I like to write junk…

This story marks #100 for my WordPress blog as some might call it.  I don’t like the name. Blog sounds too much like blah. I see the site as a literary junkyard for a small portion of the junk I’ve written. These completed and published stories eventually get towed and parked here. On occasion I’ll yank one out to salvage a paragraph or sentence for use in another tale.

One-hundred is a significant number in many arenas. I always thought I’d make it to the century mark where living is concerned. At age 50, I remember thinking I’m only halfway to my goal. These days I’m not so sure. I’ll keep trying as Colonel Norman Vaughan would have me do.

Colonel Norman Vaughan was an Alaskan adventurer and mountain climber. He made it five days past his 100^th birthday before passing away. I met him many years ago at a lecture he gave regarding his journey to the South Pole with Admiral Richard Byrd.

After the meeting was over Colonel Vaughan signed a book for me, my son, and one for Aunt Dora. During this seminar I learned that Norman Vaughan coined the phrase,

“Dream big and dare to fail!”

For me, Vaughan’s statement refers to never settling for less where life ambitions or goals are concerned. This saying is intended for young and old people alike.

Norman Vaughan’s book is called, My Life of Adventure. He wrote another titled, With Byrd at the Bottom of the World.

There’s a mountain in Antarctica named after Norman Vaughan. He successfully scaled that 10,302 foot peak in 1994, at age 88. After his accomplishment, co-workers and I constructed a temporary monument to him at our place of employment. The Anchorage Daily News picked up on it and printed a near full-page photograph, along with a story on how such came to be. Colonel Vaughan made a personal visit to thank us.

My Aunt Dora was tickled pink to get her signed copy. She almost made it to 100, unfortunately passing away at age 99. Colonel Vaughan would’ve been proud of her for daring to fail.

God is the only one knowing how much time we have on this planet. For the rest of mine I’ll keep praising him and adding more stories to my literary salvage yard.

This is the latest addition to my collection. I dedicate it to the memory of Colonel Norman Vaughan and my Aunt Dora Guyton-Hankins. I know in due time I’ll see both of them on the other side.

Several years ago a restaurant in Lake Havasu City, Arizona had a sign out front advertising fresh fish. My wife and I decided to stop and try some.

Joleen asked our server, Don, where the fish were caught and just how fresh were they. The fellow had no problem answering,

“They’re Alaskan cod and we received them this week!”

That didn’t tell me a lot, but Joleen was happy to hear they weren’t farm raised. I’ve never heard of farm raised cod although catfish and bass are a different story. I decided not to push the issue with my wife.

The cod tasted fine. It didn’t have a fishy smell indicating the seafood was not old. I had a final question for Don.

“When you say fresh you mean they weren’t frozen?”

“Oh, no sir.”, he replied. “All the fish we get are frozen. That’s how we keep them fresh.”

I sensed at this point we were playing a game of semantics. This fellow’s interpretation of fresh was as flawed as Bill Clinton’s analogy of the word, is. In other words, our server hadn’t a clue what fresh fish or fresh seafood really was.

Years ago my brother and I visited Aunt Katrulia in Mobile, Alabama. Aunt K as we called her took us to a rustic seafood restaurant near the docks that served scrumptious po’boy sandwiches. The shrimp inside each bun had been caught early that morning. The buns were still warm from the oven. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Now that was definitely fresh stuff!

When I was a teen I went on a camping trip with another friend, Jeff Cloud, to Salmon Creek near Seward, Alaska. Jeff was an outdoorsman extraordinaire. He loved being in the wilds.

We caught several Dolly Varden right off the bat. I lit a fire while Jeff degutted then fileted the fish. Tossing them into a cast-iron pan with squeeze butter and a pinch of salt & pepper, he fried them up. Never has anything tasted so good. I bet those fish hadn’t been out of water for more than 10 minutes.

My friend did the same with a silver salmon we’d poached, only this time he wrapped it in foil and placed things on top of rocks underneath the fire. He let it bake for perhaps an hour before removing.

A tiny portion of the fish was burnt but the rest was cooked to perfection. Once again butter from a squeeze bottle with salt & pepper was added. That was some of the sweetest salmon I’ve ever tasted. Seafood doesn’t get any fresher unless it’s swimming.

During my lifetime I do not believe I’ve ever come across a sign advertising fresh frozen fish. Would that be an oxymoron? You tell me. I’m sure Wikipedia has their opinion but I choose not to always believe that site.

