I like to write junk…

I was a “pupil” at one time in my life. Several 1960’s school report cards indicate such. Was I a good pupil? I like to think so.

Webster’s New World Dictionary defines pupil as: A young person who is being taught under the supervision of a tutor or teacher, as in school.

I had several outstanding teachers including a couple of imaginary tutors. More on that later.

The word pupil is hardly used these days unless of course we’re talking about those dark spots in your eyes. Ophthalmologists like to mess with pupils during eye checkups. They dilate them to make sure you can’t see clearly. The procedure is intended to test a patient’s driving skills on the way home.

I have all my report cards except 1st grade. Pupil is mentioned on several coffee-stained survivors. I suppose mom and dad inspected them at breakfast, accidentally spilling a few drops of precious Maxwell House while reading.

Gazing at these relics is like cruising back in time. Some of my teacher’s remarks were quite interesting, especially the ones of high praise.

Fourth grade teacher Mrs. Hagan wrote:

Michael fails to listen and follow instructions.

Nothing has really changed in that area. What guy does listen and follow instructions? It’s inherent to the species.

Mrs. Drake, my 5th grade teacher was especially observant of my efforts. She wrote the most uplifting critiques of all.

The first 6 weeks:

Mike could do better with a little more effort.

The third 6 weeks:

Mike just doesn’t pay attention.

The fourth 6 weeks:

Mike seems to be improving some.

On the final 6 weeks Mrs. Drake didn’t hold back:

Mike could sure do much better. I just haven’t found the way to get him to put out!

Fifth grade was the year I discovered The Hardy Boys mystery series. I’d stay up into the wee hours of morning reading these intriguing books. Frank and Joe Hardy tutored me on things that I’d never learn at school. Dad and mom didn’t have to pay these guys for private lessons.

A few important tips picked up from Frank and Joe were:

In high school it pays to have a car if you’re going to date.

Hot rods are an acceptable form of transportation.

Hanging with the in crowd is overrated.

It’s okay to be cool and still be friends with squares and introverts.

Adventure comes before homework.

When mom discovered what was going on, she, along with Mrs. Drake thought they’d put a stop to my educational slump by declaring: Lights off at nine. That lasted a good portion of the fourth 6 weeks. Little did they know a small flashlight used the final 6 weeks worked great for reading under covers.

If I ever was a teacher’s pet, it was in Mrs. Turner’s 6th grade class. I believe my quirky sense of humor matched hers. She wasn’t so amused when me and another kid placed Greenie Stick’em Caps on the bottom of desk legs. They popped when a desk chair was sat in, leaving black marks on classroom floor. We were instructed to clean them up under a janitor’s supervision.

In spite of that prank gone awry, Mrs. Turner wrote on back of my last report card for me to visit her that summer. We left for Alaska nine days before school let out. Mom picked me up early that last day. My mother said Mrs. Turner had tears in her eyes. My brother said it was tears of happiness on finally getting rid of me.

I’m not sure where my fictional tutor’s Frank and Joe Hardy are these days? I like to believe they married high-school sweethearts, Callie Shaw and Iola Morton. Author, Franklin W. Dixon never made that clear.

The foursome would now own high-powered metal detectors, poking around golden beaches for treasure chests laden to the gills with gold doubloons and jewels. Of course, their kids and grandchildren would be digging in the sand as well on their own treasure hunting expeditions. Adventure runs thick in Hardy blood.

Age wise, Frank and Joe would be in their mid 90’s. With The Hardy Boys being exercise and health nuts, all of the above is entirely possible where this fictional series is concerned.

I’m so glad they were a part of my life!

I can’t say that I dislike all ants. Some of them are fun to watch as long as they aren’t climbing up my leg. I’ve had certain species enter my pants more than once.

The things are amazingly strong. Larger ones can hoist a Cheerio. I’m talking Big O here as in the popular oat cereal. Ants even buddy up and work together to haul food back to their cave. This work ethic should be taught to children in school.

As a child I wanted an ant farm. Some of my friends owned them. Mom was always afraid the plastic ant container would break. What difference did it make when we had them as uninvited guests anyway?

Sugar ants are the first variety I recall. That’s probably not their scientific name, yet it works fine for my reading level. One day there was a line of sugar ants stretched a mile-long across our table to a sugar bowl. It was actually 10-feet, yet to the teeny-legged ants it was definitely a mile.

