I like to write junk…

I’ve never held a professional title of any kind, other than perhaps, Shaker Plant Expert (SPE). According to unreliable sources, there are only two of us in the world. Rod Steiner is one and I’m the other. This honor is self-bestowed; some would question its authenticity.

The State of Alaska – Department of Transportation & Public Facilities – Maintenance & Operations section was experimenting with using glacial sand for winter road use around 1990, give or take five years. Light, imported sand currently being spread on snowy and icy roads was quickly blowing off the slick asphalt as soon as it was put down. Someone came up with the idea of mixing heavier, and sharper granulated glacial silt in with the light. It seemed like a perfect plan.

Because this glacial sand was laden with boulders and rocks, a shaker plant was needed to separate things. DOT purchased a portable one and installed it beside a tributary creek of Portage Lake. This creek was some distance off the Seward Highway and in a beautiful setting.

A shaker plant works much like a mechanical sieve. Stones and gravel are dumped into a hopper, where it then goes to a vibrating screen of sorts. The fine sand drops down through metal grates, while a conveyor carries the heavier material to a designated pile or piles.

A counterweight on a long shaft, driven by fan belts makes the device, shake, rattle, and roll as Rod and I liked to say. We falsely told people that we invented the term, but actual credit goes to 1919 vaudeville performer, “Baby” Franklin Seals. Baby’s use of it I’m sure had nothing to do with making sand.

It was middle September, and a call came in from Larry Bushnell, Girdwood Shop Foreman, that their shaker plant had lost a couple of bearings. The machine was no longer operational. Larry needed it up and running and like right now.

For whatever reason, our boss, Ray Henry, chose Rod and me to drive down and repair it. I believe Ray thought it would be an easy fix with us on the job. Perhaps it was punishment? Weather was as bad as it gets in the Portage Valley area. Wind was blowing icy rain and snow near sideways. Even with Carhart’s and raingear on it was brutally cold.

The machine needed a complete, unbalanced flywheel shaft plus bearings. All essential parts were overnighted. We worked from the bucket of a Case loader in most difficult weather. Rod and I took turns thawing out in the always-running service truck. A thermos of hot coffee wasn’t enough; hypothermia was a snail’s tail away.

It took us four days to complete our mission. The drive from Anchorage to Portage and back was two hours alone. After the mission was complete, we were able to bask in the glory of our success. We wore our imaginary shaker plant expert badges with honor.

Afterwards, whenever the shop phone rang, Rod and I would be on imaginary edge claiming it was another call for our expertise. That never happened for good reason.

Throughout that winter, automotive glass shops in Anchorage, Seward, Homer, and Soldotna were kept extremely busy. The heavier sand had worked just fine. It stayed on the roadway. It also took out countless windshields and headlights in the process. People complained and the operation was immediately placed into mothballs.

I’m told by unreliable sources that this shaker was purchased by a gold mining operation in Girdwood. I can’t verify such, but perhaps, Parker Schnabel, of GOLD RUSH fame can.

At times when I pick up the home phone, I flash back to that inside joke at DOT, expecting an imaginary voice on the other end to call out,

“We need a couple of shaker plant experts, and we need them right now!”

That always brings a smile to my face!

My parents, early on, claimed that once they moved away from the small town in which they were born, they couldn’t move back. As a kid, I never knew what my folks meant. Dad and Mom didn’t explain things for my still developing mind. In spite of what they preached, both relocated to Vernon, Alabama some 40-years after they’d left. Their residency only lasted a year.

Mom said that Vernon hadn’t really changed, but most all of her friends had traveled on to other places. Both Dad and Mom’s parents were dead, with siblings now relocated to the bigger cities of Mobile and Birmingham. During their short Vernon tenure, they visited the graves of deceased family and loved ones, including driving around the countryside looking for places remembered. They discovered many of the old homes no longer standing. What Dad and Mom felt afterwards from doing all this was complete sadness. I now know how they felt.

