I like to write junk…

The other evening, my wife mentioned that she’d never own another
stainless-steel refrigerator. That was strange to hear, because Joleen picked it out for our Lake Havasu City home eighteen years ago. I’ve never cared for the brushed stainless look. It reminds me of a DeLorean automobile.

The no-longer-made DeLorean’s have a stainless steel exterior much like our fridge. These peculiar looking vehicles never turned my crank, with car guys knowing what I’m referring to here.

A DeLorean featured in the movie, “Back to the Future”, was converted into a time machine. I found this part of the film interesting, although I believe a 1968 Dodge Charger would’ve worked much better because of its sleeker lines.

Grandpa and Grandma Hankins had a small white refrigerator in their 1920’s rental home in Vernon, Alabama. How do I remember it as being white? I don’t. That was the standard color back then.

Grandma’s refrigerator was short and round at the top with a large chrome pull-lever on the door for opening. I’m not sure of the exact manufacturer as I  last saw it sixty years ago. I’d guess it was a General Electric, because that’s the brand my parents always chose.

In a 1936 advertisement, it was mentioned that early Westinghouse refrigerators offered something that other refrigerators didn’t. It was described as, “The only refrigerator with fast freezing Sanalloy Froster and Eject-o-Cube Ice Trays.”

Those fancy Eject-o-Cube trays had a lever on top that you pulled upwards to remove the ice. Grandma’s had this feature for sure with her damp fingers sticking to the metal handle quite often. I heard this was quite common until plastic trays came along.

What I remember most about Grandma Hankins’ fridge was that it never had an abundance of food inside. My grandparents were not wealthy people. When we came to visit, Dad and Mom always made sure to stop beforehand and pick up groceries. That recollection hangs with me more than anything. Regardless of such, our visits were always fun.

Her refrigerator had a tiny freezer section holding these aluminum ice trays. There wasn’t room for large items like a chuck roast or frozen pizza. Grandma would take one of the ice trays and remove all cube  dividers. She’d then mix up a glass of milk, sugar, and vanilla extract, and pour it in.

After coming close to freezing, this mixture became an ice milk pudding of sorts, with it never freezing solid. I believe alcohol in the vanilla extract had something to do with that. Grandma referred to this delicacy as ice milk. It was her special treat for my brother and me.

I asked my wife the other night what color refrigerator did she want next?

“White.”, was her reply.

That’s fine with me. In that one aspect alone it’ll be similar to Grandma’s. I recently saw where companies are now making retro, Eject-o-Matic aluminum ice cube trays. I’ll definitely have to get a couple.

When the grandchildren stop by, I’ll mix up some of that ice milk concoction that Grandma Hankins made, although it won’t be quite the same as hers. I’ll have to make sure they don’t stick their tongues onto the tray as I once did. That part I try not to remember!

My latest book, “You Don’t Know Squat!” will be released on March 2, and I’m very pleased on how things turned out. Of course, it’ll never make any bestseller list, but I’m okay with that. I wrote this book as a remembrance to a late friend, Rod Steiner, plus for friends, family, and especially my grandchildren to enjoy. There’s a total of 102 short stories inside front and rear covers.

Some of the compositions are from my early years while most are later in life, including a few work related tales. A good many of them were published in the “Today’s News-Herald” the past two years. A big thanks to, Publisher Rick Macke – Editor Brandon Bowers, for allowing me to share them.

I’m asked on occasion by family and friends, “How many of these books do you think will sell?”

That’s an impossible question for me to answer. Famous author’s, Henry David Thoreau and Herman Melville, sold more books after dying than when they were alive. Taking that into account, I doubt either man knows their final tally. Undoubtedly, I’m going to have the same problem.

I’ve read many bestselling books, often finding they weren’t good reads, with some being downright boring. Huge publishing firms with mega promotion dollars hawked them to the masses specifically to make a dollar. It’s said that some celebrities go on talk shows, merely for the reason of holding up their latest book to a camera. I’d love to do the same. That promo by itself is probably good for twenty-five thousand copies out the door.