I shouldn’t be so concerned. The other night for dinner Joleen served cooked vegetables. I asked her if they were fresh and she said yes. After eating I was curious about something.

“You say these vegetables are fresh, yet they came from the freezer?”

“They were frozen.”, she replied. “That’s how I keep them fresh.”

It was evident a bit of Don’s culinary mis-intellect had rubbed off on my wife. Another puzzling question cropped up after Joleen mentioned that.

“Are frozen vegetables considered fresh?”

According to information from Green Giant they’re fresher than fresh. I suppose if anyone should know it would be him!

“My 50^th high school reunion will be here in three years and I’m in a tizzy as to what to wear!”

That statement is not the least in my mind, but I bet there are some 1972 East Anchorage High graduates already thinking about such.

We’re lucky to have a group of hard-working alumni currently putting this most special reunion together. Pam Painter-Jones heads it up.

I plan on being there; Lord willing. Taking life one day at a time seems to work best for me. Avoiding stress goes along with that philosophy.

Avoiding stress isn’t the easiest thing to do. With the extra years placed on my chassis, medical visits have increased. There’s nothing fun about going to a doctor even for routine visits.

The worst part is dealing with miscalculated medical bills afterwards. Where do they find these billing people? No wonder so many seniors have heart problems.

In a way I look forward to my 50^th reunion, yet on the other hand I realize I’ll be three years older. Regardless of what some say, getting old is not a walk in the park. If anyone claims different they’re a blatant liar.

Senility goes with the aging process and it seems I’ve picked up my fair share. Ten years ago I would’ve never called anyone a blatant liar.  I’ve only added blatant the last two.

At this point I’m not sure what I’ll be wearing to the event. My corduroy jeans no longer fit. Why that material went out of style we’ll never know?

I suppose Levi’s® and a flannel shirt will work just fine. They seem to be fashionable for all occasions. I don’t believe spandex shorts and a fishnet shirt would go over so well. Not that I have either.

I glanced at an online photo of another 50^th class reunion to see how people dressed. There were some attendees sporting suits but it appeared anything is allowed.

I’m not inclined to haul a suit from Arizona to Alaska inside a carryon bag. Something tells me it wouldn’t look fresh after the trip. From the appearance of one attendee, beards are acceptable on the guys.

I’m avoiding stress by not fretting on how to dress. I realize there’s still plenty of time. On the other hand, I may call a few friends to see what color suspenders they’ll have on.

Just as a gal would hate to be caught wearing an identical dress as someone else, I’d cringe seeing some other guy sporting red, white, and blue suspenders.

Two old geezers having them on would be totally uncool!

I went to church a good portion of my early life. Selmont Baptist in Selma, Alabama was one of them. Various unnamed, non-denominational military churches in Lubbock and San Antonio, Texas make up the rest.

In Lubbock, I attended a midnight-mass Catholic service with a friend, Steve Carrico. I didn’t make it to midnight after becoming ill from the incense.

Early in my church attendance I learned Bible stories like David and Goliath. Jonah being swallowed by a whale greatly held my attention. I often wondered what Jonah found floating around in a whale’s stomach? To me the thought was mind provoking.

As the years moved forward I became lost while sitting on hard church pews listening to adult sermons. Much of that preaching was way over my head. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was lost from the beginning.

My years as a young person were generally spent trying to entertain myself. Fishing became a favorite pastime during junior high. I learned to tie flies and used them to fish for salmon at Russian River and Bird Creek in Alaska.

I put to work the infamous Lujon lure, snagging fish when it was legal to do so. That’s a story in itself. One thing I’m thankful of is that alcohol or drugs were never part of my entertainment.

Once I entered high school, cars, motorcycles, and snow machines became a passion. The trio took up a good portion of what free time I had. Working for dad after school kept me busy.

I met a fellow in 11^th grade named Jeff Thimsen. Jeff’s dad, Dean, was a missionary preacher and bush pilot. Pastor Thimsen moved to Alaska in the early 1950’s with his wife, Virginia, and infant daughter, Jean.

My new friend told me tales about his family living in rural native villages. I couldn’t imagine residing in a home with no bathtub or shower; even worse, having to use an outhouse in winter.

During our senior year Jeff asked me to attend a movie called, “The Cross and the Switchblade”. He had free tickets which was righteous as I liked to say. My pal mentioned that only young people would be in attendance and there’d be plenty of girls. It sounded like a good flick to me as I’d always wanted one of those cool switchblade knifes.

