I like to write junk…

The year was 1970, and I was sixteen years old. When school let out, I worked parttime each evening at a Texaco gas station in Anchorage, Alaska, for my father and his business partner, Isaiah Lewis. You’d also find me there on Saturday’s pumping gas and repairing tires, plus “all assigned duties” as Dad liked to say.

Having a driver’s license, one of my jobs was to take a vintage 1950s Willys Jeep truck and daily fill the bed with garbage from numerous trashcans in the garage, then drive it to the city dump once the enclosure was full. This dumping chore was usually performed early on Saturday mornings, at least once a month.

The bed on this four-wheel-drive Jeep had raised sides enabling it to carry a substantial amount of garbage. On one particular trip, I stacked rubbish to the brim, deciding to forego climbing up on top and fastening a tarp down. It was winter, with snow coming down quite heavy most of Friday night plus Saturday morning, making things slippery up there. That was my excuse back then, although now I believe it was most likely due to pure laziness.

Wanting to back out of the parking spot before brushing any snow off, I hopped in and fired the engine up. Placing the manual gearshift lever in reverse, the old Jeep rolled a few feet before its engine died. Thinking that tires were perhaps spinning on ice and then grabbing solid ground, I revved the engine up and let out the clutch. It moved several more feet before once again coming to a halt.

I kept this up for at least six times before glancing out the passenger side window, which was the only one void of snow including both side mirrors. Spotting Isaiah Lewis, hands on hips, glaring at me, I stepped out of the cab, quickly noticing that I’d skidded his beautiful 1968 Buick Riviera a good twenty feet, sideways. Telling him that I was sorry, Mr. Lewis, with a cool and calm voice responded,

“It’s time for damage control!”

That’s the first time I remember him using that term, although Captain Kirk and Scotty on Star Trek said it all the time. I’m sure their meaning was much different than my boss’s, especially where the Starship Enterprise was concerned.

Back then, after doing stupid things, which still happens to this day, I let it be known to myself and others by moaning, sighing, or sometimes even crying, that I was upset with my actions. I’ve moved on, thanks to Mr. Lewis’s way of looking at screwups, never forgetting that incident and the lesson he taught me. My boss’s plan for damage control at that point was take his Buick to a body shop and simply have it repaired. He saw it as no reason to cry over spilt milk because the damage had been done.

Figuring it best to finish my job before maybe he did explode from pent up anger, I quickly took off for the city dump feeling bad about what happened. On my way back to the filling station, garbage was strewn along the only highway in and out of Anchorage similar to that trash I’d just offloaded, mainly, empty Texaco oil cans.

Because the road was icy, it was extremely hazardous to stop and try picking this stuff up, so I kept on trucking. My trail of debris went a considerable distance along the Glenn Highway ending at the starting point, Wonderpark Texaco. Now feeling as bad about this incident as the first, I tried using my boss’s reasoning to ease a troubled mind,

“Time for damage control!”

Unfortunately, damage control would have to wait until spring, with groups of volunteers walking along the highway picking up what I and others had littered over winter. They bagged tons of roadside garbage each year, and I’m sure in 1970, those folks picked up a slew of oil-soaked paper towels and empty oil cans.

In Lake Havasu City, just the other morning, driving to Lowe’s for some needed items, I ended up behind a commercial pickup truck pulling a trailer loaded to the gills with landscape debris and stuffed garbage bags. Large palm leaves were blowing out of it like crazy while I did my best to keep from hitting them. A flashback to 1970 instantly came to mind, except this time around I wasn’t the one doing the littering.

Hoping to pull alongside this truck and yell out that perhaps the driver should look in his rearview mirror and see what he left behind, wisely I didn’t. Two beefy looking guys sat inside and neither looked extremely happy. Without doubt, they wouldn’t have been receptive to any uncalled-for advice.

Damage control was practiced in this case by merely keeping my mouth shut. Using control before damage is always the best route to follow!

