I like to write junk…

work in progress

Hypothetically speaking, if everyone in the world was brown, would there be racial prejudice? I thought about this as a young person finding no definite answer. It’s taken many years for me to finally come to the conclusion, that yes, prejudice would be alive and well even if all people were brown.

Eye color would be the next thing some discriminatory folks would go after. If all eyes were deep blue you’d think the problem would be solved? Not so. Height is another area to critique.

Create all people in this world a perfect 5’ 10” and things would be hunky dory? Sounds logical but it doesn’t hold water. There are numerous other areas to consider.

Language is a huge barrier so lets make Spanish the solitary dialect. This could be obtainable with a lot of effort although it might take a thousand years to get there. Now that we’re all brown, have blue eyes, and can speak the same lingo, things would be perfect? Hold on one minute, social class would come into play next.

Some folks having lots of money would look down on those less fortunate and vice versa. According to leftists experts, and I use expert loosely here, the playing field could be evened by introducing socialism, even though such has been tried with complete failure.

With socialism, someone smart and investing their funds wisely could easily gain advantage over the unwise crowd. Extra money would then be taken from them and distributed to all. Financial savvy socialists would definitely have prejudice towards the unwise population by this action.

Those having hair and not having hair can be added to the list. I could go on and on here.

It seems that prejudice can only be totally eliminated by having everyone cloned perfectly the same. In doing so, mindset would have to be equal as well. What a wonderful world that would be.

Several years ago, I told a black friend that prejudice was much like football. He didn’t quite get it until I further explained.

Eddie’s favorite football team is the Oakland Raiders, and mine the Miami Dolphins. I informed Eddie that color has a lot to do with team choice, and not so much the city where a team’s located. This has been proven. The black and silver of the Raiders is aggressive in nature. The white and teal green of the Dolphins not so much.

Raider’s fans have always been one of the more vocal in NFL. Oakland Raider’s supporters have been known to mix it up a bit before and after games. I can’t say the same of Miami Dolphins’ fan base. Perhaps that has a lot to do with how the fish have fared these past 20 years.

I told Eddie that if all football teams wore white, the rivalry would lessen, and that it all wore black, it would increase. Red is also an aggressive color. If you don’t believe me ask a bull or a cop.

I mentioned to my friend that if you had a NFL team made up of strictly black players, and one of white, that he’d undoubtedly root for the black guys. Thinking about it for several seconds and being honest, Eddie agreed.

I told him I’d root for the white, although I’d try not to show my bias. People inherently have a tendency to cheer for their race. There’s nothing wrong with that.

When I asked Eddie what he thought of two teams playing each other, where all athletes were white, and both teams sported white and teal uniforms his reply was,

“You’re describing one boring event!”

When I turned things around using African-American players, wearing black and silver jerseys he responded,

“That’d be one awesome game!”

I was hoping Eddie would say that. That gave me the opportunity to finalize my analogy,

“You sound a bit racist.”

My harsh remark caught him totally off guard. He seemed angry, yet quickly chilled at the notion. Had Eddie not saw my reasoning for the statement I was prepared to duck.

Unless further generations become perfectly cloned which is impossible, I don’t believe prejudice will ever go away in our society. Much like rivalries between sports teams, the best we can hope for is to control such.

I love fireworks as much as anyone. The vivid,splintering -colors and booming explosions are mind numbing. There is a place for such activities though, and it’s not directly around the new Western Arizona Humane Society (WAHS) building.

I live a block away from this beautiful facility. Not once have I heard an animal bark or cry from that direction until several nights ago (July 4th). Illegal fireworks were being set off next to the structure in a vacant field, including all around the area. Many people took part with a good many driving to the area.

I doubt most folks knew what they were doing to the poor animals inside. Across Highway 95, on Maricopa, “commercial grade’ fireworks were exploding high overhead. This went on for several hours. The concussions were loud enough to rattle home windows. Stepping outside, and walking over to the shelter, I could hear dogs barking and howling out of mortified fear through the thick, well-insulated walls.

Thankfully, a L.H.P.D. officer stopped by and informed people in the dirt lot about this situation. The group was kind enough to move their festivities farther down the street. Not so with those on Maricopa, Osborn, Sweetwater, including other side streets. The last explosion was at 2:05 a.m. I know, because I was up tending to my own dog.