One of the kids I grew up with had a switchblade. It was a cheap piece of junk his dad brought back from Japan. One day he was showing some younger fellows how it worked.  He flipped the switch and the blade swung out before dropping to the floor. I can still hear those boys laughing.

At the conclusion I thought the film was okay, but it needed more action. Telling us to please remain seated, some guy came on a microphone asking for those feeling led by the Lord to come forward. Many did just that.

Jeff asked if I wanted to walk up there saying he’d go with me. I told him not really, but maybe if we hurried there might be some popcorn left. It too was free that night.

A year after graduating (1972), Jeff and I were out cruising. We’d driven in circles all evening long checking out cars and girls. That evening Jeff drove for whatever reason to the baseball fields at Pine Street and DeBarr Road. We never went that direction for anything. He pulled into the parking lot to turn around when I sprung this question,

“Is this what life’s all about? We drive in circles until we run out of gas?”

Jeff realized I was being serious for a change. We sat there and talked for several minutes. He told me that God had bigger plans for my life than cars and cruising Northern Lights Boulevard. That’s when he asked me something,

“If you died right now do you know for sure that you’d go to Heaven?”

I told him that I hadn’t given it much thought.

“Would you like to know for sure?”, he replied.

“Sure!”, I shot back.

Jeff informed me that if I was sincere in what I’d just said, I needed to repeat a simple sinner’s prayer asking Jesus Christ to come into my heart and change me.

That night in Jeff’s 1965 Chevrolet I did just that. After doing so, it felt like a million pounds was lifted from my shoulders. I wasn’t a huggy guy back then, but I did shake his hand.

I’m eternally grateful for Jeff showing me how easy it was (through Jesus Christ), to know that I wouldn’t be going in circles for the rest of my life. I finally had direction after 19 years of being lost.

On that September evening in 1973 I came to the cross and I’ve never looked back!

For the past several years (it actually goes back further than that), I’ve been attempting fill in the blanks where my early life was concerned. Being the child of an Air Force serviceman, our family traveled from base to base every three years. Because of this, good friends that I made were left behind. That was typical for military kids before social media came along.

I made a concentrated effort to reconnect with not only them, but former teachers as well. I was successful in my endeavor; through the assistance of many people, especially my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

My purpose in doing such was to write a story or stories that I could share with my grandchildren. I wanted them to know more about Grandpa Michael’s life, than what I recall of my own grandparents.

Just recently I told my wife, Joleen, that I believed I was finally finished with the project. There are over 100 short stories plus three times that amount of newspaper and magazine articles. It’s time for sending this info to a printing company to be made into five books; one for each grandchild.

Joleen asked me if I’d ever written a story on how we met. I told her that I hadn’t. I’ve been publicly open about my past while she’s much more private with hers. Only the family and close friends know how we got together. Getting her permission to compose this missing chapter as I call it completes my mission.

In my perspective, how I met my wife is quite different than most. I suppose every couple believes that. It began with our family moving to Alaska. My mom, dad, brother, and I lived on the east side of town. Jim went to East Anchorage High School while I attended Clark Junior High. The mascot for East High is a Thunderbird with the mascot for Clark being a falcon. This was most fitting for an Air Force brat. Most likely only those with Air Force connections would understand why.

When my family eventually relocated to the south side of Anchorage I was supposed to attend Dimond High. Because all of my friends would be going to East I talked my parents into letting me do the same. That took some finagling. I had to use our old eastside address as my current address. Thankfully, I was able to purchase a 1961 Mercury Comet before 10^th grade began.

During the years 1969 – 1972, I commuted each and every school day via the Comet at first before upgrading to a 1954 Chevrolet. After school I worked for my dad at his Texaco service station. There was no time for sports or belonging to school clubs. My English teacher tried to persuade me to write for the school newspaper, but I sadly had to turn her down.

A poem written as part of an English assignment was published during the freshman year. I was afraid my pals might see it. They would’ve thought it funny or bizarre. That piece of poetry was officially my first recognized composition.

After graduation, one of my activities each weekend like many teens was to cruise Northern Lights Boulevard. This was a favorite place for young people to hang out. Being into Hot Rod cars it was the perfect form of entertainment for me and my pal, Jeff Thimsen. Both of us were car nuts.