For close to four years we resided in Selma, Alabama. I can’t say that Selma would be considered a small town. Population of the city is around 18,000 people. I believe when we lived there, and Craig Air Force Base was still active, nearly 30,000 residents called it home.

The last time I visited Selma was in 1974 with my brother, Jim, and soon to be wife, Joleen. That was eleven years after Jim and I left for Texas. Everything looked the same. The base was still open, and businesses appeared to be flourishing. My brother talked about moving back some day. I echoed the same. Joleen was impressed with the plantation style homes in Selma. She thought it’d be neat to live in one.

The years clicked by and that Selma dream still lingered in my mind. I was even looking at historic homes on the market. Joleen wasn’t so sure at this point about wanting to head south, after hearing reports of all the storms. She grew up in Kansas and seemed to have no fear of tornadoes. Go figure?

I reconnected with some former Southside School classmates, one still living in Selma. She told me that the town had really suffered after the military base closed. It was depressing to hear that news. I talked with the local Selma-Times Journal newspaper publisher, Dennis Palmer, and he reiterated what Glenda said. Dennis said that the base closure was brutal economically speaking. With abundant military revenue gone by 1977, many businesses were forced to close their doors. I’ve since researched the economic downfall this had on the community, and it was extensive.

In 2002, my son and some of his Air Force co-workers were undergoing training in Montgomery. I gave Gunnar a list of several places to check out in and around Selma. They headed over on a Saturday to take a look. He sent back a three-minute long video, of a trailer park we lived in from 1959 – 1963. It looked to be remnants of a battle zone, showing what few trailers that remained in bad shape, cardboard replacing windows, clapped-out derelict cars sitting in yards. It was nothing like when we resided there.

My son and his pals were quick to leave when three young male residents began suspiciously heading towards their vehicle. The newbie officers didn’t feel comfortable hanging around any longer. It was the smart thing for them to do. Several places on my list of things to see couldn’t be found. Watching Gunnar’s video made me sad, and I hadn’t even made a move back to Selma to see for myself.

Selma, Alabama still has a lot to offer. The town’s history is rich and deep, with many early plantation style homes still standing. Unfortunately, in my research, I place blame directly on politicians for letting crime get out of hand. It appears they held back the police from doing their job. Criminals were coddled instead of being dealt with in a proper fashion. This has had a negative impact much like the closing of Craig.

Vernon, Alabama went through a financial downfall of its own sixty years ago. The cotton gin permanently closed taking valuable revenue along with it, and several years after that, their garment plant closed. My mother at one time worked in the clothing factory. In spite of such, Vernon appears to have weathered things much better than Selma. I applaud government leaders for finding a new direction. As an infant, I lived in Vernon for perhaps one year, so technically speaking I’m a former resident.

A while back, I had a dream that Joleen and I were living in one of those white-pillar, Civil War era, Selma mansions. The dream went downhill quite fast. This fantasy home had bars on doors and windows much like a jail. Instead of being there to keep criminals in, they were needed to keep them out. A tall fence around the grounds was built to dissuade potential looters from entering. Some might say that was a vision or an omen. I wouldn’t go that far although it does make me wonder

With Selma out of the picture I could easily move back to Vernon, but finding a suitable house for sale seems hard to do. There are very few listed. A historic, 1854, antebellum home in Columbus, Mississippi is up for grabs. Moving it the 31 miles to Vernon might be a futile undertaking. I guess you could say this is more of a pipe dream than anything else!

I was reflecting the other day on how different my life would be, if I’d been totally honest with family, friends, and strangers in all areas. I’m talking about not using little white lies in everyday situations. Bald-faced lies are much different. I make a choice not to go that far. A white lie according to several online references, is an innocent lie designed not to hurt people’s feelings.

These same sources show that a bald or bold-faced lie is much higher on the fib scale. Bald-faced is blatantly obvious/and or impudent truth, one in which the liar does not attempt to cover up their mendacity. I had to look up mendacity having never used that word. Turns out it’s a fancy name for lying and untruthfulness. Why does it start with men?