I recently came across an interesting article on the city of Scottsdale, Arizona. It seems they’re looking for enthusiastic citizens in that community to become volunteer town ambassadors. The job’s top priority is promoting the area to newcomers thinking about living there, as well as welcoming tourists. There’s nothing like receiving a “big welcome” when you first visit a strange place.

Bishop Auckland, a town in northern England, has a similar program and I’d bet that Scottsdale’s is modeled somewhat after theirs. I believe at one time Lake Havasu City had an unofficial town ambassador. The gentleman’s name is no longer remembered by me but I do recall reading about him. Appropriately dressed in royal attire, he voluntarily spent countless hours under the London Bridge greeting people. My family came across this man several years ago in the English Village area, but unfortunately didn’t get to chat. He already had a small crowd gathered around.

Lake Havasu City is also actively seeking tourism ambassadors and they’re expected to do pretty much the same as town ambassadors do. This new program is simply named: Lake Havasu Tourism Ambassador Program. Information about this program is available on their golakehavasu.com website.

My family came across three LHC town ambassadors early on, and they probably don’t even know they held the title. First coming here to visit in 1978, we didn’t know a soul. My brother, Jim, living in Blythe, California, drove us over one Saturday and we fell in love with the place; Lake Havasu City that is, not Blythe. After spending a day taking in the sights, we left, only for Joleen and me to drive back a few days later wanting to purchase a residential lot, mainly as an investment.

Walking into the Century 21 office, we met the nicest person, Diane Carlson. Diane could see the enthusiasm on our faces and drove us around town pointing out several parcels within our price range. During that time, she gave us an upbeat history of the city even cruising by a home owned by Pearl Bailey. Diane was excited for us, and when I asked if she liked it here, her reply was, “My husband and I absolutely love it!” That positive statement on her part meant a great deal to us.

We’d recently been in Abilene, Kansas looking to purchase a lot or small home there. The realtor, a longtime resident, asked why we’d ever want to live in this place. He went on a horrific spiel detailing how he wished he’d stayed elsewhere but was now locked in. Needless to say, we left his office with a sour feeling and no longer had an interest in pursuing things further.

After Diane Carlson showed us around that day, we told her that one particular lot on Injo Drive especially held our interest. With Jo being my wife’s nickname, Injo seemed like an omen of sorts. I can’t remember all of the particulars, but believe for eighteen-thousand, twenty-five hundred down, and the sellers carrying a note for the balance amortized over fifteen years at eight percent interest, we became proud Havasu land barons. The following year Diane sold us the adjoining piece of Injo property for nearly the same sweet deal. If she’d been like that gloomy realtor in Abilene, I tend to think we would’ve left town after our first visit and never returned.

The second town ambassador we encountered was a fellow named Dennis Smith. I may have some of the facts rearranged here, after all it’s only been some forty years, but believe it was at a Long John Silver’s restaurant where we first met him. I do recall it being a franchise seafood place.

It was late one evening and the restaurant was winding down. A man walked over and introduced himself as the business owner, with me asking him to join us at our table. Dennis talked about owning several restaurants in California and having just sold them. Retiring in Lake Havasu City, he opened this new one against his wife’s wishes. When I asked the friendly gentleman if they liked it here, his reply was the same as Diane Carlson’s, “We love it!” Over the next several years we’d stop by and talk to him, the last time in a KFC restaurant he’d just started. Dennis Smith always told us that we shouldn’t wait as long as him in moving.

Randy Randall is the last town ambassador on my list. Randy worked for Harold Johnson Realty and that’s how we became acquainted. We made property transactions with Randy just like Diane, yet for the most part, talked more about other things, such as him asking what it was like living in Alaska during winter, with Joleen and me questioning him about the scorching summers in Lake Havasu City. He never had a bad thing to say other than check your shoes for scorpions before slipping feet inside, and watch where you stick your fingers. Randy and his wife Sharon, who worked with him in real estate, were always positive about the town just like Diane and Dennis had been.