One evening as we aimlessly drove around town we came upon an orange 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. It was a T/A 340 six-pack model (3 x 2 barrel carburetors). There were two girls inside and I tried to coax the driver to punch it. Soon after our encounter my ‘68 Dodge Charger developed a flat tire.

As Jeff and I sat alongside the road swapping tires the girls drove back by and honked. I believe it was the next weekend that we bumped into them again. This time we talked for a bit and I found out the passenger, Joleen Freeman, lived less than a block from where I once did (by this time mom and dad had moved again). Had I attended Dimond High as the school system intended I would’ve rode the same bus as her.

Asking Joleen for a date she accepted. We went to this offbeat little place called “The Bridge Restaurant”. The only food item on their menu was Mulligan stew, with apple cider or water being the two beverages. How could anyone forget a dining experience like that?

The following day I took Joleen on a long snow-machine ride through the back country of Anchorage. That seemed to impress her. On a Friday night (it was summer and the sun stayed up ‘til midnight), we drove to Bird Creek and walked the railroad tracks near Beluga Point. Scenic Turnagain Arm sat like a portrait in the background. I impressed her on my skill to walk on a single rail without falling. Things really clicked for us after that.

We went together four years before getting married in 1977. I have a good feeling that had I went to Dimond High, Joleen and I would’ve added another four years to our relationship. Unfortunately, my having to be an East High Thunderbird took precedence over such.

Joleen and I have been married 41 years now with the number growing each September 19th.

In a nutshell that’s how we came to be one. We’re sticking by this life journey till death do us part!

Approximately 30 years ago I was thumbing through my mother’s old pictures.  In a musty seafoam-green album, there was a group shot of 8^th grade students. The children were posed in front of a brick school building in Vernon, Alabama.  A date written on the photo showed it to be 1944.

Asking mom who the kids were she could only recall a few.  She pointed out a couple of female friends including several boys.

“You always remember the good looking guys!” she laughed.  My wife Joleen agreed with her.

Mom went on to say she wished she’d written down classmate names as soon as she received the photo.  My mother became disciplined at labeling pictures later in life.  Most of her family photographs have distinctive handwriting on back. This bit of data identifies who the people are plus photo location.  She drilled it into my head to do the same.

I had my own group photo taken at Southside in Selma the schoolyear 1962 – 1963.  It’s my third grade class.  I remember the teacher Mrs. Wood, including two girls, Glenda Dennis and Janet Adams.

I always wondered who the other kids were and what happened to them?  In trying to determine such I sent out several letters with no replies.  You might say I ran into a brick wall.  Understandably, former classmates no longer recognized my name.

Approximately 10 years later I had good fortune of coming in contact with Jeff Maddox.  Jeff was heading up a Southside School Alumni group.  He was co-sponsoring a Southside get-together in Selma each summer.  We got to e-mailing back and forth discovering several things in common.  Not only did Jeff attend Southside, but his father was assigned duty at Craig Air Force Base like mine.

Jeff was an accomplished writer while I was merely trudging along.  We both loved and owned Harley’s.  In mentioning the old photo, Jeff asked me to forward it to him.  He thought it might be fun to help ‘fill in the gaps’.  Evidently he saw it as a puzzle of sorts.

Jeff placed it on his online Southside website and before long started getting hits.  People wrote in saying that was them, or they knew someone in the picture.  In one instance he discovered a student that I recalled as being deceased.

Jeff asked me how, after so much time had passed, had I remembered two girls and no one else.  Thinking back to what mom said I replied,

“I suppose fellows always remember the pretty gals.”  Jeff concurred with that.

This class photo languished on his website for several years.  Every so often Jeff would come up with another missing part of the puzzle.  His goal was to identify ‘all’ unidentified students.  At that time he was contemplating writing a book about life at Craig.  I sent him bits of information including photos of the base.

Sadly, Jeff Maddox was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident July 4, 2015.  His Southside alumni website is now offline, the Craig A.F.B. book unfinished, identification of students in my photo no longer sought.  Thankfully Jeff completed a manuscript before his untimely death titled, “Meeting My Guardian Angel”.  He gave me a signed copy.

On an extremely positive note, three classmates in my 54-year-old photograph are now ‘Facebook’ friends; Janet Adams, Glenda Dennis-Turner, and Patrick Durden.  At this point the unidentified students will most likely remain nameless.

