C.

Luke 19:10 says – “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

As a Christian, I’m commanded to continue praying for the lost, regardless of whether I like them or not. Finding a simple set of keys 10 years after losing them has helped reset my feet on the right path.

Like I said at the beginning of this presentation, insignificant things that happen to us sometimes have significant meaning. To fully understand, we have to sit back and take a moment to ponder them!

I turn 70 in just over a month. For the most part—my life has been blessed. A great wife and two outstanding children stand tall around me. My parents did their best to make sure my brother and I had a roof over our heads, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Joleen and I did the same with our two.

My father was a firm believer that if you wanted something bad enough, you had to earn it. Free handouts weren’t part of his chemistry. I believe the same, yet prayer goes first before anything. Some things I want, yet do not need. Prayer helps discern between the two.

I’ve been told over the years by various people, “Choose your battles.” That’s one life lesson I don’t always adhere to. Like my dad, I’ve engaged in battles that I believed couldn’t be won, yet entered them anyway just because they needed fought. One of those involved a traffic ticket. I could’ve just paid it like so many others, yet this particular speeding ticket wasn’t my fault.

I was passing a cement mixer that was dropping rocks on the road. One of them had bounced up beforehand cratering the windshield of my vehicle. I tried explaining this to the cop to no avail. In court, I did the same to the judge, and he asked the officer to see a video taken from his patrol car camera.

It clearly showed what I had told the policeman. A cement mixer was directly in front of me, and other vehicles zoomed around it to avoid the debris. I merely followed them. Even though I was legitimately speeding, this judge sided with me and dismissed the case.

Co-workers had told me I’d never beat this ticket and I proved them wrong. Even had I lost, plans were whirling around in my head to appeal, and take things to the very top, or to the limit as I call it. A favorite Bible story of mine is David vs Goliath so perhaps that has something to do with it.

I could tell story after story regarding this subject, because there have been battles throughout my life. I doubt I’m the only one having fought them, because some family and friends were involved in some horrific skirmishes unlike mine.

There’s always a loser in a battle and I have no problem coming out on the short end of the stick. A battle is much like fishing. I’ve been fishing many times and not brought home a single salmon or halibut, yet that didn’t stop me from going again.

A few weeks back, my wife and I decided to use a $50 gift certificate our children gave us 11 years prior to Cracker Barrel. It sat in a drawer all that time. We weren’t worried because there was no expiration date on it.

After eating that day, I went to pay and the clerk said that our e-certificate couldn’t be used because it needed a PIN number. Evidently, in the 11 years since issue, their policy had changed. We had no PIN because none had been required back then.

The assistant manager came up and said it was my job to get hold of Cracker Barrel management to plead the case. I didn’t argue the fact, knowing that she was wrong, yet politely pulled my credit card out and paid the bill.

For several days my wife tried calling Cracker Barrel customer relations with no luck. She eventually left a respectful verbal message explaining everything, and after a week, still no reply. I then went online, finding a site where I could leave an email message along with a photo of the e-certificate.

Time went on and no response came from either means of communication. I mentioned to my son about what was happening, and he told me good luck. A simple inquiry Gunnar had with the company regarding an awards program took over a month to get an answer.

Late one evening, I drew up a letter to the CEO and president of the company, Julie Masino, and sent it off certified mail. The same day that she received it, I got a notice through e-mail explaining that they would take care of the unfortunate situation.

I wrote back thanking her, grateful that she took full responsibility for the problem which was theirs to begin with—not mine. Successful companies do such. It’s still unfortunate that I had to reach so high to solve a simple problem.

Telling my wife this, she asked, “What would I have done had they refused?” I told her that would’ve left me no other option than to seek legal help.  “Is that expense worth chasing $50?,” Joleen inquired in a puzzled tone.

I told her probably not, but at this stage of my life I have nothing to lose but money in trying, and I won’t be taking any of that with me when I leave.

“Principle is priceless!” were my last words on the subject.

I suppose there will be other battles coming my direction. Right now, the biggest challenge it seems is fighting charges on medical bills. Countless time we’ve been billed, when in fact, Medicare and our supplemental insurance (Aetna) paid for the services.

Joleen and I have talked to some senior friends incurring the same. Rather than go through the hassle of entering a battle to fight the overage, they caved and just paid. Although it took lots of time, patience, and phone calls on our part, we’ve always came out the winner on these grievances.

