I like to write junk…

I drove to a local phlebotomy clinic the other morning expecting the inevitable. I don’t know about you, but to me, the word phlebotomist conjures up some mad doctor in a horror movie. Anyway, getting back to the subject, parking spots are rare as hen’s teeth at that particular lab. Rare is a good thing for the most part, yet not in this case. I ended up having to parallel park on Mesquite Avenue because of a lack of available spaces.

Inside the facility parking lot, it was a “clusterfest” beyond all expectation. Folks slowly backing up within a confined area, with others casually wheeling in at the same time made for a haphazard situation. I’m surprised a body shop isn’t located onsite.

Rare takes on other meanings as well. My father loved his steaks and burgers rare. If red wasn’t showing in the center, it was overcooked. I’m surprised he never picked up Salmonella or E coli bacteria along the way. Dad claimed that rare was the way cowboys ate their meat. Perhaps that’s one reason cowboys are now a rare species.

Where coins, stamps, and books are concerned, rare generally means expensive and hard to come by. Only so many of a particular date / series were struck or printed, making them desirable to collect.

The rarest coin I own is a 1909 S VDB Lincoln penny. There were 484,000 minted with an estimated 50,000 survivors. The average population of Lake Havasu City is approximately 58,000 for a comparison. There seems to be no definite number for rare status.

Personally, I’ve encountered rare with paper money. Here lately, it’s rare that I retain possession of a hundred-dollar-bill for more than a day. The gas station eithers snags it or a grocery store.

A book written by Leonardo da Vinci, “The Code of Leicester” is regarded as extremely rare. That’s because there’s only one copy of that manuscript in the world. Billionaire, Bill Gates, paid thirty-four million dollars for the privilege of calling, “Dibs” on it.

First edition copies of “Tom Sawyer” by Mark Twain, were printed 24,000 times. They too are considered extremely rare. Go figure?

The other day, an out of state relative asked how my book sales were going. I generally don’t discuss financial with anyone besides my spouse, CPA, and financial advisor. Realizing this fellow seriously wanted to know, I gave him a spontaneous reply,

“If sales remain the same, they’re destined for rarity!”

He evidently interpreted such to mean good, and thankfully never inquired more. I chuckled under my breath, realizing that I’d gotten away with telling the man absolutely nothing. Semantics have a way of coming to my aid when needed. What’s amazing to me, is that I was able to think so fast. You can definitely chalk that up as rare.

For Lake Havasu City rarity, besides a lack of parking spaces at that medical facility, spotting a Mudshark in our lake supposedly only happens once in a blue moon. A neighbor told me that Mudsharks are rarer than rare. I believe they do exist because there’s a beer named after them. That alone speaks volumes about authenticity!

Kathy Lee Gifford has been popping up on my television the past several months, informing listeners that she lost her “va va voom.” I’m not one to care about someone’s personal life. It seems the Hollywood crowd believes everyone wants to know their inner little secrets. My wife tells me that’s not what Kathy’s referring to.

Kathy Lee is 69 years old. I’m only a year younger and I’ve definitely lost my pizazz, plus a set of keys and a Cubs baseball cap. I’m smart enough to know, that a simple capsule full of powder is not going to fully restore my zest for living. Years of manual labor took a permanent toll on my body as it did to friends. My spine’s akin to a warped straw. Try fixing that with a pill!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Kathy Lee. She’s a woman of exemplary moral character and faith. The health aid that she pushes supposedly contains fruits, vegetables, and spices that are good for us. Those items, for me, are purchased solely at the grocery store or fruit stand. I don’t buy into the continual brainwashing that pills and capsules contain these same ingredients. Many folks do, as they did with snake oil remedies 100-years-ago.

The strangest thing about Kathy’s commercial, is her implying that motorcycles make a, “Va va voom” sound. I’ve never heard one do that, and it’s definitely not a Harley-Davidson she’s talking about. When I hear Harley’s roaring up and down Hwy 95, they make more of a, “Rumpety rumpety rump.” Perhaps Kathy’s thinking of an older Singer sewing machine?