There are many good reads out there written by excellent authors, that’ll never see the light of day, unlike a, Bill O’Reilly or Bill Maher, mass-produced publication. That’s part of the writing game I suppose. “Those with clout have the loudest shout!”

One of my favorite books was penned by a woman named Decema Kimball Andresen. I met this lady many years ago in a small dry goods store that she owned in Anchorage, Alaska. Decema was 90 at the time. The name of her book is, “Memories of Latouche.”

It’s only forty pages, but I learned more from reading it than I did from some novels 300 pages or longer. Very few people know that Phoenix, Alaska ever existed. The town, if you can call it that, was located on Latouche Island in Prince William Sound. Decema Kimball and her family lived there, along with perhaps ten other people. A story about the place is in her short story.

When the Bucket-O-Blood saloon caught fire, the whole village went up in smoke, with the Kimball family business totally destroyed. Unlike the fabled Phoenix bird rising from the ashes, Phoenix, Alaska, remained down for the count. The Kimball parents wisely moved both daughters, and whatever furs and valuables they could salvage, to newly established Anchorage where they successfully rebuilt their store.

You’ll most likely only find mention of Phoenix, Alaska in Decema’s book or on vintage maps of Prince William Sound. The very small village was located between Powder Point and Wilson Bay.

I’ve made several trips to Latouche Island. On one of them with some friends including my son, we discovered the exact location of Phoenix. At that point, it only amounted to overgrown root cellars carved into a steep hill, with remnants of dock pilings still visible on the beach.

Poking around a bit, at least three feet under wet tundra, Doug Harvey discovered several large, blackened timbers used as cabin foundations. The ultimate find was by my friend, Jeff Thimsen. Jeff located a rare, J.W. Little, trade token. Mr. Little owned one of the two destroyed taverns.

Unlike Decema Kimball Andresen’s book, mine is a whopping 338 pages long. That’s a record for me. My wife calls it a catalog based on weight alone. It’ll never be a best seller just as Mrs. Kimball’s isn’t, yet the two share one common trait: they’re good reads. Where literature is concerned, I believe that is the ultimate compliment.

*My book available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, others, starting March 2nd.

Nearly forty-five years ago, my late mother told me that there’d come a day when my birthday fell on Easter Sunday. It was in the late 1970s when she mentioned that. I remember looking things up and seeing that Easter in 2023 was on April 9th. At the time that seemed like an eternity, and I wondered if I’d even make it. I soon forgot about the eventuality of this happening while life went on as usual.

The other morning, my wife surprised me by saying, “Your birthdays on Easter this year!” Man, I hadn’t the foggiest, having clean forgot!

Looking at a calendar just to make sure, Joleen was right. That got me to wondering. When was the last time this religious holiday fell on April 9th? I discovered it was 1950, the year my brother was born.

I often wondered why Easter fell on different days unlike Christmas. It was a bit confusing to me at first, until reading through the most comprehensible explanation several times, and still finding it confusing. The reason has something to do with the Gregorian and Jewish calendars, plus a Paschal full moon. To quote from a reliable online source.

“While Christmas is fixed to a solar calendar (and near the winter solstice), Easter is based on the lunar cycles of the Jewish calendar. In the Christian religion, the Last Supper (which was the final meal Jesus shared with his apostles before his crucifixion) was a Passover feast. It’s because Easter is based on a lunar month (which is 29.5 days) that the date of Easter can really vary.”

The rarity of Easter falling on April 9 has actually been mathematically calculated, as if mathematicians don’t have better things to do. That number is: 3.26667 percent of the time. This will be my first Easter birthday in 69 years. It’ll happen again in 2034, yet much like a “forever view” residential lot here in Havasu, there’s no guaranty that I’ll still be around.

For the past decade, I haven’t celebrated birthdays like some friends and family, finding them more sad than glad. Unlike one former co-workers’ unusual way of viewing wrinkles, poor hearing, and bad sight, getting old is not something I relish. I do believe this one will be uplifting, because how can a person be full of gloom on the celebration day of Jesus Christ rising from the grave?