One of my favorite songs is by the Eagles. The name of this tune is, “Take It To The Limit.” A short set of lyrics best sums up how I look at life battles—

“Take it to the limit, one more time.”

It appears I’ll be following the Eagle’s suggestion until the day I die.

I’ve watched my share of “Gunsmoke” episodes and still do. I’m sure other old timers in Lake Havasu City echo the same. There were 635 episodes over 20 years. During that period, Sheriff Matt Dillon shot 407 people, and was hit by gunfire 56 times himself. I suppose the man resembled a pin cushion by the end of his career.

The way Dillon took care of criminals in Dodge City is representative of how the majority of Americans would like to see things handled now. An unspoken motto on the series seems to be, “Do the crime – do the time!”

Outlaws, thieves, and murderers weren’t coddled or catered to on fictitious “Gunsmoke” episodes like they are today in real life. Left leaning politicians, judges, and courts, in conjunction with the woke movement, now make law breakers out to be victims of society, not holding them responsible for their actions.

We see how this plays out every night on the nightly news with our police often criticized for merely doing their job. Sheriff Matt Dillon definitely didn’t have to answer to such condemnation in Dodge City. Most honest folks living in the Kansas town sided with his oftentimes strict policies regarding law enforcement.

For those not familiar with “Gunsmoke,” it was a popular western series on both radio and television, loved by thousands of listeners and viewers. My family tuned in each week—greatly enjoying the western drama. There was never any concern on Dad and Mom’s part about constant violence influencing their two boys.

Kitty Russell was owner of a saloon on “Gunsmoke” called the Long Branch, and also a madame, although that part flew directly over my head as a youngster. I never thought about it until here just lately.

James Arness (Matt Dillon) referred to her as a madame on one of the radio broadcasts, although television screenwriters generally tiptoed around the subject as much as they could. Social Organizer would now be the ‘politically correct’ title for Kitty’s line of work.

Matt and Kitty were boyfriend and girlfriend although they never kissed. The stately sheriff spent a fair amount of free time at the Long Branch Saloon, drinking beer while shooting the breeze, where Kitty often filled his mug for free. Most likely she did that as a favor of sorts.

Her place of business was a haven for criminals—with these alcoholic beverages undoubtedly a gift to the sheriff for having to work overtime in keeping the place rid of them.

During all 407 episodes, Matt, and, “Miss Kitty,” as she was called on occasion, never kissed or were intimate. A good friend of mine said that the sheriff was most likely frigid. I have to disagree, believing that after being shot 56 times in all parts of the body, reoccurring pain had something to do with it.

Ken Curtis played the part of Festus Haggen. Festus was the ever complaining deputy sheriff and constantly broke. Ironically, my fourth grade teacher was Mrs. Hagen. I’m sure somewhere along the line some smart aleck student razzed her about being related to Mr. Haggen of “Gun Smoke” fame.

I can seriously relate to Festus, because my last name sounds nearly the same as his when said with a southern accent, and it’s rare that I have money in my pockets or wallet.

Generally speaking, I rely on debit or credit cards unless my wife is close by with her purse. Festus would’ve been the kind of fellow, had he owned a credit card, the plastic would constantly be declined at Delmonico’s and the Long Branch for obvious reason. Delmonico’s is a local restaurant where he usually ate as long as someone else was buying.

Haggen is cast as a Deep-South hillbilly, with his kinfolk often stopping by Dodge City for various unorthodox reasons, most of them unscrupulous. Members of the Haggen family were known to rob banks and stagecoaches for a living. Several scenes made the likable and hilariously funny Festus out to be an illiterate idiot.

Festus Haggen often proved to be the smartest person in town despite a meager education. He frequented the Long Branch like others, oftentimes having to bum drinks from his pals. Ken Curtis (Festus) was without question the most talented actor out of all on the show. He was also a great western singer, performing with the Sons of the Pioneers singing group.

Another favorite character of mine on the program was a guy named Chester Goode, played by actor, Dennis Weaver. Chester worked for the sheriff, and was spotted in numerous episodes scrubbing the jail floor, this while Sheriff Matt Dillon sometimes sat with feet on his desk, or was out of town rounding up outlaws. In the corporate world, you might say Chester was on the bottom rung of the ladder. His official title was Sheriff’s Assistant.