There’s another commercial oftentimes playing back-to-back with Kathy’s. In this one, a likable old codger, hearing impaired, glorifies the hearing aid he recently purchased. The fellow can finally hear his son say, “I love you!”, yet doesn’t tell him, just to have the young man constantly repeat those words.

The actor playing this part is Robert Shepherd. His life story is much like Kathy Lee Gifford’s. Hardships that were eventually overcome, along with not giving in to ways of the world, and he still became successful in his acting career.

I’m not sure Ms. Gifford knows Mr. Shepherd, but I’m guessing they do. God has a way of bringing similar people together.

If Kathy actually believes that motorcycles go, “Va Va Voom,” Robert could definitely help her by lending the woman his hearing device. My bet is she’s ashamed to admit that one’s needed. Seniors can be this way and I’m a perfect example.

After wearing it for a few minutes, Kathy Lee would quickly come to realize just how bad her ears are. I found out the same many years ago. My hearing aids are currently sitting in a toolbox where they have been for the past twenty years. No, they’re not for sale. One of these days I might decide to actually use them!

Buffet style eateries have always been one of my favorites. There’s nothing like being able to choose the foods of your choice in a cafeteria style environment. It takes me back to my school days.

At one time there was a Golden Corral buffet in Lake Havasu City. For whatever reason, it eventually closed doors after several years of operation. For seniors, that was a tragedy because they offered a great senior discount plus excellent cuisine.

We had a similar buffet in Anchorage, Alaska called Royal Fork Buffet. It was very popular and did a booming business. During the holidays, you’d best get there early, or you wouldn’t find a table, especially a larger one because they were limited.

On New Year’s, we decided to go as a family. There’d be a total of eight of us. We waited outside in the cold for almost an hour before the place even opened. Finally getting through unlocked doors, my mother elected to safeguard a corner table until everyone got through the line. I nullified that decision saying I’d do the task. My son Gunnar joined me. Him and I grabbed the women’s cumbersome coats and purses beforehand.

We’d been sitting for perhaps three minutes when an employee walked up, asking Gunnar and I to leave. He said it was company policy that you had to have a tray of food before being seated. When I explained that our elderly parents were in line, and wouldn’t be able to stand with a tray in hand while seeking a place to sit, he insisted that we still needed to vacate.

“If everyone did as you two no one will be able to eat!”

There were still smaller empty tables all around us, so his explanation was lame. Gunnar stood up to follow the guy’s instructions, but I wasn’t ready to toss in the towel.

“So where are the signs mentioning this policy?”

There were other signs on the wall saying that no food was to be taken from the restaurant. The guy replied that it was unspoken policy. I told him that I couldn’t read minds, and that they should consider posting signs regarding that rule. He left without saying another word.

By now, a family sitting behind me had taken notice of the situation. They were evidently all ears. I glanced towards the serving area hoping that the others were coming. My mom and Joleen’s mother were slowly walking our direction. All was good I assumed, until I heard this fellow tell his wife and kids.

“What a fine example that father’s setting for his son.”

For a split second, I decided that I didn’t hear this crass remark, but then elected to give the fellow some unwanted advice of my own. Turning around to face them, I whispered loud enough for all to hear,

“Early bird gets the worm!”

My parents had taught me that, along with, if you snooze you lose. I’d passed along both proverbial sayings to my children.

Two weeks later, we went back to Royal Fork, and they had new signs on the wall, advising diners to go through the buffet line first before being seated.

Gunnar chuckled, mentioning to his mother, that I was responsible for such. It was all for naught, because less than a year later, Royal Fork Buffet closed for good. Perhaps this new declared rule had something to do with it. I’ll never know for sure.

There’s a lesson I learned from buffet dining that I religiously follow to this day:

Don’t stuff yourself first with those yummy, honey butter rolls, because there won’t be enough room left for all the good stuff, especially dessert!