There’ve been other unofficial town ambassadors we’ve met since these folks, with John and Suzannah Ballard, Richard and Beth Pagliero, and Ron and Terri Claspill being other such recipients.

I’ll add Joleen and my name to that ambassador list as well, with us now having told many people over the years about the qualities of Lake Havasu City. It’s not hard being an ambassador at all. All one has to do is smile and have a positive attitude about the place they live!

I’ve always tried to be a good neighbor. My wife and I are not ones to have noisy parties, junk up our front or backyard, nor have we become a public nuisance by flying up and down the street in our vehicles. I can’t say the same about some folks living around us.

The neighbor to the north of us had been a pain in the neck going way back. Frank was hooked on opioids, and it showed. At times, he was menacing and threatening, one time telling my wife that he’d shoot our dog claiming it was defecating in his yard. Joleen always had Simon on a leash so that was impossible. I took Frank aside one day and had a talk with him. I won’t mention exactly what was said, but from that point on the man never bothered us, in fact, he was most cordial.

Frank told me that he was injured years ago while working at a prison facility. The damage to his spine was so bad that he relied upon drugs to ease the constant pain. I listened, telling him before leaving that I’d pray for him.

Approximately one month ago, Frank snapped, intentionally setting his home on fire. The fire trucks arrived within minutes, but before the blaze was totally extinguished his place was destroyed. Police were then called in, and they arrested the man for arson in an occupied dwelling, a felony. He’ll most likely never leave prison after this, yet having three square meals a day, great medical care, and top-notch entertainment, in Frank’s confused state of mind is undoubtedly the best place for him.

Our neighbor to the south is a different story. A nice woman purchased the house with us believing that she’d live there, but she rented the place out once everything closed which is fine. A couple quickly moved in bringing their commercial business with them. Heavy trucks with backup alarms came and went during all hours of the day and night. I didn’t say anything out of trying to be a good neighbor. One morning, I fired my old hot rod up to drive it to a car show and that evidently upset them. I apologized, saying that there were only two shows a year where I did such.

The renter has let this place go, with weeds flowering up all around like it’s a desert garden. Some of them are scorpion weed which spreads like wildfire. So far, our weed control agent has kept from them encroaching on our property, but the days are numbered. Being a very patient person, I elected to bite my lip on saying anything.

This morning I heard a loud commotion, with me hurrying out the door to see what was up. A moving truck was at this place along with a contingent of other vehicles. Miracles do happen, because these folks are relocating to the Phoenix area. Who’ll take their place and what kind of people they’ll be at this time is unknown, as you just never know. The new renters could turn out to be good neighbors, or neighbors from, well, you know the other word!

I’ll mosey over there soon after writing this piece and bid them farewell. Afterall, that’s what good neighbors are supposed to do!

The late cult leader, Reverend Jim Jones, can be partially blamed for all of the bad publicity regarding Kool-Aid. Head of his own created church, Peoples Temple, the egotistical, charismatic maniac, convinced a good number of followers on November 18, 1978, to drink cyanide laced grape beverage as an accelerated means to get to Heaven.

In Jonestown, Guyana, where he had established a huge cult compound, over 900 of his congregation committed suicide that muggy day by consuming several gallons from a huge vat, with 304 of them being children. I remember things well, because it was front and center in newspapers and on television for what seemed like months. Photos showed bodies lying on the ground unlike anything I’d ever seen.

A misnomer was created by the press during these reports, because it wasn’t Kool-Aid that these folks drank, but something called Flavor Aid instead. The damage was significant to Kraft Foods, owner of Kool-Aid, because they lost a tremendous amount of business from bumbling of the facts. There was little effort to correct things, and to this day “drinking the Kool-Aid” refers to unwisely following a person or belief, metaphorically speaking, over a cliff.