Next year, hopefully there’s a concentrated effort to curb firework displays close to the Western Arizona Humane Society building. I’m sure WAHS Director Patty Gilmore would be appreciative, and I know without doubt the animals inside that place would be as well. They are unable to speak out so I’m doing it for them. Please do it for “Boomer” and the rest of his furry pals.

Thank you!

A Bob’s “Big Boy” statue in El Segundo, California was the scene of a peaceful protest turned violent late Wednesday afternoon.

Berta Butz, a local El Segundo resident, said that demonstrators were marching peacefully for an unknown cause when one young man, believed to be an ANTIFA member on crack, attacked Big Boy and began yelling racial epithets at him. Others quickly joined in.

From what witnesses said, several rioters claimed that Bob had been a member of the Confederate Army during the American Civil War. Other protesters began taunting the lifeless statue.

The angry group then tossed a rope over his fiberglass body and attempted to pull it down by hand. Unable to do so, they fastened their rope to the rear bumper of a protester’s Kia automobile. When the vehicle bumper came flying off, a larger Ford truck took over.

As Big Boy tumbled cheers were heard and fists raised in the air. Afterwards, one of the protesters was interviewed by an El Segundo reporter. When informed that Big Boy wasn’t actually born until 1954, and that the Civil War didn’t end until 1865, she replied to him,

“You’re kidding me, right?”

So far police have refused to press charges. When asked why, one officer wishing to remain anonymous said,

“There are no laws on the books for being stupid!”

Other than a few scrapes and scratches, Big Boy was not seriously damaged. Within minutes of the protester’s departure, a small group of senior citizens converged and had the big kid standing on his pedestal like nothing ever happened.

More as this story develops.

No one was going to tell “Big Don” Dimbo he had to wear a mask in the grocery store. After all, the man served his country for 22-years and freedom was important to him. He’d told that young fella at the door where to stick it when suggested he use some type face covering.

Browsing in the produce section, “Big Don” ran into his cardiologist, Dr. Paul Wagner.

“How’s it going Don?, the doctor politely asked. Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask?”

“Big Don” went into a full 5-minute spiel on how masks didn’t work, how constraining they were, and no one was going to take his freedom away by forcing him to wear one. He ended his tirade by claiming,

“It’s all a conspiracy. This Covid crap is just another stinkin’ flu!”

Dr. Wagner could only smile and wish him the best before leaving.

Two weeks passed before “Big Don” was rushed to Harborview Medical Center with chest pains. Tests showed that he had several blocked arteries. Bypass surgery was immediately performed.

A couple of day later, Dr. Wagner walked into Don’s hospital room to check on him.

“Did you see the video of your procedure?“

“Yes I did.” Don replied. “Thanks for the great work. By the way, I noticed in the film you didn’t have on a mask. What’s with that?“

“Good observation Don! You put me at risk in the grocery store so I thought I’d return the favor. You were right about that freedom thing, it’s so less constraining.”

Before leaving, Dr. Wagner had one last thing to tell his patient.

“By the way, after your surgery it was discovered I’m asymptomatic. I tested positive to carrying a virus of sorts. They’re running tests. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing more than another stinkin’ flu. I wouldn’t worry about it unless of course, you develop a cough, runny nose, aches and pains, or a fever!”

Not once do I recall people protesting or rioting in the streets, after the needless death or deaths caused by a drunk driver.

The media has never pushed for such drastic action, nor have specific political, ethnic, race, or religious groups. No liquor stores have been torched or looted as well. That seems absolutely amazing to me!

Some might say M.A.D.D. (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers) adequately voiced their concerns. Yes, they did to a point, but never to the level of being carried on all major television station for hours on end . How much attention do you suppose M.A.D.D. would’ve received had they set fire to Donnie’s Drive-thru Liquor Store? I doubt if it would’ve made the news at all.

I’ve always thought that drunk drivers get off way too easy for taking a life. After all, it’s nothing more than murder. Any time you see or hear of police taking an intoxicated driver off the street, be thankful. That arrested person was behind the wheel of a loaded weapon, one way more powerful than a 44 Magnum. In other words, a car or truck in a drunk driver’s hands is nothing short of a giant “bullet”.

Inebriated drivers are a mere gas pedal away from planting a loved one six-feet-under. Be especially thankful the deceased isn’t your son, daughter, mother, father, grandparent, grandchild, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew, or friend.
It seems society is way too protective of drunk drivers. They’re coddled in my opinion. All it takes is a good lawyer to put them back on the road with an open bottle.

Call me insensitive, but I’m all for whatever drastic action it takes to get inebriated drivers off the road.