Chester walked with a limp and it was never mentioned exactly why. In one episode, it’s hinted that he served in the American Civil War, leading some viewers to speculate he might’ve been hit in the leg by either shrapnel or a bullet.

I know after I’ve worked a spell, stooped over, while cleaning our bathroom tile, especially here lately, and after straightening up, it takes a bit to get both feet, along with a stiff back, moving in unison.

The ache can be so intense that I sometimes limp or don’t move at all. A doctor told me this is due to my sciatic nerve or lumbar acting up. It’s highly possible that Chester’s did the same.

Doc Adams on “Gunsmoke,” being a seasoned physician, should’ve noticed this, yet evidently was not familiar with sciatica or anything connected with having a weak lumbar. Doc was a pro at removing bullets and delivering babies having brought over 1000 into this world.

Chester seemed to deal with his pain at the Long Branch with a mug of beer in hand or a rare shot of whisky. Without question, this didn’t directly help the problem, yet gave him a more pronounced limp after a few hours of indulging.

I tend to believe if this show was filmed during current times, Chester Goode would be looking for relief at a Dodge City dispensary in the form of gummies or brownies.

Miss Kitty at the Long Branch would be making good use of this profitable product herself, having a banner stretched across the front of her Long Branch Saloon proclaiming: CBD OIL SOLD HERE. Of course, the infamous watering hole would now be smoke free for health reasons.

Even the show name would need to be changed to “Gun No Smoke,” because modern ammunition uses smokeless powder unlike that in the 1870s.

Just the thought of this makes me chuckle. Kitty, Festus, and Chester would be laughing as well, with Matt and Doc scratching their heads, wondering,

“What has this world come to?”

When our house was built in Arizona, I didn’t figure we’d have as much problem with weeds in our gravel yard as we did with grass in Alaska. I was wrong. Dandelions were our biggest pest in Anchorage, especially during short, rainy, summer months.

It didn’t help that one neighbor next door refused to spray nor put down weed control. Weed-N-Feed pellets took care of our dandelions but for only a short time. I’d put the herbicide down at least once a month. When this lackadaisical neighbor wasn’t home, some pellets “accidentally” strayed onto his property. Hey, there was no leash law preventing such.

One summer, I became so upset, that I took a few handfuls right before the first snow fell, and sprinkled it into a peace symbol shape. Come spring, the neighbor’s dandelions bloomed like they always did except for that one area.

A perfectly brown, dirt, peace symbol stood out amongst all the yellow and green weeds. I’d put so much Weed-N-Feed down, that my artwork hung around for several months.

Here in Lake Havasu City, a variety of weeds sprout up much different than those in Anchorage. When Scorpion weeds first appeared in our yard, my wife and I marveled at the purple flowers. After I brushed against some with bare ankles—red and oozing whelps suddenly appeared. Only then did we realize how toxic they are.

Our Arizona yard is now soaked in weed killer each spring. Whatever chemical they use does the job, because we’ve had no problems for several years now. The same routine is performed to property we own in Kingman, hopefully to keep it free of Russian thistle, or tumbleweeds, as they’re commonly called. I’m told by both herbicide companies that the chemical used is environmentally safe for pets and wildlife.

Unfortunately, our neighbor directly to the south, just like the one in Anchorage, refuses to do anything about their overgrown yard. Our line of defense or chemical wall, as I refer to it, has held firm thus far.

Colorful weeds around the house aren’t the only ones I’ve incurred. My Facebook page is saturated with weeds. That’s what I call the popups, advertisements, and commercial information that has literally taken over. I’ve tried and tried over the past two years to control such without success.

For every legitimate post from a friend, I calculate that there are at least 99 unsolicited ones if not more. No longer having the time to hoe nor wade through all of these cyber weeds, I finally decided it’s time to give up.

Just recently, I purchased a flip phone to carry with me in the desert. It wasn’t exactly my idea, as family and friend said I should have one so in the event of a medical issue. They went on to explain that police or paramedics could track me better without relying on vultures circling overhead.

I haven’t given out the number, and won’t, yet I’m already receiving weeds on this phone, in the form of text messages from politicians, telemarketers, Medicare hawks, and people I don’t even know. Weed control needs to be seriously done here, but just like that I attempted on Facebook, there’s little hope of success.