Being an antique nut, I run across photographs like that all the time in antique stores.  Family portraits make up a good portion of them.  It’s disheartening to see family treasures wind up as items for sale.  Did children or relatives not want these mementoes?  Precious heirlooms should be passed along generation to generation.  To me, an important element in safeguarding photos is making sure future family members see how the older generation looked. 

When mother died 6 years ago I inherited her photograph albums.  They’re safely tucked away from moisture and moths.  I’ve already advised the kids to find a nice dry place to store them.  Paper photos are going by the wayside much like tintype and daguerreotype photographs.  I’m afraid with the invention of the digital camera, ‘nameless faces’ will become the norm.

Just the other day my wife pulled out her iPhone showing friends our new granddaughter.  Watching such take place did not seem the same.  Proud parents and grandparents removing wrinkled photos from purses and wallets is the way I want to remember it!

I was never in the book, Who’s Who Among American High School Students. Many of my friends were. I remember an envelope arriving in the mail my senior year, soliciting information on what subjects and extra-curricular activities I excelled in. I believe every breathing senior got one.

As a joke, I wanted to send it back with a mile long list, but figured doing such would land me in hot water. At that time, I wondered if the book was on the up and up, especially with them mailing me an entry card.

While talking to other students, they said they’d filled out and returned the form. I never questioned their motive, knowing that these guys and gals were maintaining average grades like myself. I regretted not following through with my prank. Looking back at things now, it would’ve been over-the-top hilarious.

When my son, Gunnar, entered high school, he started receiving, Who’s Who Among American High School Students invites from the git go. That freshman year he filled out the form and plopped it in the mailbox.

Parents had to purchase a book if they wanted to see their child’s name in print. My wife ordered three that year. By then, I seriously saw it as bogus, but Joleen didn’t.

Years previous, I’d submitted a poem to a seemingly legit poetry contest. The company came back several months later saying I was one of the winners, and that my poem would be published in an upcoming book. This outfit wanted to know how many books I wanted at $25.00 a pop.

Well of course, I had to have one for my parents, one for Joleen’s parents, plus a couple for myself. Mailing a check in for two-hundred bucks plus shipping, a year went by with nothing happening. Eventually, I dialed a phone number on a copy of the entry form and was shocked to find it no longer in service. I’d been ripped off. It was all a ruse.

When Gunnar received his first “Who’s Who Among American High School Students” book, he was quick to point out text next to a couple of his pals. After reading their merits I would’ve thought they were on the road to Harvard or Princeton. What they wrote down was hilarious. I told my son I’d wanted to do the same twenty-four years previous.

During Gunnar’s senior year, another book submittal form arrived in the mail just like clockwork. Once again, I didn’t give it much attention, as that was always Joleen’s job to have him fill it out. When the senior edition of Who’s Who finally arrived, my son and daughter, Miranda, were looking at it with unshackled laughter.

Wanting to know what was so funny I walked over to see. Under Gunnar’s name was a mile long list. He’d included everything he could think of other than being a kitchen sink repairman. Roof jumping was hands down the funniest, with polo and square dancing being a close second.

Some parents might’ve been mad at their kid, but I wasn’t. Gunnar was a superb student throughout school and ended up Valedictorian of his class. Humor definitely helped get him through the oftentimes challenging academics.

The week before graduation, my son was meticulously working on his speech. He asked me if there was anything he could do to make it funny. I had to think for several seconds,

“Yes, yes there is.”

That graduation night, as he read off the names of people to thank which included God, parents, grandparents, relatives, and friends, he added one additional person to the list,

“I’d like to especially thank Governor Tony Knowles for being here!”

Of course, the whole auditorium began searching for that familiar face in the crowd, especially school faculty. Eventually, seeing that they’d been punked, the room broke out in laughter.

My son went on to receive a congressional appointment to the U.S. Air Force Academy. He says that his four years in Colorado Springs were some of the toughest he’s ever endured. Gunnar’s never outright told me, but I believe having a bit of the old man’s sense of humor helped pull him through some of the darkest days.

As far as the book, “Who’s Who of High School Students” goes, the company went bankrupt in 2007. By then, critics echoed the same sentiments as me. This business was more interested in selling books and associated products than advancing a student’s career. For many years they made a ton of money doing just that.

One enrollment officer at a prestigious university said that whenever she saw a “Who’s Who of High School Students” acclaim written on a college entry form, it meant absolutely nothing to her. Others echoed the same.