My brother and I followed the insects down a table leg, across linoleum tile, to a crack in the bathroom floor of our small trailer. The small insects were marching like trained soldiers up a copper water pipe from the ground below. Dad took care of them with a can of DDT bug spray. This stuff came in a green, military issue aerosol can. The Air Force gave it out like candy back then to servicemen, in hopes it’d help keep the mosquito population down. The experiment failed.

As a child, I made the mistake of sitting on grass at our school playground. Unbeknownst to me, the soil underneath was teeming with thousands of Alabama fire ants. All I could do was take off running. Mom used plenty of Calamine Lotion later that afternoon to ease the pain.

Texas red ants were something else. These large creatures were hard to kill. There was a large anthill in front of our home in Lubbock, Texas. My father and another man tossed lit firecrackers onto their lively commune. When fire hit gunpowder, the forthcoming explosion blew ants onto me. I was stupid enough to be standing too close. All the concussion did was make them mad. They took their anger out on soft flesh.

Dad eliminated that colony along with some of his hair, using plenty of gasoline poured on top of the anthill. It was hot that day, and before he struck a match, highly combustible fumes quickly spread several feet. It was like an atomic bomb going off.

This time I was far enough away to not incur injury, but dad and the other fellow got singed. An ensuing fire turned a good majority of the colony into crispy critters. By the following day they were back. It took several more fires to make them move on down the road.

While living in Texas, I learned how to fry ants with a magnifying glass. Just recently, I read an article written by a child psychologist, claiming that kids doing such were prone to becoming psychopaths. I’d venture to say this intellectual wizard never had boys of her own.

Most all of my friends used magnifying glasses for entertainment. We initially started out burning leaves and paper, but quickly advanced to hunting for moving targets. It took skill to keep the pinpoint of light from a magnifying glass trained on a speedy ant. Did any of us turn into psychopaths? I guess that depends on who you ask.

I started to show my son how magnifying glasses worked when he was around 11 years old. A buddy of his had already tutored him. Gunnar demonstrated how to ignite a match with a magnifying glass inside a clear bottle. The snap-on lid blew off from combustion. An elementary teacher taught me that trick around sixth grade. I suppose Mr. Harper would be arrested these days for endangerment.

Black Carpenter ants are abundant in Alaska. They were destructive around our place. A portion of the lower siding around our house had holes made from these pests. They set up shop in the moisture laden plywood. A man at Lowe’s in Anchorage told me the only way to eliminate them is keep wood away from your home. I didn’t say anything at the time, but thought to myself,

“Aren’t houses made mostly of wood?”

I eventually found some granular ant-killer that did them in. The damage to our house? Good ole’ automotive Bondo took care of patching them, along with fixing a few woodpecker holes.

Here in Arizona we have humongous fire ants. These are evidently kin to the Alabama and Texas fire ants, only tougher where outer shell is concerned. I think somehow they got wind that I’m a serial ant killer. I see more and more on our driveway each year.

They’re so resilient, that I’ve stomped a few and the impact didn’t kill them. I’ve missed and had them run towards me as if to attack. They are vicious but I have the ultimate weapon to fight back.

If these guys want to play with fire, I have plenty of it myself. Forget the magnifying glass. I purchased a large weed burner complete with 20-pound bottle of propane. It’s like a WWII flame thrower to me. I’ve used it many times on ants, grasshoppers, and scorpions. Believe me, this thing gets the job done like right now. I named it, “The Antcinerator” for good reason.

It’s unfortunate I didn’t have this tool in Alabama and Texas. It makes dad’s ‘gasoline in the hole’ trick look primitive. Besides, my torch is much safer.

Alaska is another story. Had I ignorantly blasted those pesky Carpenter ants with flame, logic tells me our house would’ve been burnt toast. Even Bondo can’t fix that kind of stupid!

I was blessed to grow up in Anchorage during the muscle car era. With my dad eventually owning a gas station, I got to drive many of the hottest vehicles Detroit offered. This journey started in 1969. My passion for fast cars began a few years earlier when I discovered Hot Rod and Car Craft magazines.