A friend said that for several bucks a month garbage or spam can be terminated on e-mail, Facebook, including landline and cellphone accounts. If I have to fork out extra dollars like I do to keep our yard free of unwanted growth, then I’ll have to go without where communication venues are concerned.

Facebook has been a great tool in reconnecting with friends and family over the past almost 20 years. I enjoy seeing pictures posted from others including updates on their lives. What I don’t care for is having thousands of products constantly tossed in my face. Cable television already does that and I’m paying for it monthly.

Life was good all that time I didn’t have social media, perhaps being the best of all where interpersonal communication is concerned. I long for those days where hand written letters and cards were the norm.

Like other good things my generation once had, supposedly in the name of progress, technology has plowed a good number into the ground. What’s left of communication now resembles an ever growing pasture of weeds.

Someone needs to sprinkle some Weed-N-Feed on things before it’s too late—perhaps it already is!

I’ve written a few stories about my metal detecting forays. Now’s the time to add to this saga with a couple more neat discoveries. First of all, in a nutshell, I’ll reiterate how this fun and exciting hobby came to be for my wife and me.

Purchasing our earliest detector, a White’s hip mount unit, in 1976, from Stewart’s Photo in Anchorage, the boxy looking machine saw limited use in Alaska. It was mainly put to work in Kansas and Arizona.

I spent far more time looking for old bottles in Alaska—with the detector seldom brought along on lengthy hiking, boating, or flying trips in the 49th state.

The first major find with it was a glass piggybank in Kansas having a rusted metal lid. That tin lid is the only reason the detector sniffed things out. The 1930s-era relic would still be buried on the Wackly farm near Chapman had it not caused our machine to loudly beep.

The old Wackly place is a deserted homestead owned by my wife’s Uncle Jay and Aunt Wava Schweitzer, with its original occupants long deceased.

Inside this piggybank, some 85 years after having been placed there, are several plastic Kansas sales tax tokens issued from 1937 to 1939. Made of thin plastic, heat somewhat warped the round coins, making them bent but still easily readable.

Since that time, the vintage detector has found numerous copper and silver coins in old school playgrounds and dirt parking lots, yet never detected anything made of gold. It’s doubtful school kids had gold coins back in the day let alone teachers and parents.

I retired the White a few years back because of its weight. Swinging that heavy coil made for tired arms after only so many hours. It now spends it’s time gracing a wall of my garage as a conversation piece. White’s metal detectors are no longer made thus it’s now a collectible on its own.

Our new Garrett detectors are much lighter and makes for more enjoyable metal detecting, especially while walking in the desert. These treasure hunting expeditions take us to Yucca and Kingman, and as far south as Parker. We’ve never been skunked on any of our searches; knock on Arizona Desert Ironwood.

With the Garrett, Joleen and I have uncovered hundreds of WWII bullets and brass casings, a pocket watch, chain necklace, Mercedes-Benz emblem, an early cell phone, Harley Davidson pendant, large machete, loose change at a couple of campsites, along with in the desert sand of an often used trail. These are just a few of the unusual recoveries.

We come across aluminum pop-tops and other such trash all the time, bringing them back with us to dispose of in our recycling bin. In a way we’re helping clean up the desert, especially by getting all of those lead bullets out of the ground.

Some things we’ve found using only our eyes are a number of golf balls with little teeth marks indented into them, including intact stuffed animals with a few ripped to shreds. Undoubtedly, the golf balls were taken from area golf courses and the stuffed toys stolen from neighborhood yards by coyotes.

Two weeks ago, a still-loaded vintage Colt revolver was discovered along with an unfired, 1943, 50 caliber bullet. These two items make up our best discoveries to date where desert searching is concerned. The area where both were found is private property with permission to be there.

Rusty and inoperable, the Colt pistol was immediately soaked in Marvel Mystery Oil to free things up. After some time and gentle persuasion, I was able to swing the cylinder out and remove six, 38 caliber shells. Thankfully, the serial number was still visible, with that sent to Colt along with several pictures for positive identification.

From what I’ve been able to discern based upon comparing it to photos of early revolvers, the artifact dates to somewhere around the early 1900s. I believe it’s a 1908 model, but won’t know for sure until Colt does their assessment. That will take at least a month according to them.

A few people have asked how the gun ended up out there. All kinds of imaginary mystique comes to mind, such as the Colt being used in a bank robbery by notorious gangster, John Dillinger. Dillinger and three of his gang were arrested in Tucson in 1934.