I can think back to perhaps the earliest white lie I told. Our 4th grade class was having a cakewalk and parents were asked to supply a cake. Mom baked a yellow one with vanilla icing. I participated in this event and won. Rather than take mom’s cake as a prize, I chose an all chocolate version made by another lady. My mother was upset, delicate feelings hurt.

When asked why I didn’t choose hers I had to think fast,

“Because yours was the first one taken!”

That was a winning combination of untruthful words. I’ve been on a roll ever since!

I’ve told food servers in restaurants that their food was good, when it wasn’t. I informed ill family and friends in the hospital that they looked good, when they didn’t. I’ve lied about clothing, hair, and age more than anything. I don’t know how many car salesmen I’ve fibbed to over the past 30-years.

“Mr. Hankins, what would it take for me make you keeper of the keys?”

When I should honestly should have said, “Hit the road Jack, with that price it’s not gonna happen”, I resorted to a well-rehearsed and untruthful line, “Let me think about it some more, I’ll get back to you.”

Hopefully none of those poor folks are still waiting for my call. I did this so as not to hurt their feelings, at least that’s what I told myself. In actuality, it was to get them off my back. I’m not one to endure high-pressure sales tactics. Regardless, it’s still a borderline white lie on my part.

Years ago, I worked with a guy that had severe male-pattern-baldness. He was very self-conscious of the problem. Art (not his real name) came to the shop one day wearing a shaggy toupee. He asked what I thought. What’s a fellow to say in situations like this?

“Looks good!”

Most everyone in the building commented the same as I did. Whenever Art wasn’t around the jokes flew.

“Looks like roadkill to me!” one mechanic laughingly informed a group of us.

The other day I told someone working in a grocery store how old I was. Her polite response back to me was,

“I would’ve never guessed that!”

I’m not sure how I’d felt had she honestly said,

“Man, I pegged you to be another ten-years older.”

I’m glad this gal didn’t tell the truth, because the mirror does an excellent job of that each morning.

From my research, the Bible makes no mention of any type of lie as being acceptable. Webster’s Dictionary on the other hand defines white lies as being okay. Interesting, because Noah Webster was a Christian. It’s a confusing subject for me. I don’t like spinning white lies, yet on the other hand, upsetting people with the blatant truth can be hurtful on both ends.

Had I been absolutely honest with people over time in delicate areas, I’d most likely have no friends. My family would stay away, with strangers proclaiming that Michael Hankins is a crass old man. I don’t want that label.

I don’t mind folks telling me a little white lie where my age is concerned. On the other hand, should I ever stoop to wearing one of those silly rugs on my head like some guys, please be upfront and honest in your opinion. Save me some lingering embarrassment and grief by crying out,

“Looks like roadkill to me!”

There’s a new gas station / convenience store breaking ground within walking distance of where I live. I’m talking the Sweetwater – South Acoma area. Huge, yellow, Caterpillar dozers and a road grader are trying to bust through the concrete hard, boulder infested property. Most likely, dynamite will eventually be needed.

Several years ago, the late John Ballard told me, “That’s some of the hardest ground in all of Lake Havasu City!”  John would know, because for over 20-years he installed real estate and political signs throughout town.  He ended up using sandbags to hold political signs upright in this area. What’s totally ironic is that the side street going by this development, Ballard Way, is named after John.

Some people in the neighborhood are okay with this project, while others are not. Having lived in close proximity to a strip joint plus numerous seedy bars in Alaska, I have absolutely no problem. Back in the day, gas stations had obnoxious bells to advise service station attendants that cars and trucks needed fuel. Thankfully, those noisy devices are no longer needed. I might not be so upbeat about this new facility if they were.

I see this as mere progress. There was a time when south Havasu lacked in amenities like the ones in middle town and the northside. Those days are quickly coming to an end. Stores and offices of all flavor are moving south. The Havasu Riviera development has definitely made it desirable for new businesses to locate here. Evidently, Maverik, Inc. saw a golden opportunity to expand and jumped on it.