My father was in the Air Force stationed at Elmendorf. He worked evenings at Marswalk Texaco, located on DeBarr Road and Boniface Parkway. Isaiah Lewis and Doug Sizemore were also employees of this business; Bill Fisher and Joe Ridge included.

One afternoon when I was hanging around the station, Doug Sizemore offered me a ride in his 1963 Ford Falcon. It had a built 260 V-8 under the hood with 4-speed transmission. He banged all four gears while I held on for dear life. I was hooked at that point.

A couple of years later my father and Isaiah Lewis purchased Yeager’s Texaco on Taku Drive. They changed the name to Wonderpark Texaco. I was hired at $2.00 an hour to pump gas, clean floors and windows, plus other assigned duties. It wasn’t long before I was changing oil, lubricating chassis parts, turning wrenches, and of course taking the necessary test drives to make sure all was good.

Richard Watts was a fledgling employee of Carr’s in 1969. He had a ’69 440 powered Plymouth GTX back then, so he must’ve been making decent money. I idolized the young man for his vehicle alone.

One day Richard stopped by to have his car serviced. He had to work that day so “Lewis” asked me drive him to the Carr’s grocery store on Gambell. I was elated on finding I’d be piloting the GTX. It was a moment that’d change my life. I became addicted to Chrysler products because of that one experience.

Richard Watts went on to climb the ladder at Carr’s. A hard worker, he was a positive influence in my life. Ed Moses, a customer of ours, was the same. I don’t recall Ed having a fast car like Richard’s.

A fellow named Tom owned a 1964 Pontiac GTO. It had a 389 with single Rochester carburetor. Tom wanted three, two-barrel carbs installed like some GTO’s came with. Lewis told me it was one of the man’s final wishes as he had a serious health problem.

Lewis made sure that happened. I got to test the car afterwards and found it quite peppy. Only a few years later Lewis told me that Tom passed away. I remember him being a super nice guy.

Tom’s 1964 Pontiac wasn’t as fast as a 1970 455 HO GTO owned by a soldier named Anthony. We called him Bob for whatever reason? I no longer remember his last name although several years back I did.

I test drove Bob’s emerald green Pontiac on a drizzly rainy day. Going about 50 mph on the Glenn Highway, I punched the throttle to see what she’d do. Don’t ask me why female connotations are used for cars, but they were back then. Bob’s GTO immediately went sideways. Luckily I was able to keep her out of the ditch.

Later on I got to try things out on a dry road. To this day I believe it was faster than Richard Watt’s Plymouth GTX. It’d smoke the tires at will.

We had a supercharged Corvair in the shop numerous times. It was unimpressive in the acceleration department. An Army guy brought it up the Al-Can Highway. When the engine tossed a connecting rod, Alaska Towing & Wrecking hauled it away on a wrecker. I’m sure the square Chevy was crushed.

A 1967 SOHC 6-cylinder Pontiac Firebird was fairly quick. It had a 3-speed manual transmission with Hurst shifter. I delivered it to a customer who lived downtown near Bootlegger’s Cove. Going through the gears a few times on the way there, before long, burnt clutch permeated my nose. I made sure to roll both windows down and air things out as the owner had to take me back to the station. Thankfully he didn’t notice the pungent odor.

There were Dodge Challenger’s and Barracuda’s in for service on occasion. One 1970 340 Challenger belonged to a young fellow in Mt. View. He must’ve had three pine-tree air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror. Lewis mentioned with a grin that they were needed to drown out any plant smell. I guess this guy was a big user including dealer. I’m sure it was for medicinal purposes.

I still remember like yesterday, taking that car back to a little trailer on the outskirts of Mt. View. Cisco Kid played the whole way going and coming. Yea, he was a friend of mine too.

We had Mustang’s galore come in for service. I drove a good many of them including a Boss 302. It was quick. The majority were unimpressive 6-cylinder and 289 powered models.

For all the Camaro’s running around town, I can’t recall any of them coming to our shop. I did get to drive several belonging to friends. They were light-weight and snappy with 302, 327, and 350 engines.

A customer living in Muldoon owned a 1967 American Motors Marlin fastback. To this day I believe it’s the ugliest car ever manufactured. The fellow possessing it bragged on how fast his Marlin was. I transported this slug to Action Locksmith on 5th Avenue for new keys to be made. It was absolutely gutless in the power department. I cringed thinking someone from high school might see me in it.