Hoping that the serial number points to Dillinger, or perhaps shows that it’s a former Army pistol owned by General George Patton, I logically believe the Colt is a simple case of “desert dropsies.” Some absent-minded-miner or cowboy let it fall out of their holster unnoticed.

There’s all kinds of weird stuff in the desert around Lake Havasu City, either accidentally dropped or intentionally left behind. For the most part, you have to step off the beaten trail like we do to find the good treasure. Ravines, gulley’s, and washes are our favorite places to look. Of course, that’s where the snakes like to hide on warm sunny days.

Without question, the 50 caliber bullet was dropped, yet unlike the antique Colt, this large shell came down from high in the sky. During WWII, Army Air Corps pilots practiced shooting at targets towed by other airplanes, with their bullets, cartridges, and clips falling to the ground.

This particular cartridge is damaged at the very bottom, close to the primer, which is the heaviest part. It was fortunate not to have discharged after striking extremely rocky soil. The cartridge was buried some four inches under the earth. Stamped on the bottom are numbers, 43, standing for the year, and letters, SL, designating it was made in St. Louis.

My wife and I were part of the RZR off road vehicle scene for several years, but sold our side-by-side, deciding that walking was better for our health. It also slowed us down while out in the desert, enabling old eyes to spot small things that we didn’t see while driving.

The treasures we find are not worth that much from a dollar perspective, yet time spent searching for them is priceless. With Joleen now hooked on metal detecting, it gives us something to do as a couple besides watch TV or gripe about things we have limited control over, such as increased utility bills, cable, and our president.

While hiking in the desert, we deliberately toss our complaints into the open surroundings, much like irresponsible folks do with their tires, cans, bottles, and trash.

Our verbal bellyaches and gripes eventually wind their way back home. Unfortunately—human litter doesn’t follow the same path!

I was relaxing in my Lazy Boy recliner the other evening when a thought suddenly popped into my head,

“How many people in the US are named Stuart Pitt?”

Immediately, I got up and Googled things discovering that 17 go by this name.

Some might wonder what’s so unusual here. Others caught on right away, knowing that guys named Stuart generally have the nickname, Stu. If I have to explain further, then it’s time for you to mosey on down the page.

I worked with a lady whose last name was Clock. Her parents named her Nina not because they were German—most likely due to them wanting their daughter to always be remembered. Nina Clock is a wonderful person and has an uncanny sense of humor. I’m surprised she didn’t continue the trend and name her daughter, Tina.

Deciding that this story needed a bit more of the same trivia to make it educational and informative, I performed 30 minutes worth of intense research on Google and Facebook.

There are 40 guys named John Appleseed listed in the US. I’m sure all of them have been called Johnny at one time or another in their lives. Dick Stick compiles 110 such individuals. Undoubtedly, a few unfortunate souls have earned the nickname “Dip” from family and friends.

Benjamin Dover is very popular with other 1000 listings. Perhaps the most famous of all Ben Dover’s, was a Texas financial expert and radio talk show host who wrote several books regarding debt and liability.

An often-used and ironic saying of the man is: “It’s okay to look back at the past. Just don’t stare.” Sadly, Ben Dover died in 2016 at the age of 59 from pneumonia.

Iona Ford is real as was Iona Dodge. Mrs. Dodge passed away in 1999. I couldn’t find an Iona Chevrolet.

There are hundreds possessing the name, Justin Case, including one of my Facebook friends. Justin’s a car freak like me. I mention that just in case he reads this.

There are 176 people having the name Paige Turner listed in the US alone. It’s safe to assume a good majority of them are avid readers.

Jay Walker is a popular name with 376 total such Americans. Undoubtedly, they were razzed a lot in school. I came across 846 folks named Jay Hawk—a good many living in Kansas.

Jayhawk is the University of Kansas mascot. My wife was born in Kansas yet has never seen one of these birds. She’s evidently not aware that it’s a mythical creature and doesn’t exist. I didn’t either until looking things up.

Here in Lake Havasu City, one of my favorite places to eat is Del Taco. I love their strawberry lemonade, purchasing a macho size each time there. Did you know there’s one guy on Facebook named Dale Taco? Perhaps I should send him a friend request because it appears Mr. Taco has few.