My cognitive state is still pretty good for “over the hump” status. Reflexes have waned a bit but I’m able to dodge most potholes. That says a lot to me. I was riding with a friend the other day, and without blinking an eye, he drove straight into a small crater on Lake Havasu Avenue. Quickly looking at him the man’s response was,

“I’m old and out of control!”

I know the feeling. Some days, things never seem to go right no matter how hard I try.

Being a responsible driver in this town can be tough. I’m generally very observant of the speed limit. Doing so can oftentimes result in a car or truck trying to mate with my vehicle from behind. I chalk this up to the “Havasu Hustle.”

I assume those folks doing the dance are late for work or an appointment. Retired seniors like myself shouldn’t be in a hurry. We have no pressing places to go other than the post office, medical appointments, and grocery store.

When I was younger, and got caught behind someone going slow, I instantly figured it was, Ma & Pa Kettle, holding up the line. My mother called these drivers “Hicks from the Sticks.” Such crusty terminology is still used in the South and rural Kansas.

Back in the day, if an opportunity allowed me to see who was behind the wheel of a pokey vehicle, I took a glance. Nine out of ten times the turtle was a senior citizen. When I say they were going too slow, I mean those folks were generally doing the speed limit. I’ve now joined their ranks.

I did the “Havasu Hustle” when we first came to town. It wasn’t that I needed to get anywhere right away, I performed this dance mainly to avoid being run over. I buzzed around city streets like a hornet until finally being caught. Cruising to Walmart early one morning, a motorcycle cop pulled me over. He asked if I knew how fast I was going.

“Fifty-five, officer.” was my reply.

“The speed limit here is forty-five and you were leader of the pack!”

Back in time when I rode motorcycles, this would’ve been a compliment of sorts. There’s even a 1960s song about being leader of the pack. Unfortunately, in this tune, the ending wasn’t so great. The guy ultimately crashed and burned.

Thankfully, for my wallet, I was given a stern warning that day and told to slow down. I’ve since heeded his advice and joined ranks of the hindering herd. Yes, that vehicle you’re following as you attempt to get to work while fifteen minutes late is probably me.

I was headed to McDonalds last Monday while holding up a group of dancers. At a red light on Hwy 95, I noticed a gal sternly looking over to see who was piloting my car. Knowing what she was thinking, I gave her the perfect picture.

Cocking my head back and tilting it sideways, I opened my mouth as wide as it’d go. Things were kept that way until the light changed. She instantly hit the gas and whipped in front of me. I’m sure “my look” was a topic of conversation at the office that morning. Undoubtedly, I was the one making her tardy.

One thing I’d like to do is slap one of those fluorescent orange, slow moving vehicle placards on my rear bumper. The wife vetoed that idea saying it’d be antagonistic, besides illegal. She did let me order a tee-shirt with the same sign printed on back. I’ll use it for for trips to the grocery store.

If folks in this city want us law-obeying-seniors to hustle these days, they’ll have to pay any speeding fines we incur plus our increased insurance premiums. I doubt that’ll ever happen.

My advice to those doing the hustling: Leave a few minutes early for your job and appointment. You’d be surprised how well this works. Since I’m on a roll, one additional piece of useful information.

Alarm clocks are superb helpmates for getting to work on time and they’re cheap. Buy one. For most of us retired folks though, we no longer have need for such!

I recently wrote a story about my most memorable Thanksgiving experience. It had to do with a visit to Uncle Noel and Aunt Gay’s house in Birmingham, Alabama sometime around 1960, and my knocking over a glass of sweet tea into a hot bowl of gravy, just as the meal got underway. That blunder pretty much ruined Aunt Gay’s well-planned Thanksgiving dinner.

Flashing ahead to Christmas which is rapidly approaching, I can’t nail down any one specific holiday standing tall above the rest. They were all special. There were several things repeatedly happening during our Christmases that I believe other families took part in as well. Tossing balls of wrapping paper at each other being one, while always having fruitcake on hand being another.