My brother, Jim, and I grew up drinking Kool-Aid, with mom finding it an inexpensive beverage for us to consume. She even froze the stuff in special plastic popsicle molds, and on scorching days either in Alabama or Texas, the frozen treats were a Godsend.

For over sixty years now, I still enjoy a cold glass of this beverage at lunch or dinner, especially cherry flavor. Why don’t restaurants serve it is beyond me? I’m tired of the same old selection of drinks that most of them offer. The profit for a glass of Kool-Aid over that of all the others would make it a sensible thing to do. Flavors could be changed on a daily basis unlike carbonated beverages.

The next time someone sarcastically says to me, “You must be drinking the Kool-Aid!,” with this generally happening during an argument over presidential candidates, I’ll know immediately they’re not up to speed where facts are concerned.

If I’m feeling my Wheaties, I’ll bluntly reply back knowing this person won’t have a clue. “Yes, I am, but at least I’m not drinking the Flavor Aid like you!”

Two years ago, my wife and I started looking for a new vehicle. Our little Chevrolet HHR SS panel had over one hundred thousand miles on the odometer, and it was time to give the thing some slack where every day driving is concerned.

Joleen wanted a Jeep, so off to Anderson Chrysler Dodge Jeep Ram we went. Instead of buying a Jeep Wrangler as intended, we opted for a Grand Cherokee. I especially liked this rig because of it being an “Oscar Mike” special. Knowing what Oscar Meyer represented, I wasn’t exactly sure what Oscar Mike stood for but it sounded cool. Turns out this is military lingo for: On The Move. That fit just perfectly with me, because I can never stay home for very long.

The Gray Jeep came with a huge star on the hood and small American flags on the bottom of each door. I was okay with that as well and so was Joleen, with both of us quite patriotic. This Grand Cherokee to some folks evidently resembles a police vehicle, because people start to whiz by and after seeing that star, quickly hit their brakes. The other day this happened, and after the woman driving a BMW noticed me behind the wheel, she put pedal to the metal and quickly disappeared.

At a gas station near our house, almost every Saturday or Sunday morning, a contingent of motorcyclists assemble for a “run.” I suppose they’re either heading to Parker or perhaps Oatman, with both being popular biking destinations. I’ve been wanting to do something for some time now regarding motorcyclists, yet never found the courage. Last week that all changed while in this Jeep.

Slowly driving by and seeing at least twenty cycles off to the side of this station, with their riders comfortably talking and drinking coffee, I rolled up beside them with my window down. Motioning to one fellow wearing a leather jacket that I had something to say, he walked over, and in a loud enough voice for most everyone to hear, I said,

“Flo wanted me to let you know that she’ll be a few minutes late!”

The muscular looking fellow gave me a most puzzled look before replying back,

“Flo?”

I repeated what I originally told him, then gave the guy a thumbs up. He acknowledged me, evidently believing that I was sincere. Keeping a straight face helped in that department and being on the move got me out of harm’s way. I’m sure seconds after I left, a light bulb suddenly came on, because others standing behind him had already caught the humor.

Had I not been a senior citizen I wouldn’t have tried such. Smart alecks pulling jokes on perfect strangers sometimes aren’t looked at as being funny. In this case, it seemed like the right place and perfect opportunity to pull things off. I’m sure Flo thought it was hilarious, that is after she finally got there.

Several years ago, my wife and I were heading out of town and came upon a young fellow hitchhiking with his dog just past the Lake Havasu City Airport on Hwy 95. It was June and close to one-hundred degrees, with the guy saying that he needed a ride to I-40. Normally, I don’t pick people up like that but in this case, something told me to.

We were driving a Chevrolet HHR panel having only two seats, with our nameless passengers climbing in back and laying down in the cargo area. During the ten-minute trip we talked mostly about his dog and where they were headed. I made sure not to pry into anything too personal, although in the back of my mind I thought it most unusual for anyone to be hitchhiking that time of year, especially in Arizona. One thing I did ask was whether or not he carried a cellphone. His reply was blunt yet most enlightening,

You mean am I on a leash? The answer is no.