Where the last name Macho is concerned there were none, yet MacHo is another story. Tons of them. By adding a capitol H it makes for a totally different pronunciation. Ironically, Macho MacHo lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

I didn’t find anyone named Lemon Ade but did come across Leman Aydin living in Istanbul, Turkey. Close enough. There was no one named Bean Burrito either, yet researching Dean Bureo, revealed 50 such people during a White page search.

When I first signed up for Facebook I received a friend request from another Michael Hankins. He was on a mission to get as many e-pals with the same name as possible. It was a name game on his part.

Because of this, I eventually ended up with seven friends of my own named Michael Hankins, one being a doctor and another a young college student.

For the most part they were all pretty cool guys, except for a fellow that I quickly defriended. Turns out he was an inmate although that’s not why we parted company. I hold nothing against most inmates in the same respect as I do politicians.

This person posted some really bizarre and scary stuff. Strangely enough, at that time, the man looked like me in the face. Even my wife agreed.

There are 350 guys listed as being Michael Hankins. Early on in my life, before the personal computer came along, I thought I was the only one.

Approximately 15 years ago, my Facebook account was hijacked and I was unable to open it. You might say the hijacker took all 8 of us Michael Hankins hostage along with other friends. To this day the account’s still out there, yet I wasn’t allowed to have it back. Starting a new one, a decision was made to never play that particular name game again.

Before closing, I couldn’t find anyone owning up to the name Hi Jacker, but did find a Jack Yacker living in New Jersey. I’m sure Jack’s a chatty kind of guy.

I could go on and on here, but any story has its limits before growing old, with this one mighty close to that point. I’ll wrap things up with two highly unusual names: Hank Goodness and Theo Eind. There are 5 people listed as Theo Eind while Hank Goodness showed 487.

If I was to personally introduce Hank to Theo in a lame sounding German accent, it’d go something like this,

“Hank Goodness dis is Theo Eind!”

The other day on Facebook I was reading a group of comments regarding a famous musician who recently died. For the most part, their response was the universal, RIP, along with sending prayers to the family. There were some folks saying that they were thinking of family and friends during this time. All three are very appropriate.

I came to one reply that I’ve seen people leave from time to time, “I’m sending positive vibes.”

Not having a clue where this phrase came from, I looked it up. There are several different interpretations depending on where you search. The following explanation on Google somewhat struck home because I grew up during that era:

“The phrase is believed to have emerged in the 1960s and 1970s, during the hippie counterculture movement.”

That means it’s in that same group of words as: groovy, hip, far out, bummer, dig it, bogart, and flower power.

The Beach Boys had a hit tune titled, “Good Vibrations” around this timeline. I thought maybe the lyrics to that song would open my eyes a bit, but after reading them, the words evidently refer to a different kind of vibe than those needed to support people during medical issues or grief.

“I’m picking up good vibrations, she’s giving me excitations!” doesn’t seem like vibes I’d be sending Aunt Myrtle after Uncle Floyd died.

Several years ago, I had a heart episode that put me in the hospital. My heart was racing like crazy and the doctors couldn’t slow it down. Atrial fibrillation is the medical term. I was to undergo a shock treatment the following morning which meant stopping my heart and restarting it. Asking my wife to immediately go onto my Facebook site, and ask anyone that was online that evening to pray for me, she did just that.

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning I woke up with nurses and doctors standing around my bed. Miraculously, my heart had went back into normal rhythm on its own. I saw it as prayers being answered.

Looking back over the comments several days later, I noticed many had prayed, along with some saying that they were thinking of me. I felt blessed and most appreciative of each and everyone.

Had there been a few good vibes sent my way I wouldn’t have been upset, yet on the other hand, had they all been good vibes, I wonder if I’d still be here. You see, I believe that my heart was healed by the power of God and nothing less. Prayer, being much more powerful than any other, helped immensely.

If I was to compare sending good vibes to any significant life event as an example it’d be like this. Suppose you were in financial dire and needed some urgent money like right now. Word was put out by family and friends, and checks started rolling in the next day. Unfortunately, there was no funds in the people’s checking accounts having sent them.

Good vibes are basically bad checks. The thought behind sending them is thoughtful, yet they lack any power to truly help people during needy times.

Should I ever have another medical emergency, I’ll take all the prayers that I can get. Good thoughts will be welcome as well. Good vibes will be accepted so as not to offend anyone; all three in that order.