The following is a statement issued by a magazine reporter, regarding the academic credentials for someone being in that book:

“However, most admissions officers believe that the recognition has no such value, and in fact, some consider the “honor” to be a joke.”

When I read that I had to chuckle. It seems I hit the bullseye some 50 years previous.

“And it says here that he played polo. This student lives in Alaska!”

As a writer, one of the things I’ve discovered in pounding out words is the joy associated with such.  Not all of my writing has elicited positive response. Thirty years ago I composed a simple newspaper editorial, criticizing a select group of folks in Homer, Alaska. Homer is the town where Tom Bodette of Motel 6 fame once lived.  The pop singer Jewel also comes from there.

Anyway, the residents I wrote about were enjoying themselves at taxpayer expense. They were accepting public assistance (welfare and food stamps) with no intention of ever working. I received my information from a friend that worked for welfare fraud. This state employee mentioned that Homer was ripe with welfare recipients. She said that most of them didn’t want to work.

I was besieged with negative response from several angry people. The mayor of Homer said I was trying to tarnish the town’s good image.  A local radio station begged me for an interview. Two television stations wanted the same. One man went so far as to offer a one-way fishing trip in Kachemak Bay.

One of my favorite songs is, “Michael – Row the Boat Ashore”.  The lyrics have special meaning in more ways than one. There’s something gratifying about getting back on ground safely whether it be in boat or plane. I generally whisper “Hallelujah” whenever a trip over.

That Homer resident’s thinly veiled threat was perhaps the worst response I’ve ever had. Let me tell you about a couple of positive ones.

Several months ago I wrote a story about two class photos.  One segment of the article dealt with mom’s 1945 Vernon, Alabama 8^th grade class. Another part related to my 3^rd grade class photograph taken in 1963, and subsequent search for former classmates.

I’m happy to report that I was able to reconnect with several people, most recently Glenda (Dennis) Turner.  Glenda and her husband Robert still live in Selma, Alabama. They raised three children and operate a successful business; Al’s Towing & Recovery.

I first met Glenda in 1^st grade where our teacher was Mrs. Doris Harris.  It turns out Glenda’s family plus mine attended Selmont Baptist Church. That goes back to pre-school days.  Glenda brought me up to speed on present day Selma, including our old school, ‘Southside’.  It was a pleasure chatting with her.  We’re now Facebook friends.  Who would’ve ever dreamed of something called Facebook in 1963!

I did not believe I’d get the same response regarding mom’s class.  Her group picture was taken in 1945.  That would make surviving students well in their golden years.  How wrong I was!  First of all I discovered one of the students in that shot is Howard Reeves.  The late Mr. Reeves was “The Lamar Democrat” owner and publisher.  He’s also founder of a newspaper column titled, “Off The Wall”, having written a book by the same title.  Howard’s wife Carolyn and daughter Renee saw this class snapshot for the first time when I submitted it.  They were elated to say the least.

Last Saturday I received a surprise phone call from Wyman May in Iowa.  Mr. May told me he was in mom’s class.   The man is a healthy 84.   Wyman identified several unknown faces. With excitement I jotted down their names.  In the front row of that old photo – to the far right – is a relative of mine, Elwanda (Wanda) Hankins-Logan. Wanda grew up to be a most terrific writer.  I’ve tried my best to emulate her style.  Robert Hankins is also in the shot.  I recall my father mentioning Robert’s name.

Turns out Wyman’s older sibling Lucille was best friends with mom’s sister Cazaree. I never had a chance to meet Cazaree as she died from Leukemia at 21.  On another sad note, I learned Wyman’s dad was the person driving my Uncle James Columbus Hankins to the hospital July 31, 1941 after a tragic accident.  J.C. as family called him was seriously burned in a fire. He eventually succumbed to his injuries.

I wrote about this event some time ago.  Wyman said his dad witnessed the incident as did my father.  It evidently left deep scars in both.  Neither would discuss it afterwards. Dad’s brother was only 10.  Grandma Hankins gave me J.C.’s little pocket knife to remember him by.  Before Wyman and I said goodbye, we promised to stay in touch.  He’s been most helpful in putting the finishing touches on this piece.

Writing has brought many blessings my direction including some chastisement.  I’ll never stop pumping out thoughts and opinions regardless of the response.  With that said, I doubt you’ll ever find me saying another word about Homer welfare recipients.