When I look at all the pluses in having them within walking distance of my house, one major benefit pops up. When it’s 120 degrees outside, and I need a brain-freezing cherry slush, “my fix” is less than 200 paces away. How many people can claim that up on Cherry Tree Boulevard!

As a youngster, I often wondered why some older folks copped an attitude over the littlest things. Dad would get upset if the morning newspaper was not there before he left for work. Had I analyzed things by TV wisdom alone, I would’ve guessed a lack of Geritol led to his irritability. Geritol’s rarely mentioned anymore for whatever reason?

Back in the day, this bottled elixir was constantly being touted on television as a cure for iron poor blood, anxiety, and irritability. Mom served plenty of collard greens and red beets at dinner, as an alternative means of pumping up our blood with minerals and nutrients. That’s not all her cooked vegetables produced. Ethyl is slang for what I’m referring to. Younger readers will have to look it up. Now that I’ve reached senior status, I understand the root of irritability goes much deeper than lack of iron or sleep.

Early on, I was taught responsibility by my parents. That meant taking a bath, brushing my teeth, household chores, homework, keeping the lawn mowed, picking up our dog’s poo, along with other assigned duties.

Once married, I had to be responsible to my wife, children, employer, and people I didn’t even know. My pastor told the congregation that we needed to be responsible to the man upstairs. When he mentioned we, he meant me in that sense.

Over the years I’ve worked hard and did my best to provide for the family. I believe I’ve succeeded in this area. We never lived at the top of the hill yet managed to survive just the same.

Throughout time, I incurred many tasks that I did not like. Paperwork is one of them. To this day, I do not like having to constantly fill out forms of any kind, especially mortgage refinance papers.

I was in a medical office last week, and the receptionist claimed that I needed to update my personal information. When I told her that nothing had changed, she handed me an electronic clipboard just the same.

Starting down the list, they asked if any of my medications were different, did I have covid at any time, or come in contact with someone that did. Was I having any new issues? It was the usual array of questions that every doctor’s office wants answered, including needing to know if I was white, black, or brown.

I really didn’t fit any of the 3 colors offered. White to me is a defining color like those huge pillars standing in front of the White House. In the movie “Powder”, the lead character was what I’d call white. I’m definitely not black nor brown at this stage, although early on I turned light brown in the sun. These days without sunscreen I remain a reddish hue much like an almost done steak.

The question that had me most confused was the gender one. It asked if I was male, female, bisexual, transgender, and the list seemingly went on and on. I can’t remember them all. A choice of other went with this inquiry; explanation needed if you chose it. At this point I became a bit irritable, yet not enough to intentionally harm myself.

Had I ever considered harming myself was actually one of the questions asked. My body does ache from a bad back and arthritis, but that pain isn’t intentional on my part. I ran out of time before I could answer everything. The nurse practitioner called me back to her examination room, saying I could finish up before leaving.

Getting back to my truck, I remembered that I hadn’t stopped at the counter to complete things.

“Whatever!”

Next trip in I’m sure they’ll make sure I finish all empty blanks. I have 3 answers ready for blastoff:

1. New problems: Irritability
2. Color: Medium well
3. Gender: Cyborg

Before closing, I found that the late actress Betty White hawked Geritol in the middle 1950’s as a cure all for many ills. Everyone knows that Betty was always cool and calm, never appearing irritable or hostile. The lovable Betty White lived to be 99. Maybe there’s something to this Geritol after all?

My wife and I are addicted to McDonald’s coffee. We generally share a medium size cup each morning. I can’t say that McDonald’s coffee is the best in town, but the price is right. The well-organized crew working Swanson Boulevard McDonald’s drive-thru makes it even better.

I did some research to see where McDonald’s gets their coffee beans. Some company named Gavina is their supplier. I can only assume that Gavina purchased their beans from Juan Valdez at one time. Old-timers should remember Juan. He represented the Columbian Coffee Growers Association and appeared in numerous commercials with his pack mule.