I’d much rather see them take a proverbial bullet, than for any of my family or friends taking theirs.

I worked with Lawrence Everett in Alaska for over 25 years. We were not only co-workers, but good friends. Sadly, he passed away from a sudden heart attack soon after retiring in 2014.

I’d like to share a story that Lawrence told us guys one day at lunch. This was after he returned home from a vacation in Texas. You’ll have to read between the lines to catch Lawrence’s dry sense of humor.

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TEXAS VACATION

Most of the Everett family lived in Texas. When they all got together, a few nephews made mention of Lawrence being,

“Our rich uncle from Alaska.”

Every few years, he’d fly to Texas and visit them.

On this particular trip, Lawrence jetted to ‘The Lone Star State’ via commercial airline and quickly arranged for his cousins, nephews, and brother to go fishing at Lake Texarkana.

He prearranged to rent a boat for the day, splurged on a large rental car to get them all there, forked over cash for needed fishing gear and bait, licenses for those who needed them, and food and drink.

They fished most of the morning before stopping at noon to grill some rib-eye steaks. After eating, Lawrence and his entourage went back out for the rest of the afternoon. Driving home that night, the men were flat tuckered out. One of his kin piped up,

“That was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Wish we could do it again!”

Lawrence informed the man that they could. There was one simple stipulation,

“If everyone chips in $25.00 for gas, we’ll do it again tomorrow.”

That’s all he expected them to pay for.

Dead silence. Lawrence said he quickly dropped the subject.

A co-worker immediately asked,

“What did you guys do the rest of your vacation?”

Lawrence didn’t hesitate before replying.

“I’m not sure what they did? I left for Austin the next morning and had a great time. Saved a couple thousand bucks by doing so!”

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The whole room erupted in laughter. Almost everyone had experienced similar situations in their own lives.

Straight-faced throughout, not once did Lawrence crack a smile during his spiel. He was what I call,

“A master storyteller.”

(Written before the George Floyd death)

In the late evening, I often sit in my easy chair and watch Americans protesting one thing or another on television. My ritual goes back many years. I’ve noticed that this generation of young people seem to detest more things than any other in history. Perhaps it’s not right for me to confess, but I make visual observations on the type of clothing protesters wear. I also look at body proportion to see if the demonstrators have been malnourished. Shame on me!

I’ve never witnessed a protester in this country wearing rags, or with ribs protruding through skin due to starvation. I have seen thousands of designer-brand-shirts and overweight people marching down the streets stuffed inside of them.

There’s nothing wrong with protesting. It’s allowed in our United States Constitution. I do have serious problem with protesters turning to violence as a means to garner attention. Most law abiding protesters are on my side in this arena.

When I was a kid, my brother remembers me being at the dinner table complaining because I’d been shorted. Jim said it had to do with dessert. I’m sure my griping was in jest, yet one time he claims we got into a heated argument over slices of cake. I supposedly accused Jim of taking the largest piece. That’s hard not to believe. Mom evidently stepped in before things escalated. She was good at cooling our jets. Logic dictates I would’ve belly-ached to her,

“It’s not fair!”

Children back then used that statement as they often do now. My grandchildren do for sure and I still love them. Adults are notorious for vocalizing the same mournful cry. My dad often told me that life isn’t fair, and that it never will be. His ending statement was,

“Get use to it!”

During the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, protesters marched throughout America demanding that President Johnson and President Nixon pull our troops from Vietnam. Some young men torched their draft cards as a way to get attention when cameras were rolling. Others burned a cardboard likeness of either president in effigy. On one occasion things didn’t work out so well because of rain. They tore up Nixon’s photo instead.

In 1969, a group of women’s lib demonstrators set their bras on fire as a protest against feminist exploitation. This was purposely done in front of the Miss America Pageant headquarters. As a teenager, I recall bra burning more than government-issued draft cards going up in flame. A friend of mine went so far as to proclaim,

“I wish all girls would burn their bras!”

Little did women’s libbers realize, that their their protests actually kindled unbridled sexual thoughts in a certain adolescent boy’s head. That was part of the reason these gals were protesting; females being viewed as sex objects by males.

The same thirteen-year-old friend actually developed a crush on women’s rights activist, Gloria Steinem. The to remain anonymous fellow had a thing about girls wearing glasses. He claimed they were smarter. He still does.