That stranger’s offer of a one-way fishing trip was more than enough warning!

Early on I never thought of girls as being tough. In my way of seeing things the word didn’t quite fit with the female anatomy.

“Sugar, spice, and everything nice”, was my ideology regarding the opposite sex.  I suppose I’d be considered a male chauvinist back then.

It took many years for me to realize toughness is more than physical ability.  Mental and spiritual strength are just as important as brawn; even more so at times. Mother Teresa possessed herculean toughness where spiritual toughness is concerned.

Many women I’ve encountered over the years have proven this. These gals include grandmothers, aunts, teachers, friends, and co-workers. I handpicked seven special ladies to tell you about.  Four of them are from my own family.  The following are people I believe greatly influenced my line of thinking on tough.

Michelle Barnes is the first tough gal I encountered.  She was a military brat like myself.  Michelle and I were good pals 4^th thru 6^th grade.  Unlike other girls, she wore her brown hair very short.  I suppose she looked like a tomboy although I doubt any kid said that to her.  Michelle could shoot marbles with the best of us boys.  She’d never back down physically if challenged.  I found out the hard way!

Michelle’s dad had been stationed with the U.S. Air Force in Turkey.  The whole family traveled there with him. One day Michelle brought very graphic pictures to school.  They showed Turkish criminals and what was done to them after they were arrested.  I remember viewing photos of men minus ears, fingers, hands, and even heads.

Like a disciplined teacher, Michelle explained to us that different crimes in Turkey called for different punishments.  A thief would have a hand cut off while murderers went headless.  We guys found that totally fascinating.  Most of the girls were squeamish at the sight except Michelle.

Our impromptu lesson was cut short when Mrs. Drake confiscated the photos.  Another classmate had evidently squealed.  This person was either jealous of the attention Michelle received or offended by the photographs.  Tattle tales were hard to avoid back then.

Michelle Barnes is the only girl to ever give me a black eye. It happened on the playground for whatever reason. In spite of such we remained good friends until parting directions.  Her father transferred to a new base with my dad doing the same.  I have a good feeling that this former classmate went on to be an instructor of sorts; either teaching criminal law or martial arts.

The next ‘tough cookie’ I encountered is also named Michelle.  I met her my senior year in high school.  Michelle Giroux is probably as competitive a person as any; a very smart and strong-willed lady.  I believe a lot of her competitiveness comes from competing against a brother with the same traits.  I remember Michelle talking about how close they were.  Michelle was outspoken and voiced her opinion.  I respected her for that but it also caused tension between us.  Neither of us was apt to change opinion on a given subject.  She’d ‘stick by her guns’ and I’d do the same. 

Best friend Jeff Thimsen and I concocted a plan one Sunday afternoon to put Michelle’s competitive nature to test.  We convinced her to go on an 8-mile hike with us late in the evening through the Alaska wilderness.  Jeff and I set the pace with Michelle never falling behind.

When our hike was over there was still an hour drive back to town. Michelle was behind the wheel while we dozed.   Jeff and I took the following day off to recuperate.  We found out later that Michelle went to work as usual.  After that enduring hike she’d easily proven her physical toughness.  Her mental strength was already known.

Suzanne Knudsen is a former co-worker and friend.  I wrote a cover story about her for the periodical “We Alaskans” some 25 years ago.  “Suzie” as we called her was a heavy equipment operator.  She performed the job better than most men.  An exceptional cross country and marathon runner, Suzie was mauled by a brown bear while jogging one summer morning in Alaska.  She survived with severe bites and cuts throughout her body.

Where overall physical toughness is concerned Suzie has it all.  She’s not one to take guff from any guy.  On occasion I still hear from her.  In spite of the bear attack Suzie continues to take long runs in the woods and climb mountains.  The mauling didn’t seem to faze her either mentally or physically.

I never realized how much stamina and toughness my own mother, Tallulah, had until she was gone.  Mom grew up on a small Alabama farm with three other sisters.  She picked her share of cotton and other crops along with helping out in the house. Mom raised two sons while holding down a fulltime job, including ironing people’s clothing for extra money.  I remember her being up in the wee hours of morning with her ironing board still unfolded.

Mom always said that raising me wasn’t a picnic. She gallantly battled cancer before succumbing to the disease.  Before passing, mom asked to be buried in a simple wooden coffin.  She had all her affairs in order and was not afraid of leaving this world.  Her faith in God and belief in life after death was as strong as Mother Teresa’s.