Dropping both travelers off at the Pilot gas station, I gave the two-legged passenger my last twenty bucks, including a gallon of water always carried in our vehicle for emergencies. He thanked us, and the last I saw of that fellow was in my rearview mirror. Hopefully, this adventurer, or man on the run, found what he was looking for in “The Golden State.”

My wife felt sorry for this young person, especially so for his dog, wondering for quite some time how both fared on the rest of their journey. The canine’s tongue was hanging out when we first picked them up, but the coolness of the vehicle AC gave him some temporary relief.

Quite often, I see people hitchhiking on that same stretch of road either coming into town or going out.  All of them thus far have been younger men for whatever reason. There’ve been times I felt envy, knowing for the most part these folks don’t worry about making doctor’s appointments, fret over having their taxes prepared, get the chills paying monthly bills, or lose their cool maintaining a swimming pool. The list goes on and on.

Most, if not all have their total life possessions crammed inside large backpacks, with a sleeping bag and jacket strapped to the outside. One thing I’d bet these free spirits don’t carry is an appointment calendar and that’s something to commend them for. I view scheduling calendars, either electronic or paper, as too controlling where a person’s life is concerned.

Most of my friends, if not all, keep their appointments in iPhones or other such devices. I don’t own a smartphone and never will. When I tell people this they often reply back,

I need one for my job!

Wanting to say in return, I’m sorry, thus far I’ve refrained from being that condescending or rude.

For many years, folks got along just fine without them, but things changed, and to be honest, I don’t know why. A regular house phone and e-mail still works great for me, along with casually talking with people, preferably at a quiet restaurant.

It’s even gotten to the point where I find myself using social media on our home computer less and less, believing it was intriguing at the start, yet like that popular song by the late and great blues singer, B.B. King, “The Thrill is Gone.”

Friends have said for years that I should always carry a cellphone for emergencies, most importantly, so they can get hold of me much quicker. They generally don’t go anywhere without one of these nuisances tagging along at their side.

My way of thinking is exactly the same as that hitchhiker,

I came into this world unleashed, expecting to go out the same way!

There was a time when I thought I’d like to be a reporter for a major newspaper. I suppose part of it had to do with the amount of adventure associated with the job, my observing this after reading Superman comic books plus watching Superman cartoons, including the 1950’s television series by the same name starring, George Reeves and Darleen Neill.

Daily Planet investigative reporters, Clark Kent and Lois Lane, had their own expense accounts with free transportation provided by the paper. Best of all, they seemed to spend little time in the office, always being on the go in the crime ravaged city of “Metropolis” searching for a scoop. That unusual word in newspaper lingo means breaking news where a story is concerned.

In the late 1970s, I decided to do a little investigative work of my own, freelance style, wanting to uncover how hippies in Homer, Alaska, could indefinitely survive on unemployment, welfare, and food stamps. In Anchorage and Fairbanks, those social benefits were only good if recipients actively sought work. A person receiving assistance was expected to report back to the Department of Labor – Unemployment Benefits office, weekly, on the places visited, along with bringing in a form with signatures of those employers they talked to.

There were very few jobs in Homer and other small tourist towns during that time, especially come winter. Through a loophole in the rules, welfare recipients could sit on their derrieres all year long, doing as they pleased to their heart’s content while taxpayers paid for these lengthy vacations. Where seeking employment was concerned, all they were required to write down was: No jobs available. I found this out through a welfare fraud investigator in Anchorage that traveled to Homer quite frequently.

My short investigative spiel hit the editorial page in both Anchorage newspapers, with word quickly spreading to Homer, that Michael Hankins had a bone to pick with all of the unemployed people living in town, which wasn’t true. I had singled out hippies in my article, yet for whatever reason a can of worms was opened.