Somewhere back in time, Mom purchased or was given a nutcracker set. I recall it being chrome plated, with spring-loaded hinges on top. Our nutcracker basically resembled a set of martial arts nunchuks. You’ll have to Google that word to get the full picture.

A nut would be placed in the middle of two rods and squeezed until its shell broke. This worked fine for soft nuts like peanuts and pecans, but for some of the harder stuff it was a joke. Dad didn’t even have strength to break them open. Sometimes, this flimsy nutcracker did more damage to fingers and knuckles than nuts. A hammer was generally hauled out to finish things off.

Included in Mom’s nutcracker set were several sharp metal picks used to pull “meat” out of a broken shell. For whatever reason, my parents referred to the edible part of a nut as meat. Go figure? A wood tray, selection of nuts, and cracking tool were placed on our coffee table each holiday season. Mother kept the picks out of harms way in a kitchen drawer.

My brother and I eventually came to possess our own. Much bigger and totally different than Mom’s, they were given to us as Christmas gifts in San Antonio, Texas. I still have an ancient, 8mm movie, showing them parked in our living room, with a silver Christmas tree proudly standing in the background.

The exclusive nutcrackers I’m referring to were a matched pair of “English Racer” bicycles. They were manufactured by AMF and had skinny tires along with three-speed shifters. Both bikes were a bit tall for us, yet the folks evidently figured we’d grow into them. From the get-go they were nothing but problems. Stuff was always going wrong like the headlights never working including brakes, and gear shifters malfunctioning. I ignorantly blamed it on them being from England although they were made in the U.S.

Jim and I would race around the block, standing up while pedaling to reach maximum speed. That’s when we learned to be respectful of the deadly machines. Sometimes, when pedaling for all it’s worth and shifting gears, the chain would unexpectedly fly off. When that happened, you’d come down hard between the middle of your legs on the upper frame tube. To say this was a painful experience is an understatement. It happened numerous times.

I recall my brother performing this act as the grand finale to an otherwise spectacular burst of speed. We were racing and he was in the lead like always, when Jim’s chain disengaged and his body quickly dropped to the center bar like a ragdoll.

Out of control at this point, he slowly veered off the gravel road, with toes of both shoes dragging the ground to stop. He soon crashed and burned; figuratively speaking. In severe agony, my brother was black and blue in the most sensitive area of male anatomy, and had to be taken to the emergency room.

After that incident, Dad converted the bikes into single-speed by eliminating shifters and other components. Technically, we no longer rode English Racers although we still called them that. These now much slower bikes didn’t hang around long before being sold or traded to friends.

The other day, my wife was listening to a holiday music channel on our Jeep radio. “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” came on and it’s one of my favorites. The tune was written by Russian composer, Peter Tchaikovsky, as part of his famous, “The Nutcracker Suite” ballet.

I seriously doubt Tchaikovsky was thinking of an English Racer bicycle when he composed this ballet, although if he removed the word Suite, the title fits like a glove!

My sixty-eighth Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching, and it appears the wife and I will be celebrating this one alone. We’d prefer to be with family, but unfortunately, medical events and logistics prevent such. Sometimes, there’s no way around life’s roadblocks unless you decide to barrel straight through them. I’m less apt to do that at this point because the consequences aren’t always good.

I have many great Thanksgiving memories stored upstairs for safekeeping. All of them are precious except for one. More on that in a few minutes. Thanksgiving with my grandparents didn’t happen every year, as we lived too far away to always venture that direction. I enjoyed five holidays with them at most. The one I remember quite vividly was in 1964, when we journeyed for two days from Lubbock, Texas to Vernon, Alabama, and the same amount of time driving back. I believe after four days of travel, we only spent seventy-two hours with both sets of grandparents.

On that trip, Dad was behind the wheel day and night to get us there. I’d brought along a new camera and somewhere around two in the morning, as I toyed with the device, the flash accidentally went off directly into his rearview mirror. My father veered off the road and blew a tire in the process. He was so mad that Mom had to intervene, or he would’ve killed me. In an act to make sure it wouldn’t happen again, he grabbed and tossed my flash attachment as far as he could. Other than that slight delay, I believe this Thanksgiving turned out just fine.