On the night of April 8, Joleen will undoubtedly ask the same question, “What does birthday boy want to eat on his special day?” My choice has generally been In-N-Out Burger or Del Taco. This go-around, being that it’s Easter, I want a food item I’ve never been privy to, hot cross buns.

A Catholic friend mentioned that she has to have hot cross buns at Easter, because it’d be sacrilegious for her not to. Researching their history, supposedly an Anglican Monk first made the treat back in the twelfth century, as a means to help celebrate Good Friday. Since that time, the unique buns with a cross on top have become a symbol of Easter weekend.

Someone told me that local bakeries make them, so finding half a dozen should be a piece of cake. I’ll call ahead and have my name put on a bag just in case.

A simple song learned in elementary school regarding hot cross buns goes like this:

Hot cross buns.
Hot cross buns.
One a penny, two a penny,
Hot cross buns.

If you have no daughters,
Give them to your sons.
One a penny, two a penny,
Hot cross buns.

In my way of seeing things, this childhood tune needs to be brought up to speed where inflation is concerned.

Hot cross buns.
Hot cross buns.
One a dollar, two a dollar,
Hot cross buns.

If you have no dollar,
Visa works just fine.
One a dollar, two a dollar,
Hot cross buns.

Something tells me, I won’t walk away without paying any less than six bucks!

I don’t watch that much television anymore, not that there isn’t something educational to be gleaned from it. There is!

Take vintage westerns for example. I discovered after viewing hundreds of them, that some Colt revolvers shoot eight, nine, or ten times before reloading. Gun aficionados will know what I’m talking about here. For those not up to speed, there are only six bullets in an early Colt cylinder.

Another thing observed on my Samsung flatscreen is that stagecoach and covered wagon wheels sometimes turn backwards, at least the ones on “Wagon Train” do.

My reason to avoid watching TV lies with all the solicitations.  It seems almost every other commercial has a hand reaching out of the screen for my credit card. It’s bad enough when telemarketers attempt such through the phone during lunch or dinner.

Some of the donation queries are okay with me, like Alec, and his brave friends at Shriners Hospitals for Kids. The Disabled Vets, Wounded Warriors, and Gary Sinise Foundation can have all the airtime they want. I won’t specifically mention those solicitations irritating me most, because undoubtedly, I’d ruffle a few feathers. One in particular uses “the guilt trip” as a means to coerce money from viewers.

Over the years, there have been several charities asking for funds that I questioned, and after a bit of research, discovered a good percentage of their donated revenue went for administrative costs, namely wages. It’s not hard to find this data online, because there are public watchdog groups searching for unscrupulous charities and reporting them.

“The Center for Investigative Reporting” is one of these groups. They maintain a list of the worst offenders where stockpiling contributions and using the funds in a misappropriate manner is concerned.

On Facebook, a friend sent me a link where I could donate money via credit card to their good cause, a Ukraine relief charity. I took a few minutes in an attempt to look it up, coming across an FBI advisory warning against similar sites. It didn’t specifically mention this one as being corrupt, claiming instead that there are hundreds of bogus offices out there.

I suppose most everyone has a “good cause” that they either back via monetary donations or volunteering. My preference here in Havasu is the Western Arizona Humane Society, including Hospice of Havasu. I believe my contributions to these two organizations are wisely spent.

A day will come when television viewers are solicited for donations to help with the climate change cause. I won’t feel guilty in not writing them a check, because in a roundabout way, my wife and I are already contributing.

According to climate change experts, fossil fueled vehicles contribute greatly to warming of the atmosphere. With it being a colder than normal winter in Arizona, and the continental United States, what better reason is there for keeping gas and diesel burners on the road.

With two in our garage, perhaps a third is needed to help further the cause!

I generally don’t like talking about myself because there’s not a whole lot to say, other than, old, fat, and gray. Being that I’ve reached what’s called “writer’s block,” now seems as good a time as any to sit back in my easy chair, pull out an imaginary Cherrywood pipe from my gray tweed smoking jacket, and have what radio talk-show hosts refer to as, an open Mike.

A good friend once asked, “Where did you learn to write?” It only took a few seconds to reply, because I still have good memory, sometimes.