Folks came out of the woodwork incensed that I had the audacity to even question their use of public assistance. I suppose some preachers would equate such hostility as being under conviction. Complete strangers called our house insisting that my wife let them talk to me, including the Homer newspaper and radio station wanting interviews.

After getting a thinly veiled threat from a person saying that he wanted to take me fishing, my tenure as an investigative reporter ended. Worried about retaliation, Joleen asked me to write about less controversial things. I wasn’t so concerned about anything happening to me as I was her and the kids.

This was around the same time The Arizona Republic reporter, Don Bolles, was tragically murdered when his car exploded from a bomb placed underneath it. Bolles was assumed to be hot on the trail of corruption, with a few angry folks not wanting him to print the findings.

Through that one incident alone, it occurred to me that reporting on criminal activities might not be as glamorous as I once thought, and in fact, was perhaps more dangerous than working as a deep-sea diver, with less pay. It was quickly decided that turning wrenches in an automotive repair shop was far safer.

If I had chosen newspaper reporter as my career field, no way would I ever be on the same level as Lois Lane. She did a brilliant job in seeking out front page stories for the Daily Planet and received much praise from her boss, Perry White. It’s easy for me to assume that Mr. Kent took some credit for her success, while at the same time depositing a larger paycheck. Sound familiar?

Without doubt, Clark Kent would be the reporter I best personify. Clark had a unique way of never finishing assignments on time and that’s me going way back. The guy was an expert at using excuses to weasel his way out of work, always claiming he had to take calls from nearby phone booths, leaving poor Lois with the chore of wrapping things up.

Up and coming Daily Planet reporter, Jimmy Olsen, most likely emulated some of Clark’s bad work habits later on in his career, by spending countless hours on a cell phone talking with friends and surfing the web during work hours.

Why the newspaper kept Kent on their payroll in spite of his unsatisfactory job performance is perhaps one of life’s biggest mysteries. Yes, without question, Clark Kent had things figured out to a capital T where shucking responsibility was concerned, much like those Homer hippies did back in the 70s!

I first started writing The Last Christmas Card in the winter of 2009 – just now wrapping things up where publishing is concerned. Fourteen years passed with the manuscript securely digitized on an antique floppy disc, including being stored upstairs in my noggin during that time. Not sure if I wanted to complete the tale, my wife persuaded me to do so one year ago after she read several of the book’s beginning chapters.

Always knowing where I wanted to start and end this tale, yet not having a specific town where things were supposed to take place was a major problem. Visiting Council Grove, Kansas, in 2015, I found that location to be picture perfect.

For those having never been there, Council Grove is akin to an oasis in the prairie, first discovered by American Indians going far back in America’s history. An abundance of water was a magnet to wildlife of all type, with the indigenous natives following them. Starting in the mid 1800s, Council Grove became a major stopping point on the Santa Fe Trail. Now a major tourist attraction, “Hay’s Last Stop Store” built in 1850 still stands.

Many of the events in my book are ones that I played a role in, with other family members and friends doing the same. The Atlas missile silo mentioned is approximately one mile from my wife’s Uncle Lee and Aunt Joan Mills’ farm. Joleen’s cousins, Randy and Larry Mills, took me there in 1975.

A humorous horseback ride talked about in the story chronicles one that my family, including Uncle Noel and Aunt Gay, with cousins, Randall and Cheryl McDaniel, went on in 1964, at Buffalo Lake in Lubbock, Texas.

The 1860s limestone house is exactly like one in Manhattan, Kansas, that my wife and I were prepared to purchase, at least I was, but didn’t for unusual reasons, one of them being the home sat on County Road 911. A 1941 Willys pickup truck which is a key part of the story is a takeoff from a 1938 Willys that Joleen’s brother, Calvin, owns.

The “Freedmen” Cemetery is in the same town, Dunlap, Kansas, where my wife’s late father, Herman Freeman, was an elementary school principal for several years.

I could go on and on but won’t. Palmetto Publishing is wrapping things up, with the anticipated release date – May 23, 2023.