Juan Valdez was actually a fictitious name. The fellow playing this part was Carlos Sanchez. Sadly, Carlos passed away on January 14, 2019 at the age of 83. He was one of those instantly likable characters, always wearing a smile. I give Juan partial credit for getting me hooked on java.

While sitting in the drive-thru line waiting for our Cup O’ Joe, I always make a mental note of things going on around our car. There’s never a dull moment it seems. I have a running bet with my wife on which drive-thru line will be fastest. I generally choose the left and her the right. It’s always a toss-up. We’ve been doing this for a couple of years now and no one line is consistently faster.

Joleen and I have seen some interesting things during this time. Early one morning, an older fellow in front of us was snoozing. I suppose he hadn’t had his coffee, either that, or the guy was just coming home after a wild night in Laughlin. A light toot on my horn got him moving.

We’ve observed folks order and then keep on driving when it was time to pay. I suppose leaving a wallet or purse at home accounts for most of those wasted trips.

A lifted Ford truck pulling a large boat tried to squeeze through the right hand line. After barely getting past the order board, this driver found that he couldn’t make the turn. He ended up having to back out with help from several other young guys, along with assistance from a McDonald’s maintenance man.

Texting, totally unaware that the car in front has moved forward, sets the pace for most incidents. Never mind that the person behind them has to wait. We’ve watched irate drive-thru customers honk and then yell to get these rude individuals moving.

Some folks have taken five minutes or longer to order just a couple of items. After one woman moved ahead, I saw on the screen that she ordered an Egg McMuffin and Coke. I suppose she needed to know exactly what’s in the breakfast sandwich, along with how many calories and fat grams.

We’ve seen impatient drivers lay on their horn hoping that’ll speed the process up, including a couple of guys smoking their tires on the way out. I suppose those clowns were running a bit late for work. They couldn’t have been retirees like us, could they? I mean, why would any retired person be in a hurry unless they need to get to a hospital.

So far, the biggest order we’ve observed was $139.00. That was a guy in an expensive Mercedes sedan with California plates. Undoubtedly, there have been bigger orders. Perhaps the funniest thing I observed was a burly fellow like me dropping his credit card at the pay window.

Cars were stacked up behind and in front of him. Being so close to the building, the poor man couldn’t open his door to retrieve the card. He had to crawl across the console and exit through his passenger door. There still wasn’t room for him to squeeze between the vehicle and wall. By this time he was sweating profusely. An employee finally handed the fellow a broom and he was able to snag it. I’d bet the McDonald’s workers have witnessed even funnier things.

Birds of all type are generally in the parking lot each morning. I’m sure they come to take in the drive-thru action, plus have a snack on the side. Just as Havasu locals get a kick out of watching out-of-state boaters attempt to back down a launch ramp, I believe those seagulls, blackbirds, and pigeons get a chuckle out of watching caffeine depraved humans nearly lose it each morning.

The small price we pay each morning for a Cup O’ Joe is well worth the money, especially since the entertainment going with it is free. I’m sure the late Juan Valdez would agree!

Thirty-seven years ago, while living in Alaska, my wife and I were given an opportunity to go on a weeklong cruise of the Hawaiian Islands.  Republic Automotive picked up the tab. Our group consisted of perhaps forty people, most all connected to the automotive parts industry. Transportation was provided roundtrip out of Anchorage.

It was January and brutally cold. Our plane departed around one in the morning, and I was never so glad to be out of there. A lady sitting behind me with no connection to our group was sniffing and coughing. She must’ve felt guilty because I heard her remark to a flight attendant,

“I planned this trip a year ago and nothing’s going to stop me from going!”

At the time I didn’t think too much about what this woman said. A day later when I was sick, and just about everyone else in our party had the crud, I remembered her statement. Coming down with the flu while on a ship is not the most pleasant experience. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch came to mind here. Undoubtedly, had this woman wore a mask she could’ve spared some of us her misery. I doubt that even crossed the gal’s mind.