Mrs. Doris Harris, my first-grade teacher, taught me the alphabet, via my printing out each letter on a Big Chief notebook, using carrot size pencils. Mrs. Gladys Wood in third grade was also very instrumental in helping me keep words between the lines.

Mrs. Drake in fifth grade criticized my fiction story assignment, although I worked through the psychological trauma. Mrs. Turner in sixth grade helped considerably by praising the stuff I composed, while Mr. Slama in junior high did the same. Before I reached high school instructor’s names, my friend asking the question stopped me short.

“No, no, I mean where does your mindset come from in the creative writing process?”

Why didn’t he say that to begin with! The foremost answer to that question is a man by the name of, Edward Boyd. Mr. Boyd was a friend’s father in Anchorage, Alaska. He was a very successful businessman, real estate broker, outdoorsman, and most especially, dad to his three children, Larry, Caroline, and Jeanie.

The late Ed Boyd was also a prolific writer, having two published books to his credit, “Wolf Trail Lodge” and “Alaska Broker.” If anyone was a mentor to my writing style, Ed was that person.

He wrote lucid, well thought out Letters to the Editor, stepping on people’s toes along the way, while making them laugh at the same time. Ed always got his point across, which was what he’d initially set out to do.

Ed Boyd had a unique way of looking at things and an uncanny means of putting thoughts to paper. I’ll never be able to emulate the man’s writing, but I try, always coming up short.

One editorial in particular clings in my noggin like a wad of Wrigley’s chewing gum stuck under a restaurant table. Anchorage, Alaska has a public transportation system called, People Mover. It’s made up of some fifteen buses running throughout various city routes. Mr. Boyd’s Pioneer Realty office overlooked C Street and Northern Lights Boulevard in the 1970s.

In his newspaper editorial, he made mention of always seeing these large buses driving by with empty seats. The sight of such bothered him as it did others. The metropolis of Anchorage, like all big cities, had a homeless population even back then, made up mostly of substance abusers. Alcohol abuse and drug use was a big problem in Alaska and still is.

Ed Boyd’s suggestion was to allow these homeless individuals to ride the shuttles, as a means during winter for them to stay warm, come summer, keep out of the rain, which it does quite often. Of course, after his “opinion” was out there, he received plenty of static from the snowflake crowd. Yep, they were alive and well back then too!

Mr. Boyd got his message across loud and clear, with that being People Mover buses were a waste of tax paper money, and they might as well be used constructively, instead of burning diesel fuel and polluting the air for naught. I remember chuckling at his excellent suggestion.

Edward Marvin Boyd died on April 25, 2012, in Bellevue, Washington, at the age of 94. The man left behind a legacy in many areas, but for me, he’ll aways be at the top where elite Alaskan writers are concerned. Attempting to follow in his footsteps where my compositions are concerned will never be accomplished.

There’s not much else to be said about my writing style other than perhaps one additional thing. Like Edward Boyd, another published author I try to emulate yet always come up way short is best known for, The Ten Commandments. I’m not referring to the movie version starring Charleston Heston, but the original stone tablets engraved with a finger.

As they often do, the embers in my imaginary pipe have just went cold. Like Elvis, I too have left the building!

I’ve never voluntarily used tobacco products. Thankfully, I was born with a working brain. Involuntarily using tobacco products is another subject.

I suppose you might say I smoked cigarettes, without ever picking one up. My parents early on were chain smokers. I don’t know how many cartons of Pall Mall’s they consumed during my tenure at home, but I bet it’d be a railroad car full. My brother and I were forced to breathe their secondhand smoke, with it eventually taking a toll on my body. Bronchitis now comes easy.

I still remember a certain camping trip ruined because of this addiction on their part. In 1965, we drove to the mountains of Tres Ritos, New Mexico, from Lubbock, Texas, in a 1963 Buick station wagon. Dad and Mom puffed away the whole time we were in the vehicle, with it being hot outside and the air-conditioner going full speed ahead. Somewhere along the way, I developed a headache so bad that I thought I was going to die. My head was throbbing hard enough that I puked several times.