My worst recollection of a Thanksgiving was when I was perhaps six or seven. We traveled to Birmingham, Alabama to visit my Uncle Noel & Aunt Gay McDaniel, including cousins Randall and Cheryl. Aunt Gay was a perfectionist and she always set a perfect table for holiday dinners. The silverware was in its proper spot, with dishes, plates, and napkins following suit. This was the first time I came in contact with a gravy boat. In our mobile home, gravy was always placed in a small cup or bowl.

When we ate dinner at other people’s homes, my brother and I were often relegated to a small table in the living room. For reasons that I’ll never know, at this meal, Jim and I were allowed to sit with the adults along with our older cousins.

Aunt Gay used a fancy linen tablecloth to cover her expensive oak table. The chairs were big and heavy. At our little trailer in Selma, Mom kept a plastic tablecloth in a kitchen drawer, and it was only brought out for special occasions.

Soon after the blessing was said, I fumbled my glass of sweet Alabama tea. Sticky liquid went everywhere, including into Aunt Gay’s gravy boat. The boat didn’t sink, yet hot gravy overflowed like it’d been torpedoed. To mother, this simple blunder was a major calamity. I’m sure a certain word was whispered by all to describe my clumsiness, yet I’ll keep it secret ’til the very end of this story.

I can still rehash minute details because Mom oftentimes brought this dilemma up at family get-togethers. Over time, she eventually found humor in such.

After the mess was cleaned and tablecloth changed, a card table was quickly erected for us youngsters to finish our meal on. I believe sympathy is the only reason my cousins politely joined Jim and me. For several years after that incident, “card table status” remained a ritual of my holiday dining experience.

These days, I chuckle whenever I see kids enduring the same, figuring at least one of them is also a klutz.

One of my favorite hobbies is taking a metal detector into the nearby desert and searching for gold, silver, meteorites, WWII bullets, and anything else metallic. For the most part, my wife and I have uncovered a bucketful of old bullets versus a miniscule number of precious metals.

We feel we’re doing the environment good by hauling out all that toxic lead. I discovered one small meteorite in Yucca a few years back. It was actually setting right on top of the ground near an abandoned gas station. Joleen detected a cache of newer coins scattered along a section of trail in the Standard Wash area of Havasu. They amounted to $3.85, and most likely spilled out of a hiker’s pocket as he or she walked the rugged terrain.

We’ve came across cellphones, knives, jewelry, and even a Mercedes trunk emblem. Perhaps the most unusual find is a 10-foot-long octagon pole made of steel. It has a squared, tapered point on one end. I believe it was used in surveying years ago, or perhaps a hunter stuck the thing down a rattlesnake hole in hopes of shish kabobbing one.

My first detector was bought in 1976. It’s a White’s hip mount model and still works like new. I use it on occasion although it’s much heavier than the Garrett and Fisher models we also own. My first major find was a glass piggybank with rusted glass lid near Wakefield, Kansas. The jar was located on a long-abandoned farm dating back to the late 1800s. It contained three, plastic, gas-ration-tokens from WWII. The value is minimal but nonetheless a great discovery.

As a means to get my son and grandson interested in metal detecting, I purchased a plethora of vintage coins, both silver and copper. Although most were minted some 100 years ago, none were of substantial value. I probably spent fifty bucks on the whole parcel.

We live next to the BLM, so it was no problem walking out back and planting all 30 coins in a sandy and rocky, 50-foot x 50-foot area. The coin locations were clearly marked on a hand drawn map, so that I had a way of locating them in case they weren’t discovered.

Gunnar and Kevin had a blast searching for the treasure. It took them a couple of hours and they uncovered 29. Using my map, I gave them the general proximity of the lost one, and it, an Indian head penny, was plucked from the earth.

My wife and I don’t metal detect strictly for the find, but more for exercise than anything else. We take plenty of water and snacks for breaks, plus a cellphone just in case something bad should happen. The worst thing so far was coming across bones that we thought were human. Turns out they belonged to an unfortunate burro instead.