This woman who I nicknamed, “Hacking Harriet,” was selfish enough to be totally unconcerned about spreading her germs to others. All she cared about was getting to Maui. There are millions just like her out there. Today, many of them use the term “freedom” in justifying just about anything they do. Ignoring the speed limit, tailgating, setting off mega-loud fireworks where they’re prohibited, cursing loudly when children are present, littering, not picking up after their dog, the list goes on and on.

The other morning, I was in a local industrial store to purchase some hydraulic fittings. A customer standing in front of me was coughing and hacking.  He looked absolutely horrible. I instinctively stepped back a couple of paces with flashbacks of Hacking Harriet coming to mind. Thankfully, the store door was open, and a small breeze pushed all of his germs the opposite direction of me. A store employee standing downwind wished the fellow luck on getting better. The sick customer’s response was amazing,

“I should’ve never come to work.”

I almost blurted out, “No kidding buddy!”, yet bit my tongue.

A couple of days later I was back in this store and noticed several faces missing. Asking an employee, I was told a few guys called in sick. I pretty much predicted that’d happen. No one in the building had on masks except me. Thankfully, I sported one the previous trip as well.

With the callous and carefree attitude of so many people, this covid virus will never go away. There’s now talk about letting medical workers come to work ill, just like that guy I encountered in the industrial store. It doesn’t take a huge amount of smarts to see how that’ll turn out.

The Hacking Harriet’s of this world will continue to do as they do. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, they lost a few marbles. I’m thankful with mounting years, that I still have mine, plus a few that I found.

Found

Perhaps my biggest pet peeve, is another driver flashing their brights at me believing that mine are on. It happens quite often. I suppose that’s because I keep my headlight lenses clean. It’s either that, or people with severe glaucoma or cataracts sit behind the wheel of an oncoming vehicle.

The worst stretch of road where this occurs is at the exit past Needles, California, on U.S. 95 north heading to Laughlin and Searchlight, Nevada. There are a bunch of dips in the road along that route making it appear high beams are lit when they’re not.

It also takes place quite often in this town. Some city streets are inclined as they cross Highway 95, thus, directing vehicle headlight rays upwards. I’ve sat at numerous redlights at either South Acoma, Swanson, or Smoketree, and had a disgruntled driver shine their high-beams at me. When I flash mine back, they generally get the message. Sometimes they don’t. That happened the other evening.

I was on Smoketree stopped at the light heading west. McDonald’s restaurant was my destination. Across 95 from me was a small car going east. The guy flipped on his brights and left them that way. I blipped my headlight switch. He obliviously didn’t get the message.

Reverting back to blind you status, I kept mine on high-beam as payback. It turned into a showdown of sorts. We sat through the first light with neither car budging. There were no vehicles behind either of us, so all was good. I wished at that point I had aircraft landing lights.

My wife glared at me asking, “What are you doing?” I didn’t answer because it was a man thing, and she wouldn’t understand.

After sitting through one full light, we entered another segment of the standoff before a truck rolled up behind the guy. The man reluctantly crossed 95 giving me an angry stare as he drove past. It was another old geezer like me. I’m sure the fellow noticed I wore sunglasses. I never leave home without them.

Some might say that this was childish behavior on our part. Police would claim such events can lead to road rage. Both opinions hold merit. Regardless, it was obvious to me that I came out the victor and that’s all that mattered at the time.

My wife wasn’t happy, yet I believe Sheriff Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday would’ve been proud. I suppose if it happens again, and it will, I’ll simply put my sunglasses on and look away like so many times before. That would be the smart thing to do. I’m sure Chief Dan Doyle of the Lake Havasu City Police Department would agree.

I have friends on each side of the fence, with valid opinions on whether masks work or not where covid and omicron protection is concerned. None of them are experts on the subject. Those same friends have their own ideas regarding vaccinations. Most, if not all, get their information via television screens, reading books and magazines, neighbors, or through Facebook and YouTube self–proclaimed experts.