Dad deviated from his planned route and stopped at a small medical clinic in a town I no longer remember. They diagnosed me with infected sinuses, not saying of course, that all the smoke floating around in our car caused it. I suppose that would’ve been politically incorrect back then for them to claim such, since a good many doctors and nurses were hardcore smokers.

I don’t entirely blame parents for my medical shortcomings. For many years, smoking was allowed in the workplace, and I spent my share of time working alongside guys and gals with Marlboro’s or Camel’s hanging from their lips. Eventually, I had enough and circulated a petition asking for signatures of employees like me, wanting such activity snuffed out in the building. By the end of that day the list was full.

One morning, before leaving for work, I came out of the house finding my unlocked truck cab full of smoke. Someone had lit one and stuck it in the ashtray, and it sat there and smoldered. I knew who’d done the dastardly deed but could never prove such. It wasn’t long before smokers at our shop were ordered to “do their thing” outside. I was successful here, with plenty of backing from others, but enemies had been made along the way.

I didn’t stop there. On Friday and Saturday nights, in Anchorage, Alaska, my wife and I along with our two children attended the University of Alaska – Anchorage Seawolves hockey games at Sullivan Arena. We had season tickets. Directly behind our seats sat Dr. Kevin Park and his wife and child. Kevin was a friend from high school. Smoking was allowed in the stadium at this time in one section, that being where all the concessions and restrooms were. Kevin made mention of having to walk through a cloud to get to either, which gave me an idea.

I wrote a Letter to the Editor of our newspaper advocating that people attending hockey games, should they come down with any respiratory illnesses afterwards, send their medical bills to the Municipality of Anchorage for them to pay. At the next game, Dr. Park congratulated me, saying it was well written and positively taken within the local medical community.

Before that season was up, the Anchorage City Council voted to have smoking totally banned in the arena. I wasn’t the sole reason for them doing so, because after my letter was published, many more letters poured into the newspaper from doctors, nurses, and other hockey fans. That’s all water under the bridge now and I’m thankful for the outcome.

What spurred me to even write this piece is quite unusual, as least I think it is. I just came back from a Lake Havasu City convenience store where I often go to purchase peppermint candies. These are the round hard ones with stripes, covered with a clear cellophane wrapper. I’m addicted to these things.

When I first stopped at this gas station after its grand opening, it was fairly pristine outside. The parking lot was free of debris as was the surrounding landscape. This morning, taking time to look around, I spotted hundreds of cigarette butts lying on the ground. How did they get there? Why weren’t they properly disposed of in the numerous cigarette butt receptacles provided by this company. Go figure!

After opening one of my peppermint candies, I simply stuck the used wrapper in a trash receptacle also provided. Sometimes I put them in my pocket to be disposed of later. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the right thing to do here.

Thankfully, I was born with a working brain.

When residents of Lake Havasu City first received word they’d be getting large trash and recycling cans on wheels like other modern cities, there was a big hullabaloo over the decision. Some folks complained they wouldn’t be able to take these contraptions down steep driveways without disaster. I’d imagine there were a few spectacular crashes, but I never read about them in the newspaper.

A few disgruntled people didn’t like the color and suggested more of a desert hue. Leave them out in the blazing Arizona sun long enough and they’ll eventually turn that way. Some residents just saw red. I’m thinking it’s been at least three years now since these receptacles came into our lives, but who’s keeping track?

We’ve had ours long enough to have a few good stories to share. It seems weather has been a great factor behind most of them. For whatever reason, Havasu winds seem to start blowing on Sunday night, and not stop until after the trash trucks have done their job.

“Vince” and “Larry” have taken countless tumbles because of this common, at least around these parts, phenomenon. If you’re wondering who Vince and Larry are, they’re the names I gave to my plastic buddies. Vince is trash while Larry’s recycling. I switch them around on occasion, so that no longtime psychological damage is done.

You might remember Vince and Larry as being crash test dummies on the long running, National Traffic Safety Foundation, television commercials. Well, my blue buddies have also taken a beating and kept on ticking, although not on the same level as being inside vehicles that continually run into brick walls.