I picked up my own muscle cars and hot rods as money became more readily available. A 1968 Charger R/T 440, 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T convertible, 1954 Chevy sedan with 302, Z-28 Camaro engine, 1972 SS454 Chevelle, Corvette 350 V-8 powered Vega, 1969 and 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner’s (at least 7), 1968 426 Hemi Charger’s (2), 1968 supercharged 426 Hemi GTX, 1975 SS454 El Camino, 1969 SS L78 350 Camaro, 1961 Corvette, 1975 Firebird Formula 400, plus vehicles not worth mentioning like a gold 1970 Camaro Sports Coupe with 6-cylinder engine.

These days I’m still into fast vehicles but not as heavy as my early years. I’ll always keep a Hot Rod in my garage just because I’m a car guy. Right now, that’s a 2021 Charger Redeye. It’ll have to suffice until either a faster vehicle comes along, or I build another.

I’m thinking about a new project. Something tells me this next one will be electric!

I’ve been on this planet long enough to recognize an armchair expert after only a few minutes of conversation. These are the guys and gals believing they possess intelligence levels equivalent to Albert Einstein; perhaps higher. Know-it-all is a politically-correct term used to describe this less than intelligent bunch.

Where sport’s unintelligence is concerned, armchair quarterback is the buzz word. This group is harmless compared to the other.

An armchair expert told me years ago that wearing a helmet was dangerous while riding a motorcycle. I’ve often heard bikers say that.

“You can’t hear with a helmet on!”, one fool told me. This guy couldn’t hear with his helmet off. He liked to sit up front at rock concerts.

Fortunately, I recognized his brain disorder right away and didn’t follow suit. The misinformed guy eventually met his demise doing exactly what he preached.

“Smoking will never hurt me!”

It’s rare to hear that anymore. Back in the day though, armchair experts mentioned it quite often. Sadly, the big C claimed a good majority of them.

“I don’t wear a seatbelt because they’re so constraining!”

I read a story where an armchair expert claimed their friend would’ve lived had she not been wearing a seatbelt. I’ve read numerous stories where lives were saved by vehicle occupants wearing them.

The latest craze where armchair quarterbacking is concerned revolves around misinformation on Covid 19. I’ve had so many people give me erroneous advice that my head spins. If you don’t have Dr. in front of your name, please, your opinion means little or nothing.

My doctors still advise me to wear a mask when I go out in public. It’s no biggie to me. Been doing it for over a year now. These medical professionals also suggest that I sanitize my hands afterwards. If Rob, the car mechanic, claims that masks are a joke, I’ll look at him just like I do folks saying not to wear helmets while riding a bicycle or motorcycle.

“Fool!”, I’ll think, but not say.

The internet’s full of misleading information on every subject. Conspiracy theories are lying around like trash outside a convenience store.

I’ll make my decisions on Covid 19 prevention based on what qualified professionals say. Most politician’s opinions do not count here. I have about as much faith in their analysis of things as I do Rob, the mechanic’s.

The man upstairs has my full attention. God is the leading expert on this subject. Right now he’s telling me to use my brain, and not rely on flawed advice coming from armchair experts!

I’m ready for simplicity. Exactly where to find it is daunting? My Grandma & Grandpa Hankins were successful in living a simple life. They didn’t own a television or phone.

Grandpa & Grandma lived on top of a hill in Vernon, Alabama. A man named Joe Lee rented the drafty old place to them for a song. The wood structure was heated by a stone fireplace. Either wood or coal was burned to produce heat. Most of this went up the chimney.

Late at night things cooled off to the point where you needed a thick quilt to snuggle under. Grandma always made sure my brother and I had two.

There was an outhouse located near thick woods about 50-feet from the door. I’d never use it at night preferring a porcelain bucket instead. I stayed with them many times. Life was good back then!

There was a time when fancy and expensive things owned by other people impressed me. Not so much anymore. From what dad told me, my grandparents were content in not keeping up with the Jones’s. He didn’t use those exact words. Thankfully, I’ve never seen fit to compete with others in financial areas. I would’ve lost before the game began. Far as I know, no first place trophy has ever been handed out.