On my list of things yet to do, I intend on planting more coins on a parcel of land that we own. I’ll do the same as before, mapping out the locations, along with listing what year and denomination the coins specifically are. The kids and grandkids won’t get to search for this treasure until after I’m gone.

It’ll give them something to remember grandpa by, other than him being cranky at times, and having a quirky sense of humor. The memory of this hunt, hopefully, will be worth more than the treasure stuck in their pockets!

Approximately thirty years ago, after listening to the classic 1960’s hit, The “In” Crowd by Dobie Gray, my daughter asked if I hung out with those type of students. Chuckling, I quickly told her, “Not that I recall!”

To be honest, I don’t know who the in-crowd was back then. Pondering this question for the past several days, Dobie Gray’s song title was Googled to refresh my memory on lyrics. Opening lines go like this:

“I’m with the in crowd.

I go where the in crowd goes.

I’m in with the in crowd.

And I know what the in crowd knows.”

I have no idea where the in-crowd went back then. I’m talking East Anchorage High School in Alaska during the late ’60s and early ’70s.

Shakey’s Pizza was one of our favorite haunts, yet I doubt this crowd spent much time there. As far as that second stanza, what did those classmates know that I didn’t?

I’m guessing it was algebra and trigonometry. I never did catch on to either subject and they’re totally useless at this point. A couple more lines from Gray’s tune are as follows:

We got our own way of walkin’.

We got our own way of talkin’.

I didn’t share either of those traits unless the statement, “Cool!” accounts for something. This word was frequently used by my friends and still is.

And my favorite Dobie Gray line out of all is,

“Oh, if it’s square, we ain’t there.”

There’s deep meaning here and totally beyond my comprehension. It’s much like the saying, “Dig it.”  Dig what?

Now, fifty years after graduating from high school, I can say without question that I’m a bonified member of the end-crowd. This group of cool, hip seniors, is a tough and cagey bunch. Just being able to walk and talk is highly important to us. Dobie Gray’s no longer here to compose a tune, so I did it for him:

The End Crowd

“I’m with the end crowd.

Needin’ a cane, to ease back pain.

Gettin’ the chills, where are my pills?

In front of me, I still can’t see.

I’m with the end crowd.

Whether far or near, I just don’t hear.

Turn up the heat, can’t feel my feet.

Parked on a line, is that some crime?

Who cut the cheese? Thank you, Febreze!

I’m with the end-crowd.

We got our own way of walkin’.

We got our own way of talkin’.

We got our own way of gawkin’.

And we got our own way of rockin’.

Dig it, but not too deep!

I was going through some of my clutter and came across an elementary school report card from fifth grade. For the most part, I did well in all subjects, except there was one glaring remark in the comments section that flagged my attention.

“Michael does not follow directions.”

That was something my folks already knew. Most young guys had the same problem if you can even call it one. I believe it’s hereditary to the male species and more of a “trait” than anything.

Part of my not following instructions had to do with placement of headings. Some instructors wanted your name, class, and teacher’s identity in the upper left-hand corner, while others expected it just the opposite. I’d sometimes get confused before a test began, especially if it was Monday morning.

Having a 50/50 chance of getting things right, I was generally wrong. Evidently, Mrs. Drake deemed this a real dilemma, along with her students using spiral notebooks. She briefly mentioned that in the comments section as well.

Spiral notebooks were disliked by some teachers, most likely because they hated seeing all those jagged edges when a page was removed. There were many times I had to borrow a regular sheet of paper from a classmate to avoid being penalized. Some kids went so far as to use scissors to trim the ragged remnants, but that narrowed the border considerably.

On the flip side, some spiral notebooks that my wife recently purchased from Wal-Mart have perforations next to the springs for ease of page removal. Why didn’t notebooks from the 1960s have the same? It seems we’ll be going spiral for eternity, because at .19 cents apiece on sale, Joleen purchased twenty of the books in a variety of colors.