I’ve found these two guys, uninvited, trespassing in neighbor’s yards, flipped over, spilling their guts out throughout the landscape. It’s amazing how fast aluminum soda cans roll down the street with Mariah pushing them. If you’re now wondering who Mariah is, undoubtedly, you weren’t here fifty five years ago.

This lovely name comes from the 1965 movie, Paint Your Wagon, starring Jean Seberg, Clint Eastwood, and Lee Marvin. A popular song in that film titled, “They Call the Wind Mariah” was sung by Harve Presnell. I call the wind Mariah on certain occasions along with some unfavorable names as well, such as “stinking” and “darn.”

Cans have been discovered loitering in our driveway as I backed out of the garage. One of them managed to roll a distance of five houses, remain upright, before parking itself directly in my path. Our next door neighbor’s can slid down the road in pure agony before stopping outside our front door. I could hear it coming.

Thinking that perhaps I’d came up with a superb plan for keeping their mouths closed during strong gusts, I taped Vince and Larry’s shut. It worked a bit too well because after the garbage trucks had come and gone, both cans were still full. Since that time, I’ve experimented and found just the right combination. Clear packing tape works best especially when rain is present, with just a slight amount taped to the lid so it’ll break free when dumped.

Vince and Larry are a little banged up from all they’ve gone through but they’re tough and resilient. I believe Vince might’ve been struck by a sleepy driver early one morning, but thankfully, nothing on our security cameras showed such. He has a nice indention on one of his backside corners evidently caused by a vehicle bumper, ironically matching the height of ours.

I only hope they survive for as long as I’m around. I’ve become quite attached to these guys, enough so, that I truly appreciate the thankless job they do!

New Year’s Eve is here and gone, and I didn’t make a single “new” resolution. I quit doing so several years ago figuring it was a waste of time. My ongoing resolution for over a decade is to stay healthy, upright, and out of the box. Everything else seems second-fold, at least to me it does.

I just read a newspaper article written by an anonymous person dictating that my mindset is flawed. That could very well be because family and friends have echoed this for ages.

This unknown writer said that a Rush University study showed it’s healthy for seniors to have yearly goals, because they help offset Alzheimer’s. That’s a perfectly valid reason. I know several people who’ve gone through this terrible disease and they’re no longer here. They, along with their family, suffered immensely.

The article went on to state that seniors should set goals at eliminating clutter in their home. This is considered a safety move, because the older a person gets, the easier it is to take a tumble. Broken hips and pelvises are to be avoided, especially for Havasu’s “Over-The-Hill-Gang.” Most of them already know that. There are still a few crazies amongst the group doing dangerous things, like trying to lift heavy things without help.

Just what clutter to get rid of can be mindboggling. Never mind that some of my tools are no longer used. They must stay regardless! It’s borderline sacrilegious for a gearhead to dispose of his or her tools. Right now, I have both eyes pointed towards my wife’s clutter more than anything. So far, she’s resisted my advice on what needs to disappear.

Another senior resolution brought up in this column is to get all medical stuff in proper order. Evidently, that means having a current list of all the medications you take, including a file for Medicare, insurance, and other papers. I’m not the most organized person in that area, sometimes not giving a rip on what’s inside those countless letter’s seniors receive, spewing unwanted healthcare advice. As long as my pharmacy gives me pills without hassle, I’m a happy camper.

Making new social contacts is also on this person’s recommendation list. Reconnecting with old friends is one of the items mentioned. Mark that one off my list because I started doing such years back. I located former friends all the way back to elementary school, including first-grade teacher, Mrs. Doris Harris.

For the most part, I wholeheartedly agree with what this article said. A couple of things mentioned I’ll start doing. I didn’t need to make any senior resolutions this year, because someone else made them for me!

One of the things I like most about living in Arizona, is that I don’t have to go far to find seclusion away from all the city lights, and do some serious stargazing. When light pollution’s at a minimum, it’s easy to spot satellites circling overhead and meteors heading across the sky. For my wife and I, this is directly out our backdoor.