Mom often told me that money burned holes in my pockets. I didn’t understand her reasoning until my 30’s. My philosophy back then: Money’s meant to be spent! I didn’t understand the principle of saving for a rainy day. I do now having experienced hard times.

Grandma and Grandpa weren’t wealthy. They made do with what Grandpa earned as a painter and wallpaper installer. I remember the trunk of his 1938 Chevrolet having a chalk line inside, brushes, cleaning solvent, along with other painting utensils and knives. I also recall that dull-black Chevy having no brakes. He’d put it in low-gear going down the steep hill to slow things down. Mom would never let me ride with Grandpa during these times for reasons only a mother can explain.

These days my wife and I are on a mission to downsize. That means selling off or giving away junk no longer needed. We’ve both settled on a little town in Kansas called Alta Vista to call home; at least for 6 months out of the year. Arizona will suffice during winter. Both of us hate cold with a passion.

I don’t own a smartphone or a cellphone. Fancy restaurants aren’t appealing to me, other than perhaps for special occasions. Fast-food is fine for date night. I love piddling around in the garage even if it means nothing accomplished. Televisions are only needed when hockey or Supercross is on. A good book is entertainment enough. Time spent with my pets and wife is more than satisfying. Some of the above might not apply to her. I best not ask.

Looking back to where I’ve been, and where I’m at now, perhaps I found simplicity and didn’t even know it!

Senior Time Blues

I’m pushin’ 70.

Warped mind say’s 25.

Eyes are losin’ vision.

Friends says my brain is fried.

Colon does not work right.

Doc said to eat some prunes.

Even with a mouth full.

I’m stuck in the bathroom.

Tried some citric acid.

To help my food digest.

Now I have an ulcer.

Poor stomach is a mess.

Read where homo’pathic.

The safest way to go.

Loads of beans and cabbage,

Will force my junk to flow.

Methane gas like crazy.

I’m ready to explode.

Please don’t bring a candle,

Around this pink commode.

There are others like me,

Singin’ senior time blues.

Teachers did not warn us,

Those ills will not improve!

Joleen and I get junk mail all the time. I suppose everyone does. For several years I never opened the stuff. I either tore it up while walking in the door, or ran things through a shredder. That practice stopped after I accidentally shredded a $100.00 rebate check. It was in an envelope that looked like junk mail. Thankfully the company issued another.

From that point on, via Joleen’s instruction, I began the arduous task of opening and inspecting every letter and envelope before destroying. There were many envelopes I couldn’t tear in-half by hand. These items generally contained plastic cards or cellophane advertisements. Our commercial grade shredder took care of them.

Mom said there’d come a day when I’d appreciate getting mail of any kind. She went on to explain that older people, especially those living alone, long for anything to be in their mailbox. She said my grandfather reached that stage in his late 60’s. I doubted that’d ever happen to me.

I’ve opened some interesting junk mail. I don’t know how many pennies and nickels I’ve removed from envelopes and placed in my pocket. This clever tactic was used by companies, in an attempt to get people to actually read the advertisements. I took their money and ran, straight to our garbage can.

I find it interesting that some credit people know exactly what we owe. Sometimes the number is openly printed on envelopes so that the postman can see. These strangers have more insight into our debt than we do.

Many of these mortgage or loan companies offer fantastic deals to pay stuff off, at a interest rate only beneficial to them. Those items of junk mail go straight to the shredder without passing go. I take delight in hearing shredder teeth mutilate them to pieces.

Many charity organizations place free address labels in their mailouts, including small pads for jotting down notes. On rare occasion, pens can be found. Joleen once told me that if you used these items without sending a donation, it was wrong. I believe she was trying to lay a guilt trip on me. It didn’t work.

In my desk is a drawer with labels and notebooks. For people donating from the heart, stimulus gifts like these aren’t necessary to prime the pump. I choose those charities getting my money very carefully. They have to meet special criteria.

Just the other day I received a cool plastic Arizona license plate in the mail. It came from one of our local car dealers. The advertisement has my name in large letters printed on front. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must’ve been expensive to make. That thing is really cool!

This replica plate is a reminder for me to bring it, along with our vehicle, to the dealership and see what our car’s worth as a trade in. I find this very savvy marketing. You can even go online and do the same.