I never took time to protest anything in my life. In hindsight, I didn’t have time for such activity. Not everything in my 66-years has been fair, yet thankfully my parents, teachers, pastors, and friends taught we to drive around any unfairness coming my direction. I did so partly by working for stuff rather than expecting it to be handed to me. Most, if not all of my friends walked the same gauntlet. Those pensive thoughts bring forth this unanswered question,

“With so many people protesting, does anyone work anymore?”

I know I’m not the only person wondering such!

Mom said that it takes all kinds of people to make the world go ’round. She never fully explained her thoughts yet I pretty much grasped the idea.

A few months back, when I watched an American protester sporting a Hugo Boss sweatshirt and carrying an Apple iPod in one hand, with a professionally made sign in the other, they failed to get any sympathy or empathy from me. I totally forget what their cause was at this point.

Pastor Chad Garrison at Calvary Baptist Church told our congregation several times,

“The poorest of poor in the United States has it better off than 90% of all people in third-world-countries where food, clean water, clothing, shelter, and medical care are concerned.”

Pastor Garrison would know as he’s been to many of these poverty stricken areas.

Not once during my television watching hours, have I witnessed a group of starving Ethiopian youngsters marching down a dusty road in protest of anything. If anyone should have a right to protest for inequality or unfairness, it would be these unfortunate Africans, plus other third-world-country residents.

I’d love to ask young folks protesting in this country one question,

“Are things really that bad or is it you just don’t think life’s fair?”

I believe a good many couldn’t reasonably answer that question without going into a tyrant. Going back to what my father told me over 50-years ago regarding fairness,

“Life isn’t fair, never will be, so get use to it!”

There’ll be some people totally disagreeing with my thoughts. Our U.S. Constitution allows freedom of speech so I’m in safe haven. For those wanting to push a red button looking for a verbal fight, like my late mother, I have a favorite saying of my own,

“Whatever turns your crank!”

Hopefully those in disagreement won’t expect me to hang around and debate my opinion. I didn’t take time years ago to protest, and these days I have more important things to do than argue.

“Peace out!”

Father’s Day is near. I didn’t want to wait until June 21st to honor dad through simple written words. I think of him every day. Certain traits that my father possessed stand tall above all others. He was never a touchy-feely kind of guy. Most of the time he kept his sensitive side hidden. I believe there was reason for that.

Dad went through much tragedy during his childhood years. At twelve, he was standing beside his younger brother, and watched in horror as a can of burning gasoline accidentally set the youth on fire. James Columbus Hankins died within hours from his burns.

Several years later my father was riding motorcycles with a friend. He found out the next morning that his pal never made it home. The teenager was killed in a head on collision with a car. Mom said that dad silently grieved for a long time.

In 1957, my father was ejected at high-speed from a Corvette sports car on Route 66 near Victorville, California. He survived by miraculously landing in a pile of sand. God was definitely looking over him that morning. Dad walked with a pronounced limp afterwards because of a metal rod implanted in his leg by doctors, to strengthen the shattered bone.

In 1972, he survived three days in -40 degree weather after crashing his airplane in Canada. Mother was with him. She never flew in small planes again, yet the accident didn’t deter him. Dad was back in the cockpit several weeks later.

Dad was not a perfect person. He had his share of faults like others. We butted heads on more than one occasion. Mom said I was like my father in many ways. She never specified what traits we shared. Hopefully she meant the good ones.

One thing pop never did was back down from his beliefs. Most business professors tell you, don’t bring religion or political affiliation inside business walls.

My father never had a formal business education, so that rule didn’t apply to him. Even if he had been advised by experts to keep personal ideology out of his business, he would’ve ignored them.

I recall more than once, someone walking into dad’s automotive part’s store, and spouting off about a specific political poster taped to the front window. The old man would quietly stand and listen before telling them,

“You need to go down the street!”

That generally made the person tight-jawed and furious. Choice words were often uttered by these folks before leaving.

Some people strolled into his store with the philosophy that the customer is always right. Dad didn’t see things that way. If they were wrong he told them so. On several occasions my father showed an irate customer the front door. In spite of such, he was highly successful in his business endeavors.

A friend of dad’s owned a gas station close by. This man once asked,

“Aren’t you worried your open support of Republican candidates will offend people?”

My father didn’t hesitate in replying,

“That’s their problem!”

Political correctness is something dad wanted no part of. I echo his sentiment. My thick skin was definitely inherited from the ‘old man’, including a small portion of it from mom.

I believe my father is looking down at me, proud, and that’s all that counts on Father’s Day!