The same could be said in Alaska although I don’t recall that many “shooting stars” as we called them. I suppose those folks living in the bush communities saw them all the time. In Anchorage, unlike parts of Lake Havasu City, there was a constant glow above the city preventing such.

Joleen and I would drive to Bird Creek some twenty miles out of Anchorage and watch for celestial anomalies. It was winter when we did this, because during summer months, the sun barely set before it popped up again.

The darkest place I ever observed stars while in Alaska was on LaTouche Island in Prince William Sound. There were five of us camping there in late fall, and we were the only inhabitants. At that time of year the days were getting shorter. In a few months the moon would reign supreme over the sun.

Around midnight, my son and I stepped outside the old cabin we were staying in and turned off our flashlights. I’ve never seen the Alaskan stars brighter than at that one spot alone. It was as pitch black as it gets, unless you’re standing in a tunnel or cave.

People say that the Northern Lights or Aurora Borealis, whatever you prefer to call them, snap, crackle, and pop at certain intervals. I can vouch for that, having heard them do so one time. It’s easy for me to recall exactly when that happened because it was on New Year’s Eve.

On December 31, 1970, good friend, Bob Malone, my brother, Jim, and I decided to go late night snowmobiling to bring in the New Year. It was no problem doing such as we could drive the machines from our front yards, across Muldoon Road, and be in the sticks within minutes.

That particular night was bone chilling cold, at least minus ten degrees Fahrenheit or colder. We were dressed appropriately, wearing Arctic parkas, thermal lined pants, bunny boots, and facemasks. Bunny boots are military grade rubberized boots with an air chamber built within to hold the heat. They are white in color, thus I believe that’s where their unusual name came from.

We were a couple of miles in the woods, away from any noise besides our own making, and the Northern lights were dancing like never before. Multicolored ribbons of light jetted back and forth as if perfectly choreographed. All they needed was music to complete the show.

Bob suggested that we stop and turn off our machines. Listening closely, we heard a sound much like that of static electricity as you remove a nylon garment. It was quite pronounced. Some might say the crackling resembled a bowl of Rice Krispies after milk had been poured on top.

We sat there for several minutes listening to this peculiar crackling before deciding it was time to head home. The year 1971 had arrived in most spectacular fashion.

I only hope that 2023 repeats the same here in Arizona, in the way of a colossal shooting star with shimmering white tail. One thing I won’t be doing, is wearing a parka and bunny boots while watching for it.

Happy New Year!

During the last thirty years, at Christmas time, I tried writing the most crazy and bizarre Christmas letters and cards of all. They were sent to select family and friends. Some were borderline genius if I may say so, while others crashed and burned. That’s the way it is in writing humor. Like standup comedians, there are those compositions that fall flat on their face.

This year for Christmas, I decided to do something different. Three stories were composed about my friend, Jeff, and myself. As far as I know they’ve never been told, at least not by me. This is the third and final one. Much like the storyline, working through ailments has placed me a bit behind schedule. I’ve been writing day and night to get things finished.

*****************************************************

My friend, Jeff Thimsen, decided on a career as a carpenter and contractor early on in life. I believe a major part of his choice revolved around Jesus Christ having done the same, including good family friend, neighbor, and mentor, Maver Roth. Jeff worked with Maver on several construction projects throughout high school and after graduation. Roth taught Jeff many of his tricks of the trade.

Eventually, Jeff headed out on his own, doing framing and other related projects under the name, Thimsen Construction. I was one of, if not his first hired employee. A framing contract awarded to Jeff by CAPP HOMES out of Washington State required the assistance of at least one laborer, mainly to help set heavy walls into place.

The project was at Mackey Lake in Soldotna, Alaska. We’d be staying in a tent and roughing it so to speak. It sounded like a camping trip to me with pay so I was eager to get started.

Electricity was provided to the site, but all other amenities were up to us. Thankfully, Solid Rock Bible Camp was but a short distance away. We were able to obtain a hot meal, sandwiches, and water from the camp counselors, most especially, Steve Larson, one of Jeff’s good friends. Not being moochers, we left a donation to the facility for food. Solid Rock also let us bathe in the cold waters of their adjoining lake via bathing suits of course.