Please don’t send me any Beach Boy good vibrations. The last thing a heart patient needs are excitations!

I’ve always enjoyed my visits to Cracker Barrel. For several years, my wife and I would meet up with friends, Mike Jones and Ron Claspill, at a restaurant in Kingman, Arizona.

Mike and Ron were also from Lake Havasu City, although Ron eventually relocated to Las Vegas. He’d still make the 100-mile round trip after moving to reconnect with us Havasuians.

We’d talk about nothing in particular, generally laughing about things that only we would find funny. Each of us had our own specific item of choice from the vast menu.

Mike loved his blueberry pancakes. Ron would generally get the Old Timers Breakfast. Joleen opted for French toast and eggs each trip, while I always had Uncle Herschel’s Favorite.

Uncle Herschel’s Favorite came with a variety of choices. I chose scrambled eggs, grits, sugar-cured ham, hashbrown casserole, and biscuits with gravy. They often brought me more biscuits, which I tossed into my take-home box before leaving.

It didn’t matter if we were there for breakfast, lunch, or dinner; I had to have the same fare, never finding it to my dislike.

On almost every trip made, our server would be candidly reminded by Ron that I was related to Uncle Herschel. Uncle Herschel on the menu was actually a real uncle to Cracker Barrel founder, Dan Evins.

My Uncle Herschel, on the other hand, was one of Mom’s sister’s husbands. Of course, Ron would never tell our server the full story. Some newbie employees took things hook, line, and sinker, while veteran workers chuckled, knowing that my friend was pulling their leg.

Uncle Herschel and Aunt Katrulia lived in Mobile, Alabama, and as a kid, I loved visiting them.  Unlike the restaurant Uncle Herschel, my Uncle Herschel Benton Wheeler traveled all across the US driving a tractor-trailer rig.

Whenever we visited, he’d sometimes take me for a short ride. After the short excursion ended, Uncle Herschel allowed my left arm to reach up and pull the air horn rope. I still remember this like it was yesterday.

Uncle Herschel’s job with Cracker Barrel was much different than my uncle’s, although similar in one respect where driving is concerned.

Each man traveled great distances. Uncle Herschel, of Cracker Barrel fame, journeyed to various towns where Cracker Barrel restaurants were located and invited people living there to dine at these establishments. The man was an ambassador of goodwill for the restaurant chain.

Both Uncle Herschel’s are alike for one important reason. They lived by the golden rule, “Treat everybody as you’d like to be treated yourself.”

Sadly, Mike Jones passed away—and then Covid reared its ugly head. Ron, Joleen, and I always talked about meeting up someday after things returned to normal, but that’s never happened. At least it hasn’t yet.

If and when we do, things have changed significantly on that Cracker Barrel menu, at least for me, it has. Uncle Herschel’s Favorite breakfast is no longer offered.

Joleen and I were in the Kingman restaurant for the first time in five years yesterday, and the young server we had, Devon, had never heard of it, nor even knew who Uncle Herschel was. Ron’s joke would’ve flown directly over his head.

It seems downright sacrilegious to me that the chain no longer mentions Uncle Herschel with any one food item. I’m sure the man loved other things besides breakfast. On the other hand—breakfast is what he’s best known for.

Something tells me that both Uncle Herschel’s along with Mike Jones have now met. I’m sure they’ve shared some good stories over coffee and breakfast.

Cracker Barrels down here may not offer Uncle Herschel’s Favorite breakfast, but without doubt, regardless of corporate decision, the restaurant in Heaven never took it off their menu!

My favorite dried fruit is dates. I especially love them in cake, cookies, or oatmeal. Arizona dates are best, yet they’re also the hardest to come by and expensive as well. Sweet dates grown in California come in a close second.

Dates take a lot of water to bring to maturity, and with California and Arizona experiencing a shortage of the precious commodity, dates grown in those two states are bound to get more costly.

Edible dates aren’t the only ones I’m fond of. For whatever reason, numerical dates bordering along historical events, birthdays, anniversaries, deaths, have significant meaning to me as well. Early on, I needed to know what was the most important thing that happened on my birthday, April 9.

On April 9, 1865, General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate Army surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia. Finding this out set me on a journey to learn as much about the American Civil War as possible. I would’ve been around nine years old at the time this mission started.