We have a 2009 Chevrolet HHR with 107,213 miles. I’m not quite ready to trade at this point, as our little Chevy panel still has many years left. When I do make that decision, I’ll want my plate back. Now framed, this personalized treasure hangs on my office wall.

Each day now I look forward to the mail truck stopping at our box. I know when it’s getting close because you can hear it miles away. The wreck evidently needs a muffler. I think that postal Jeep truly needs to be traded in.

Hopefully this week or next some good junkmail arrives. We’re getting low on those small notebooks, and I could really use a pen with ink. My old one’s about to die. The silver and black instrument is marked: COLONIAL PENN.

It came in an envelope that I shredded before fully reading the enclosed letter. When I asked Joleen what this company represents she told me,

“Colonial Penn sells funeral insurance.”

Well, the Penn family needs to start making arrangements, because I’m about to bury one of their kind in a Glad trash bag.

Looking back at all the junk mail I’ve destroyed, with the cost to print it and mail out, I’m sure the monetary number is substantial. The wasted paper alone undoubtedly amounts to a small forest.

It really wouldn’t break my heart if junk mail went away, taking it’s bothersome brother, Robocall, along with it!

I worked for the State of Alaska – Department of Motor Vehicles – for a short period of time. This was in their Anchorage office at 2150 E. Dowling Road. Before this building was ever constructed, my brother and I rode our Rupp snowmachine across the frozen property after school. It was basically a wetlands. Moose frequented the area during winter months, including giant, blood-sucking mosquitoes in summer.

Sometime in the late 1970’s, dump trucks started hauling out loads of damp peat from the bog, bringing in load after load of gravel. This was to ensure stability for a new building and parking lot. During my short tenure as a warehouseman there (1982 – 1983), I was educated by my own personal observation, and via discussion with other DMV employees, on the undue stress placed upon workers by the general public. It wasn’t unusual for a downtrodden clerk to enter our warehouse in tears. The room was a place of sanctity for some workers.

Because of such, I came away with a high degree of respect for DMV employees working behind the counter, and those in hidden offices. To this day whenever I have business dealings with either, I make sure to wear a smile. Most likely the person just leaving them wore a frown.

I recall one incident where a customer was screaming so loud at employees, that Jack Bradford and I were summoned to assist. Eventually A.P.D. showed up and hauled the angry man away. Inebriates walking in the front door and being led out the back in handcuffs wasn’t unusual.

A motorcycle test area was set up out back of our little warehouse, directly on the south edge of the asphalt. I watched one day as a guy on a big Harley, attempted to maneuver around several orange cones. He suddenly fell over with the bike landing on him. Jack and I ran over and helped lift the motorcycle off the man. Before long an ambulance arrived and hauled him to the hospital.

On another occasion, a girl taking her test drove right off the parking lot into some scraggly spruce trees. She was okay, but her large Honda bike was mired deep in the bog. Jack and I assisted in dragging it out of there. I learned from watching all this, that it was best to take your cycle test on the smallest bike possible.

Don was a driving test employee. I remember him well, because he rode along with me when I got my driver’s license on July 22, 1970. That date being so special to me because July 22 is my best friend’s birthday, including my daughter.

This particular test took place when the office was downtown, I believe on 5th Avenue. There were no parking spaces available close by, and a new driver was expected to parallel park while traffic was present. I passed with flying colors, but a couple of hours later ran a stop sign in Mt. View almost hitting a patrol car. That was no fault of Don’s.

Don, along with others doing the same job, told outrageous stories about being in vehicles with people incapable of ever driving. I suppose I fit that bill. These brave workers were basically placing their lives in stranger’s hands. Accidents during test sessions did happen.

One bizarre incident I recall involved a very popular employee. Everyone liked the guy. One day I came to work and was told he’d been arrested for embezzlement. The fellow’s wife worked in the Kenai DMV office and she was taken away as well. This story made all the Alaska newspapers. I was never privy to particulars on what actually happened, but I assume money was pilfered.

Some of the names I recall are Phyllis the office manager, Jack Bradford my boss, Don, Betty, Tom, Susan, Jo, Bob, Joanne, Margaret, Linda, and Brownie to name a few. I assume Brownie was a nick name? He was retiring just as I came onboard.