When I first saw the huge pile of wood at our construction site, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. It was hard to imagine that amount of material being handled by two people. Jeff’s simple response was, “One piece at a time!”

By the first day we pretty much had the floor down, this accomplished by working well into the night. Using flood lights, and with help from the almost never setting sun, we motored along until well past midnight. The tap, tap, tap, of our hammers echoed like gunfire across the lake. Someone on the other side started yelling for us to stop, but we kept on going, figuring there was no noise ordinances in rural Soldotna.

The third day, Jeff accidentally stepped on a nail putting it through his right heel into bone. His foot swelled like a baked persimmon, and we deemed it best to go straight to a doctor. This was after he tried working in pain for a couple of hours. We made a quick dash to Anchorage where my friend received a tetanus shot plus thick bandages. There was a short time schedule for getting this job done so back to Soldotna we headed.

Needing to make up for lost time we worked once again to midnight, hearing the same profanities coming at us as the evening before. In our way of viewing things, the guy doing all the screaming could’ve simply put in earplugs if our noise was that irritating.

Trying to erect the first large wall, Jeff and I found that we didn’t quite have the umph to get it all the way up. Steve Larson came to our rescue once again after we picked him up. His strong back and brawn came in handy numerous times after.

The roof pitch was a steep 8/12, so it took me some getting used to being up there. If I fell, on one side there was soft dirt, the other end was where the lake met damp earth. It was quite a drop into cold water at that point. Initially, Jeff worked with a rope tied around his waist while I held tight on the other side. Eventually, scraps of wood were nailed down for foot support.

The hardest part of the whole job besides raising and setting heavy roof trusses, was installing a twenty-foot-long glulam support beam. Steve Larson again risked his life on this task. We tied a rope onto one end of the beam and lifted it into a precut slot. The other side was manhandled with young backs, long boards, and ropes. It took a while, but we were successful and uninjured.

Seeing that we could finish things in one more day and meet schedule, Jeff and I rose early that morning and worked until three a.m. Our friend across the lake cursed us incessantly until he evidently ran out of breath. When we heard what sounded like a gunshot, Jeff decided that he meant business. Having almost completed our job, it was wise to hit the sack.

No sooner did we fall asleep than headlights rolled up to our tent entrance. We had a handgun and I reached for it expecting the worse. A bright spotlight suddenly illuminated our tent, with a demanding voice coming across a tinny sounding loudspeaker,

“This is the state troopers. Is anyone in there. If so, come out slowly.”

I wisely slid the gun back under my pillow, with Jeff and I carefully crawling out in our skivvies.

The trooper wanted to know if we were the ones doing all the hammering. It should’ve been quite obvious to him that we were, because this was the only home being framed within miles.

After giving him our story about how the job needed to be done by a certain date to avoid penalty, and Jeff hurting his leg, he seemed sympathetic to our problem. The officer gave us a warning to not work past ten at night. What he didn’t make clear was on how early we could start, and Jeff didn’t ask. I wanted to say that we were workaholics, believing he’d find humor in such, yet my mouth had gotten me in trouble many time before so I kept it closed.

Needing just a few more boards nailed together and wanting to get out of that cramped tent for our comfortable apartment back in Anchorage, we were once again pounding nails in less than an hour. As expected, the man across the pond started yelling.

As a final coup de grace to the whole experience, Jeff tapped out that infamous door knock on a hollow bedroom wall, “Tap – tappa tap tap – tap tap.” At that point we quickly packed up tools and rolled out of town.

Jeff went to a successful building career, while I worked a couple of years with a friend owning C&K Construction, pouring concrete with some framing during the winter. I finally went into the automotive field finding that more to my liking.

There’s a section of roof truss in that Mackey Lake home having the following inscription written in pencil:

Jeff and Mike – 1973

I drove by that house a while back finding that it still stood tall. This was a testament to our hard work, blood, sweat, and boxes of sixteen-penny-nails pounded by hand, around the clock for a week, nearly fifty years ago.