I haven’t stopped since. I’ve researched my grandparents, parents, brother, Joleen’s family, including friends. It might seem odd to some, but this quirkiness has allowed me to learn more about history and trivia than I would’ve known by merely reading books. My old brain should be full of data by now.

On January 4, Russia was the first country to put a satellite into space. Grandpa Hankins was born on that month and day. Vincent van Gogh, famous artist, died on July 29, this being the birthdate of Grandma Hankins.

My wife, Joleen, was born on March 27. The most significant event on that day was the Alaska Earthquake. Both our families moved there soon after. Go figure.

On March 11, almost one year ago, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake and tsunami struck Japan killing 20,000 people. Jim, my brother, was born on that month and day.

Mom came into this world on September 11. Of course, the World Trade Center terrorist attack happened on 9/11. Ironically, days are the same as her two sons were born.

Proverbs 9:11 was one of mom’s favorite verses. If you take the amount of letters in Proverbs (8), add 9, add 1, and then another 1, the total comes to 19, the same day as Joleen and my wedding anniversary.

On Dad’s birthday, September 23, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring that all slaves in Confederate territory be set free. On April 24, 1898, Spain declared war on the United States. My youngest granddaughter, Mykah Mae, shares the same day and month.

Tua Tagovailoa, former Alabama Crimson Tide football player, and now Miami Dolphins quarterback, was born on March 2, same as my son.

My best friend and daughter were hatched on July 22, the identical day and month that the world’s first horseless carriage race took place in Paris, France. So fitting, because they’ve each earned a traffic ticket or two.

In my fiction writing, I’ve tried to incorporate important dates of family and friends in various chapters. I also use other tidbits of information involving things they’ve done, but would never openly claim what those items are. I keep a list of dates and jotted down notes at hand to choose from, yet mostly rely on memory.

Some family and friends reading my material might relate to something in print, but I’ll never confess to it being them. I believe intrigue to readers in believing such make the books that more special.

My grandchildren’s birth dates have now been incorporated into things published and yet to be published, while some day when they read these manuscripts, they’ll hopefully realize that grandpa was thinking of them at the time ink was put to paper.

I could go on and on here yet it’s time to stop. Filling my tummy with chewy dates satisfies hunger, while filling my brain with numerical dates with historical fact and trivial information attached helps keep the gears turning upstairs.

Obsessed as it might seem—there’s reason to persevere. It beats putting puzzles together, in these here golden years!

I often think back to a radio show listened to while I lived in Alaska. Tom Bodette hosted a show in Homer in the late 1980s called, The End Of The Road. Tom’s best known for his catchy Motel 6 phrase, “I’ll leave a light on for ya!”

On this radio program, he talked in a deep folksy drawl about simple things observed—mostly from life in The Last Frontier. He had a unique way of telling stories that kept me tuned in.

During one particular show, he chatted about a woman he’d observed in Homer sitting at a stop sign in her car. The woman was shedding tears and he made note, going on to tell listeners the incomplete story.

This visual observation on Tom’s part struck a chord with me as it did thousands of others throughout the country. People wanted to know why she was crying, and to this day, I don’t know if Bodette found the answer.

I kept track of Tom Bodette over the years, until he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Just recently, I discovered that Bodette is living in rural Brattleboro, Vermont, where he’s a woodworker and woodworking instructor.

An interview of the man by CBS correspondent Faith Salie in 2023 on YouTube was most enlightening. Tom Bodette seems to have found peace of mind in this new endeavor.

Last year, I wrote a piece about an older gentleman, his wife, and dog, that I often saw at Rotary Park here in Lake Havasu City. They owned a dark blue Ford pickup. This truck was unique in that it had a country mural painted on the back tailgate.

They were a common sight for perhaps a couple of years, with the pug always hanging its head out an open driver side window.

At first it was all three, then the old man and dog, and finally, just him. On that last observation, a few months ago, the fellow had a forlorn look on his face, possibly with tears, telling me that visiting Rotary Park without his companions wasn’t the same. I haven’t seen him since, wondering what happened.

Just like Tom Bodette did with that mysterious woman crying at a stop sign in Homer, Alaska, some 35 years ago, I can only speculate as to where they vanished to.

Always trying to maintain a positive outlook on things, something tells me deep down inside that I’ll see them again. Hopefully, I’m right!