Getting back to that ancient report card. The “does not follow directions” still remains a part of my life.  Now days, I find it more challenging in trying to put something together while looking at an instruction sheet, than not. With so much stuff being manufactured in China, it’s often a brain teaser attempting to decipher their crudely composed schematics.

The other evening, I successfully assembled a Chinese made paint sprayer purchased from Harbor Freight. The manual showed a couple of bolts being installed one direction, while a picture on front of the box showed them turned the other.

“A picture is worth a thousand words!” came in handy here. I stopped looking at the instructions and went strictly by photo. All turned out well.

One specific guideline that I seldom adhere to, is using black ink when it’s called for on legal, government, and medical papers. Some folks believe it’s a cardinal sin to not follow this rule. If a blue ink pen is found in my desk drawer first, blue automatically becomes the color. To this date, no one’s ever denied nor returned any paperwork due to improper hue.

As Hillary Clinton would say, “What difference does it make?”

That’s exactly what I was thinking near sixty years ago regarding the use of spiral notebook paper!

The “Run to the Sun” car show is almost here, and I’m looking forward to it. My wife and I have been attending this event for close to thirty-five years, not as participants, but as gawkers. I’ve always said I’d love to enter a vehicle just one time, and perhaps this is the year.

It’s not that we didn’t have anything to display. Our vehicles were always in Alaska, and I didn’t have sufficient time to trailer one down. Those were the working years, so vacation time was limited.

We’ve been to so many shows over the past fifty-years that it’d be impossible to count. The Street Machine and Street Rod Nationals in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Minneapolis-St. Paul, Minnesota, are the first shows visited. This was in 1974, 1976, and 1977, when those events were just getting off the ground.

Many shows don’t allow newer automobiles to be entered, and I’ve never figured out why. It’s a pet peeve of mine. Modern vehicles like Hellcats, ZO6 Corvettes, Supercharged ZL1 Camaros, and even Teslas turn teenage cranks more than ’32 Ford Roadsters or ’55 Chevys. Our local show allows most of the above except Tesla’s, and for some odd reason, Dodge Chargers were excluded.

Where demographics are concerned. I rarely spot, but a handful of young faces taking in “Run to the Sun.” Most are middle-aged or ancient dinosaurs like me.

At automotive venues that allow late-model vehicles, I often hear the same cliché repeated by car-show geniuses. “Yeah, that car was purchased new and brought here. Anyone can do that!” In their minds, if a car isn’t old or “built,” it’s nothing special. Usually, the ones vocalizing such had someone else build theirs.

My father owned a Texaco service station in the late 60s and early 70s. This was during my teen years. As an employee, I took it upon myself to test-drive some of the fastest iron Detroit offered: Pontiac GTO Judges, Chevrolet Z-28 Camaros, Plymouth Roadrunners, GTXs, and Ford 428 Mach 1 Mustangs, to name a few.

Those were all newer, showroom-quality vehicles back then. Today, these same muscle cars draw a slew of admirers, though the numbers are dwindling as this older generation quietly rides into the sunset.

We have only one vehicle eligible for the upcoming show. Our 1950 Chevy truck will have to suffice, although it’s not pretty. Had we even been allowed to enter the Dodge Redeye Hellcat Charger, I would’ve hesitated.

I’m sure some Sherlock Holmes would’ve wandered over with a buddy, stood there for several seconds with a beer in hand, before unwisely replying, “Yep, definitely purchased from a showroom and then brought here. Anyone can do that!” He would’ve only been partially right because it was special-ordered in Ohio through a dealer friend of ours.

No biggie. I’m sure the owners of 426 Hemi Chargers, 428 Shelby Mustangs, 455 Pontiac GTOs, and SS-454 Chevrolet Chevelle’s had to endure the same head-shaking wisdom some fifty years ago.

Should someone ask if I built my ’50 Chevy, I’ll tell them, as I’ve wanted to tell so many others: “No, Cloyd Boddington slapped it together.” Only seasoned car guys and gals will catch the humor!