My job was quite simple. I delivered license plates, blank titles and registrations to our front counter, the Palmer office, and DMV headquarters on Tudor Road. I don’t recall a day where stress ever entered my work truck. It worked well for me because I was taking evening classes at U.A.A at this time.

The jaunts to Palmer were one of my favorite tasks. I looked forward to being called out on a 100-mile roundtrip delivery. A lady named Di was the Palmer DMV office manager. On occasion I got to mail sample license plates to people throughout the world. The plates were provided free of charge back then to anyone asking for one.

I took it upon myself one afternoon to wax our delivery truck. The forest green paint came alive after that. I doubt any other State of Alaska vehicle has ever been waxed since.

I was told the former DMV building at 2150 E. Dowling Road was built over a creek. I believe that because we often had water problems. There was a unique musty smell to the place. Water would bubble up through areas of asphalt after a hard rain. There was a corner of the warehouse where it trickled up through cracks in concrete. I left my warehouse job before Anchorage DMV moved to a new location off Spenard Road and Benson. A fellow named Barry took my slot.

If I have any legacy at all from working there, and I doubt I do, it’d be my destroying the DMV Director’s office sign by accident. One day I came in with a large box and knocked it off the wall. A loud snap echoed down the hall. I think for the most part I did a good job for this agency.

With a background in automotive technology and parts procurement, I transferred to the Department of Transportation – State Equipment Fleet in August of 1983. . I still saw Jack Bradford on occasion, when he brought the delivery truck by our shop for fuel and maintenance. By then the Ford pickup was needing another coat of Simonize.

These days in Arizona, I hear and read of folks complaining about horrific visits to a DMV office in all states. Generally speaking, the complaints deal with wait time. DMV in Alaska works with far less budgetary money than ever before. I’d venture to say that if many of these complainers walked in a motor vehicle employee’s shoes for a day, they’d have a bit more sympathy and compassion along with less gripe. It can be a brutal job at times.

I’ll always be indebted to them. Nothing but good memories while I worked there!

I’m thankful I never smoked. Being from the baby boomer generation, I worked around many people that did. Like others from my era, I’m a prime candidate for lung cancer. Secondhand smoke is a proven killer.

As a child I noticed cigarette commercials much the same as I did cereal advertisements. Some of them were quite entertaining and clever.

Benson & Hedges generally had pictures of men and women smoking their cigarettes with a broken or bent end. That’s because they wanted to tout the length of their product. I quickly assumed people smoking this brand were either blind or clumsy idiots.

Of course Virginia Slims attempted to make sexy a part of their ads. Beautiful young models puffing away I suppose was to lure in the female smoker. It worked just the opposite at times. A former co-worker smoked Virginia Slims. Something had evidently short-circuited upstairs. I often wondered what he wore under his shop coveralls.

Lucky Strike brand was popular going way back. Many of dad’s friends smoked them. Lucky Strike had a nifty little motto that was easy to remember: L.S.M.F.T. The abbreviation stands for: “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.” My friend Jeff has a whole different twist on the letters. He says L.S.M.F.T means: “Lucky Strike’s Make Funeral’s Thrive.”

Camel cigarettes claimed their customers would walk a mile for a pack of smokes. One ad shows a man with holes worn in his sneakers evidently from making the hike several times. Even in my teenage years, my immediate thought was perhaps the guy should stop buying cigarettes, and purchase a new pair of shoes.

Winston has been around for ages. My grandfather smoked them. Their theme was quite simple, “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should!” How bizarre! I could never conjure up the thought of cigarettes tasting good. Pizza tastes good including M&M’s and cherry licorice. It’s not like people having a pack of Winston’s in jacket pocket or purse would eat the things. Would they?

Tareyton. Their claim to fame was, “I’d rather fight than switch!” Colorful ads show male and female tobacco-addicts having blackened eyes. Evidently, someone needed to teach those poor smokers how to duck a punch.

Pall Mall is another popular brand. One of their advertisements shows a man lighting up a Pall Mall on the job. Evidently he’s finished for the day, because the blue collar worker has a tweed jacket over his shoulder. Most likely somewhere down the road, instead of needing a Pall Mall, he required a pallbearer.