My family grew up in Selma, Alabama, during the height of the racial flareups (1959 – 1963). I witnessed severe discrimination against blacks firsthand. Believe me, things have gotten better in the hate department since then. I’m sure Selma, Mayor Darrio Melton, would concur. If anyone were to disagree, I’d politely ask them,

“Did you personally experience how life was in Selma in 1963?”

Twenty years later, I suffered racial discrimination of my own. My wife and I took a couple of cruises to Hawaii. One was on the SS Constitution, and the other on the SS Independence. Both beautiful ships have now been scrapped.

It was on the second cruise that I decided to go for a solo hike. Can’t remember the exact island at this point, but the port was more industrial. I was off by myself, enjoying the sights, when a large fellow came up from behind. I’d bought a Hawaii 5-0 baseball hat in Honolulu, and the stranger started making fun of it. The fellow said that he had ‘Puna buds’ if I wanted any. I politely informed him I didn’t smoke dope.

At that point, the guy became irate, calling me all kinds of nasty things, including,

“Haole.”

That word meant absolutely nothing to me, although I’d heard it before in Honolulu. I assumed he was cursing at my not purchasing any of his goods. When the man began moving closer, I didn’t hesitate as trained. Kids from Alabama are taught at an early age how to defend themselves.

As a young person who loved the outdoors, I wore Dexter brand Waffle-Stomper boots wherever I went. It was a good thing that I had them on that day. The poor fellow undoubtedly hurt in his private section for weeks. He was on the ground writhing in pain when I hightailed it back to the ship.

My wife’s been back to Hawaii, but I’m satisfied staying on the mainland USA. It’s not that I’m afraid of discrimination or being accosted over there. I doubt any young Hawaiian would stroll up to an old man offering to sell him marijuana, but then again…

The fellow who hassled me in 1983 was no different from some white dude antagonising a black guy, or vice versa. Racial hate is prevalent in all races and has been since the beginning of time. Much like the Covid-19 flu, it’ll take much more time before it’s completely rubbed out; if it ever is.

These days I feel more secure in my own element and that’s okay with Joleen. She can go to Hawaii with friends, and I’ll hike into the Grand Canyon for a few days.

A few years ago, I quit wearing Waffle-Stomper boots because they made me so hot. Those heavy things were like having a personal bodyguard on each foot. Perhaps it’s time for a new pair?

Boy, do I miss them!

I did my share of cruising both Northern Lights and Benson Boulevard in the late 1960s through 1970s. It was a favorite pastime for young people during long Anchorage nights. Those folks having lived there during that time know what I mean. The sun barely sat each June and July night before it popped up for another day of excitement.

Fortunately, I’ve been able to hang onto several grainy photos to help tell this story:

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My initial experience with cruising was with my friend, Rod Sanborn. This took place in his 1958 Chevrolet Apache pickup. The year was 1969. I would’ve been a 9th grader at Clark Junior High. Rod was two years older and attended East High.

Rod’s pickup was painted bright Hugger Orange with large Mickey Thompson street slicks on the rear. Traction bars helped put rubber to the asphalt. All windows except the windshield were tinted orange to seemingly match the truck. I recall Rod saying they accidentally turned out that way after he used ammonia-based Windex on gray-window-film. A chemical reaction took place changing the hue. Rod’s truck looked cool, to say the least.

The engine was a hopped-up small-block Chevy 283. It had a Mallory ‘REV POL’ (reverse polarity) dual-point ignition, with a switch in the cab that allowed the distributor to fire on one set of points only. This was intended for regular driving purposes. A red light came on when switched to dual points and reverse polarity. On top of the panel was a warning label declaring that when the light was on, you were in “Race Mode Only.” Each time Rod used that switch, I told him I could feel the difference in horsepower. Looking back on things, I believe it was more of an imaginary feeling than anything.

This high-revving motor grenaded on more than one occasion with my pal at the wheel. I helped him scrounge parts for it at the vehicle graveyard off Kincaid Road. We spent many Saturdays wrenching away on discarded cars and trucks along with other money-savvy residents.

Rod and I would cruise to The Bun Drive-In on Northern Lights and park with the hot-rod crowd. This was back in the day when “GTO Joe” was ‘King of the Street’. Being surrounded by serious horsepower nearly made me drool. Rod gave me a nickname back then that he still uses,

“Jap Zero.”

He says the term has something to do with a black hat that I wore. I tend to believe it was because I always bummed money from him for a Coke and fries.