Last Saturday, I attended the 15th annual Calvary Church sponsored, Crossroads Car & Bike Show. Normally, I go to look at the vast array of cool vehicles, plus score a new T-shirt and free hotdog. This time I elected to drag my old Chevy truck out of retirement and see if it’d make the ten-mile round trip to Havasu 95 Speedway at SARA Park without incurring a wrecker bill. Washing and waxing it beforehand was not part of my agenda, knowing that the drive alone would blow off any dust.

Not sure on how it’d fare via one-year-old “skunk gas” I left my house long before the rooster crowed, being one of the first entrants there. For anyone having smelled old fuel they’ll know what I mean by skunk gas. The aroma is similar to a recent roadkill.

Plenty of workers had already settled into their routine by that point, including those priming themselves with hot coffee, all quite eager to help participants park their rides, much aware that some drivers are no longer pros at backing up. It’s oftentimes entertaining to watch a few older folks each year continually drift to the left or right instead of straight back.

Used parts sellers were scurrying about placing their boxes of wares on tables, while others brought in trailer loads to peddle or trade. Car show organizer, Dick Stiller, had already logged a couple of miles on foot overseeing his volunteer crew, while Havasu 95 Speedway owner, Bill Rozhon, did the same on a golf cart.

I was situated in the middle of some extremely nice folks on each side of my vehicle. The couple on my left were from Colorado, having a home in Havasu as well. They drove a pristine gold, 1965 Ford Mustang, basically all stock. The gentleman said that he’d only added a four-barrel manifold and carburetor.

The fellow on my right had a gloss black ’33 Ford coupe with a huge Chrysler Hemi engine stuffed between the frame rails. His license plate showed “The Dairy State,” Wisconsin.

Normally, I quietly walk around ogling vehicles, but this time elected to stop and talk with car owners as well. It’s interesting to me in seeing if a vehicle matches up with its driver. I suppose in police terms it’d be akin to “vehicle profiling.” This mental game I play, allows a show to be that much more enjoyable.

I did enough walking and talking that only three laps were completed around the quarter mile track in three hours. Some attendee names I recall while others not, so not to offend anyone, I’ll merely mention their vehicle make and model and leave it at that.

A fellow with a vintage 1947 Pontiac said that he was eighty, and only four years older than his car. The vehicle he owned had the same paint, interior, headliner, and trunk mat that was originally installed on the automobile when it was built. His vehicle was a real time machine and a gift from his son-in-law; much to his daughter’s chagrin, this according to him. The gentleman was a thirty-seven-year retired Air Force veteran, and I thanked him for his service.

A sports car aficionado owning a 2023 Chevrolet Corvette was most hospitable. I wanted to know how his ‘Vette handled and he said like a dream. He went on to tell me that the horsepower under his hood was awesome, yet like all true gearheads, claimed that it’s never enough. He matched up well with his powerful ride, because the guy could’ve easily been a former NFL player.

One distinguished gentleman, wearing a British style driving hat and having manicured moustache was most knowledgeable. His expertise of makes and models was over the top. The guy frowned a bit on my truck, believing it should’ve been properly restored, yet being a true car person, we parted company on good graces, with him politely saying, “To each their own!” He isn’t the only person having said that to me over the years.

I chatted with several bikers wearing club jackets. They profiled well with their awesome machines. Personal demeanor was pleasant and charming without harsh language as some folks unduly expect from the motorcycle crowd. I kept looking around for “Flo” in her white riding apparel but never saw the lady.

Pastor Chad Garrison of Calvary Church was wandering about with a most interested grandson leading the way. I’m not sure preacher had a Corvette or Harley in the show, but if I were to pick a car matching his profile, especially having curly gray locks that’d unfurl in the breeze, a 1967 Chevrolet Camaro convertible would fit him well. Marina blue in color, I’d say he’s more of an automatic transmission kind of guy, rather than 4-speed on the floor.