Of course we all know about Marlboro and The Marlboro Man. These guys kept dying off so fast that Philip Morris Tobacco Company couldn’t keep an ample supply of actors. I wonder if The Marlboro Men got hazard pay?

“Come on up to Marlboro country!” was their infamous slogan. I never did figure out exactly where that was, other than perhaps they’re referring to Heaven. Something tells me there’ll be no smoking allowed up there.

Being a big fan of Hot Rod magazine, Viceroy advertised bunches in that periodical. One full-page ad pictures a handsome racecar driver in race attire, standing next to his sleek racecar. Striking a pose with lit cigarette held in gloved hand, two female admirers watch Mr. Macho from afar. I’m sure they were both thinking, “If only he didn’t smoke!”

Salem cigarettes were touted as being Springtime Fresh. Ad executives must not have been talking about springtime in cold weather states. In Alaska, we had two dogs that routinely did their business in the snow throughout winter. When spring arrived, and snow melted, fresh air was the furthest thing to be found. Then again, the pungent aroma associated with such did have similarities to stale cigarette smoke. Perhaps that’s the springtime fresh Salem officials were referring to?

I could go on and on here. Yes, I find humor in these ads. There’s also a sad side. I’ll end things on a serious note.

Several friends, family, and acquaintances of mine died from either direct, or indirect exposure to tobacco smoke. An addiction to nicotine is as bad as any drug out there. I’m sure several of the deceased people I knew wanted to stop smoking, yet couldn’t.

Maybe if cigarette commercials back then hadn’t been so well made, and persuasive, some of them would’ve never started!

Call me a skeptic, but whenever I see a Hollywood celebrity hawking products on television, red flags automatically go up. There has to be something in it for them, otherwise they wouldn’t waste their time.

My wife and her friends got sucked into the Essential Oils hoax early on. The company claims to have an oil for almost every kind of ill. Headaches, anxiety, insomnia, menstrual cramps, to name a few. Joleen got a bit peeved at me for calling them Non-Essential Oils.

“They work for some people!”, she said. I didn’t argue with her, knowing where that would lead.

Celebrities, Daphne Oz and Hugh Jackman, tout the virtues of Essential Oils. Not to be disrespectful, but I don’t know these people from Adam. Their opinion on oil means about as much as Bob the mechanic’s advice on grilling fresh vegetables. Bob doesn’t even own a grille! It seems somewhat haughty of Daphne and Hugh to believe that their name’s alone have selling power.

Shifty salesmen, years ago, traveled around the country in horse drawn wagons peddling cure-all elixirs; snake oil as it’s correctly called. These products consisted mainly of alcohol. If you drank enough your troubles went away for a short spell with a massive headache not far behind. In my way of seeing things, non-essential oils falls into this snake oil category except you don’t drink it. It’s purported magic comes from sniffing or rubbing on skin.

Another wacky product undocumented experts claim has healing powers is CBD oil. I suppose combining this stuff with non-essential oils will really work some magic.

Companies are making billions on CBD oil. Some outfits peddling the stuff falsely refer to themselves as medical dispensaries. I think it’s accurate to say that’s stretching things a bit. One so called dispensary in Needles, California had a red cross emblem painted on their building sign. That merely helps suckers buy into the validity of this reefer byproduct.

Big stores like Wal-Mart and Walgreen’s currently sell CBD based products. Before long, I look for Girl Scouts to add a CBD health cookie to their selection. That’s scary. My friend Jeff says that CBD stands for Consumers Being Duped. I have to agree.

If people want to spend their money on Essential Oils and CBD oil products that’s fine with me. For them to tell me they work, I’ll have to chuckle. Personally, I have no need for either.

There’s one oil out there that surpasses everything. The name alone says it all. Marvel Mystery Oil is perhaps one of the 10 top wonders of the world. This wonderful concoction of top secret ingredients has been around since 1923.

Marvel Mystery Oil may not soothe headaches or cure menstrual cramps, but it will free up frozen parts in an engine block like right now. Real men love the unique aroma. I do.

Hugh Jackman and Daphne Oz can brag all they want about about Essential Oils. Should these two ever use Marvel Mystery Oil, I believe they’ll see fit like many of us in the know, that the stuff ‘s a cure-all unlike any other and truly works.

I swear by the product. Coming from me, that should tell you everything you need to know!