It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out that if masks didn’t work, doctors and nurses wouldn’t use them. Are they 100% effective at stopping germs? No, but it doesn’t take Albert Einstein to see that some protection is better than none. How about vaccinations? I’m thankful my parents didn’t believe that polio and smallpox shots were acts of government overreach. Partially due to Dad and Mom’s wise medical decisions early on, I’ve lived a healthy disease-free life up to this point.

Imagine being in a sinking boat with 999 other people. All passengers have an empty milk jug to help bail water, yet each jug has a small hole in the bottom. Two-hundred people right off the bat refuse to bail when asked to, saying that it infringes on their freedom. They sit back taunting those doing the bailing.

No matter how fast the others bail, a small amount of water still escapes from their jug back into the bottom of the boat. In spite of such, the vessel’s still afloat and headed to safe harbor.

Before long, many people start complaining about the jugs not being 100% effective. They see it as wasted energy on their part to continue. The freedom crowd cheers them on. This do-nothing group works hard at persuading folks to drop their milk jugs and join the carefree party.

Hours later, the ones still continuing to bail can’t keep up. Water eventually reaches the top of the hull and the boat sinks. That’s exactly where this country is headed in areas of infectious viruses like covid and omicron.

I’ll end my New Year’s eve spiel with a line from famous American philosopher, Forrest Gump,

“Stupid is as stupid does!”

Referring back to my hypothetical story of the sinking boat, it’s quite easy to see who the stupid ones are.

I’ve never written a Christmas story. It’s not that I don’t have good memories of events leading up to Jesus’ birthday. No siree! I have so many recollections that it’s hard to pick just one.

I was blessed to share Christmas with a loving dad, mom, and brother. Not everyone is that fortunate. There are dozens of unique events I recall from celebrating Christmas with my family in a puny trailer home. I’ll leave those for another day. For now, I’ll opt for this short one:

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

The year was 1964. My family lived in Lubbock, Texas where I was a ten-year-old fledgling Boy Scout. Our troop had an annual Christmas tree sale, with scouts expected to man the fort for two weeks. When I say fort, I mean a small camping trailer on a dirt lot. Trees came in on a flatbed truck and were offloaded by hand. I still recall the strong smell of spruce and sap. The sticky goo wouldn’t wash off my hands and clothes without using ample amounts of Pinesol. That cleaning agent had its own pungent aroma.

My shift consisted of the last two days of the sale. By then, all of the good trees were long gone. We had perhaps ten specimens left and they were quite homely. The prices were marked down accordingly. Surprisingly, folks still came by to save a buck. My scoutmaster showed me a clever trick to help get rid of the last sickly few.

“These guys were dead on arrival.”, he mentioned, while shaking his head in tearless sympathy. “Let’s pretty them up!”

I don’t remember the scoutmaster’s name, but he carried in his car trunk, a drill, small hand saw, and some clear glue. It was much too cold outside to perform surgery, so we hauled ailing trees inside the trailer where a propane heater was going. A folding table served as our operating platform.

The fellow showed me how to drill holes in trees that were missing limbs, cut good limbs from a donor tree, dab glue on a branch end, and then twist it in place. Dr. Frankenstein couldn’t have done better. Once the task was complete, that tree went back outside and another took its place. After finishing up, my mentor replied,

“They’re now on life support!”

We sold almost all of them, with no buyers noticing the surgery. When it came time to close shop around noon on December 24th, there were three trees left. Those were the donors minus numerous branches. They were good for burning and nothing else. I never forgot my scoutmaster’s tree-trick. Several years later it came in handy.

My family had a gangly looking artificial tree with several places on it void of limbs. Somehow, my son and I were able to scrounge up a spare. I believe it was an old one that mom had but can’t be sure. Holes were drilled in the trunk of the good one, with limbs from the donor tree removed and inserted into them. It was a flashback to 1964. That artificial tree lasted us for at least sixteen Christmases.

I still recall three things learned in the Boy Scouts, with Christmas-tree-restoration being the most useful next to tying square and granny knots.