A bearded face missing this year was assistant pastor, Chet Anderson. He’s the guy who’s always sold me T-shirts and pointed my carcass to the free hotdogs. I was told that Chet’s in Georgia, but hopefully the popular figure around town returns for Crossroads Car & Bike Show number sixteen.

Come next year hopefully I’ll be back. My first priority will be to drain any old fuel from the truck, realizing that two-year-old gasoline is definitely pushing things to the limit. Making another successful roundtrip to Havasu 95 Raceway without fresh petrol would be akin to a 69-year-old, depth perception challenged driver, attempting to back an old Chevy pickup, uphill, into a tight space, having left their bifocal glasses at home. Hats off to the show volunteer having successfully guided me!

I was raised a “military brat.” Armed service members, active and retired, will recognize the politically incorrect label, yet most “civilians” won’t. The simplest description I could find for this term is: A military brat is a child of serving or retired military personnel. Brats are associated with a unique subculture and cultural identity.

That last line was evidently written by someone with more education than me, because it went flying straight over my head. This seemingly offensive term left no deep psychological scars, and I still refer to myself as a military brat when discussing the childhood years. National Military Brats Day is officially on April 30th.

There’s one additional military term for us brats that I believe is more derogatory, although I find some humor in it. The word “dependent” was used quite often during Dad’s Air Force years. Almost every form he filled out had the following question,

“How many dependents?”

My father always wrote in three. Mom, my brother, and me were all dependents according to military statute. I remember him saying this, although not in these exact words,

“The higher the number of dependents the larger the paycheck.”

I never knew exactly what dependent meant, because Mom worked and supported us just the same as Dad, yet she was also considered a dependent on his forms. Only the military can explain that one.

When my older brother reached eighteen, he was no longer considered a dependent. That’s the year Jim turned in his military I.D. card. I don’t recall any kind of party afterwards to celebrate the grandiose occasion.

The same was supposed to happen with me four years later, only I’d lost my piece of identification. It’s too long ago to remember exactly what happened, but most likely I had to sign a bunch of government paperwork. Only recently did I find it stuck between pages of an old childhood book. Evidently, I’d used the card as a bookmark fifty years ago. Someone with Air Force security will probably now show up in our driveway, knocking on my door.

I sometimes wonder after so many years of military brainwashing, if Dad didn’t introduce us to strangers as, “These are my two dependents, Jim and Mike.” It might be a bit factitious for me to think that way, but then again, maybe not.

This afternoon, I was in the kitchen drying dishes when my Amazon parrots started squawking for something to eat. They do this daily, knowing that I’ll jump. We’ve been repeating the same routine going on forty years now. As I prepared them bowls of fresh vegetables and fruit, a thought suddenly came to mind that they were my dependents. If it wasn’t for me cleaning their cages, feeding and watering them, these guys wouldn’t survive.

Thinking back to my late Dad and his military days, I thought of Jet, Brutus, Ringo, and Fluffy. Those were pets that we had during childhood years. They depended on Dad as much as Jim and I, because his meager paychecks helped purchase their dog and cat food. Why my father didn’t mark down seven dependents on those forms instead of three is beyond me.

My wife tells me that the IRS still brings up that dependent question on tax forms. I wouldn’t know because her and the tax people have been taking care of that job for close to forty-five years. Joleen says she now marks the box with a zero, doing so after both kids left the nest. Unlike what Dad did with Mom, she’s not able to count herself.

Tax time is here, and I suggested that Joleen declare three dependents this year, one for Simon the Pekingese, two for Jess & Aldo, our parrots. I believe that would allow for a rare refund. Worth a try in my mind, yet she wants no part of such an unlawful experiment.

With the crazy way this country’s been going, making it legal to declare pets as dependents might seem a bit goofy, yet not any more so than several recent court rulings regarding men being allowed to compete in women’s sports. I suppose someone from “opinion enforcement” will now come knocking at my door for even thinking that!