My brother, Jim, purchased a 1969 Mercury Cougar from a local radio DJ. That car became our next cruisin’ machine soon after Rod’s truck was sold. The Cougar had a 351 Windsor with a manual 4-speed transmission. Glass pack mufflers gave it a nice throaty sound. I was allowed to drive the Cougar on occasion which helped to swell my head.

Several years later I purchased a 1968 Dodge Charger R/T. It was equipped with a 440 CID engine, 4-speed transmission, and Dana 60 differential. The Mopar was a looker and quite adequate in the acceleration department. Cops came to know it and myself on a first-name basis.

Back then, street racing on Northern Lights was basically a stoplight-to-stoplight affair. I often thought that an unbeatable combination would be a car with a manual-shift automatic transmission, along with a super-low gear ratio. My friend, Jeff Thimsen, and I set out to build two such street racing machines.

Our 1954 Chevrolet “Highboy” hot rods were unbeatable up to 40 mph. Jeff’s ’54 had a Jimmy Arnold-built Turbo-400 transmission and 4500 RPM stall torque converter. A Dana 60 with 4.88 gears completed the package. An original LS-6 454 from a 1970 Chevelle SS powered his car.

My ’54 had 5.38 rear gears with the same Jimmy Arnold transmission and torque converter. A high-winding 1969 Z-28 302 engine sat under the hood.

We took our automobiles to Northern Lights each weekend when it wasn’t raining. After a month or so, it became impossible to find anyone wanting to go up against us. There was nothing that’d beat these cars the first 100 feet. At that point, we’d quit racing and let the other guy sail on by. It was our way of silently saying,

“No competition!”

The last such race I recall is one I still laugh about. We were in Jeff’s ’54 sitting at a light on Benson heading east, when a gloss black 1964 Ford pulled up. This Galaxie 500 had huge leaf spring shackles on its rear end.

When the light turned green, Jeff ran through all 3-gears and as usual, we were five car lengths in front. He let off the gas and the Ford went flying by. Unbeknownst to us a patrol car was directly behind taking in all the action.

The officer pulled up next to us and ordered Jeff to pull over at McDonald’s and wait. The cop then took off in hot pursuit of the Ford with lights and siren going. Jeff wheeled into the fast-food parking lot as instructed but he didn’t wait. We took various side roads all the way back to his apartment which was located on Spenard Road.

Jumping into my Charger, we returned to Northern Lights finding the same policeman had pulled over a black 1955 Chevrolet. The vehicle’s owner and passenger were standing against the car, with several other police cars circled around. We observed one fellow trying to plead his case.

We learned through the grapevine, that the officer ordering Jeff to stop believed he’d caught the right culprit. Jeff and I chuckled over how someone could misidentify a 1954 Chevrolet over a 1955. The two automobiles share no common traits.

We parked our hot rods for the rest of that summer. Stoplight-to-stoplight racing was no longer fun; it also wasn’t safe.

Jeff and I continued to cruise Northern Lights with our girlfriends and then wives. Jeff upgraded to a couple of SS-454 Monte Carlo’s and a 1963 split-window Corvette.

I drove a 1971 SS-454 Chevelle for a while, and then a 1974 SS-454 El Camino. A V-8 Chevy Vega was eventually built for cruising, with a 1968 supercharged 440 GTX finishing things off. By this time Jeff and I came to the conclusion that racing belonged on the strip. It seems we had matured.

Some of the names I remember from my cruising days are Jeff Kritenbrink, Steve Kretsinger, Doug Miller, Bob Malone, Jerry Warren, Faith Luther, Michelle Giroux, Cathy Cook, Willie Brown, Dennis Hackenberger, Gary Adair, Warren Fife, Mark Lewis, Mike Smith, Pat Steger, Tim Amundsen, Kathy Fejes, Ken Lucia, Mike Eddins, Rick Barden, “Buzzy”, and a few other first names only.

Jeff changed the gearing in his ’54 and raced it at Polar Raceway several times before selling it. We eventually moved on to other things like raising families, finding viable careers, fishing, camping, plus other pertinent activities. Cars were still fun to tinker with but not as important as they used to be.

Looking back on this time, my favorite cruising machine of all time was a 1954 Chevrolet station wagon named, ‘War Wagon.’ Jeff, myself, and a friend, Ken Lucia, purchased the wagon just for kicks. Several years ago I wrote a story solely about this ride.

Sadly, ‘War Wagon’ eventually succumbed to one too many,

“Hot Anchorage Nights.”