My mother-in-law Bonnie Schweitzer-Freeman followed a similar path as mom. She grew up on a small farm in Kansas with two other sisters and a brother.  Bonnie was awakened each morning by the rooster. She began her day by milking cows and feeding chickens.  During wheat harvest she’d be out in the field driving an old Willy’s pickup.

Bonnie reared five children while working outside the home. She, like my mom, also took in laundry and ironing to supplement income.  Bonnie fought breast cancer and eventually won.  She’s now attempting to declare victory over bone cancer. Bonnie’s strong German spirit plus ample determination to prevail has sparked a remarkable recovery.

My daughter Miranda Hankins-Stubbs has the same mindset as me.  That has caused us to bump heads many times.  Similar personalities sometimes don’t work well together.  She’s not afraid to offer her point of view; regardless that it might not be politically correct.

Miranda is more patient than me in areas of listening to the other side.  My daughter’s very open-minded. She is not combative which has kept her out of trouble.  One of her biggest facets of toughness is being able to persevere under pressure. She has what I call Hankins’ Drive in getting things done.  Miranda won’t quit or give up until the job is finished.

The strongest lady I know is my wife.  Living with me for 38 years has not been a strawberry sundae.  I’ll be first to admit such.  Many years ago, an older female co-worker told me I’d be a hard person to live with.  When I repeated this statement to Joleen some 30-years into our marriage she smiled before replying,

“That woman had good intuition!”

My wife successfully raised our children, took them to hockey and basketball practice, plus worked a stressful job.  Joleen incurred non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma several years ago, taking many rounds of chemo to fight it.  She continued to work during that time. Thanks to God’s intervention, and a tough spirit, she’s a cancer survivor.  Her will and determination to overcome the disease is an inspiration to me and others.

In a nutshell I’ve just described seven very strong women; eight counting Mother Teresa.  There are millions more out there.  Just recently, females in the military were granted an opportunity to serve alongside men in combat roles.  If you’d asked me 30 years ago if I thought this could work I would’ve laughed.  Since then I’ve picked up a bit more wisdom.

The old cliché, older and wiser definitely has merit.  I realize now more than ever just how tough women have always been! 

I can’t tell you the exact day or month it happened, yet I can pinpoint things down to the late 1950’s or early 1960’s. Much of what I’m about to tell you is pure speculation on my part. A good portion of this story took place many years ago.

Our family was visiting good friends, Luther & Margaret Hudspeth, in Selma, Alabama. It might’ve been Christmas, but then again, Thanksgiving is a distinct possibility; whatever the occasion, a large turkey, ham, or roast was about to be carved.

At this feast, Luther Hudspeth brought out a small box with his newly purchased electric carving knife tucked inside. I’d never heard of one and it was evident mom and dad hadn’t either. I tend to believe my folks hovered over the device oohing and awing like it was a newborn child.

When Mr. Hudspeth turned the thing on and began slicing meat with ease, most likely additional oohs and awe’s were uttered by my parents. I’m sure that was the precise moment my father decided he needed one.

The key word arising from that occasion is Sunbeam. Dad’s Craig Air Force Base pal, Sgt. Luther Hudspeth, told him he needed to get a Sunbeam, as it was the best electric carver on the market. I’m sure in pop’s way of seeing things, a utensil like that would only enhance his already well-deserved Master Carver title.

Flash ahead to the next big holiday. By this time my father had his own Sunbeam AW-100 in hand. This would’ve been its maiden voyage into freshly baked turkey.

Because the carver’s cord was not long enough to reach an electrical outlet in our small kitchen, mom grabbed an extension cord. For whatever reason, all electrical devices in early mobile homes required extension cords.

When my old man (I use those words with complete reverence) turned his magical knife on and began slicing, my mom, brother, and I stood back and watched. After a few chunks of meat dropped to the side mother couldn’t wait to ask,

“How’s it cut?”

The old man was never one to mince words. He was brief and straight to the point. Hesitating for a few seconds he spoke,

“Like a knife!”

That blunt response was representative of my father’s dry sense of humor. Mother understood his wisecracks and cackled. Evidently I didn’t see the remark as funny. Neither did my brother. The only reason I can accurately rehash this portion of history is because mother loved to tell this story.

Dad’s precious electric meat carver was kept in a special place in a bottom kitchen drawer. Jim and I were warned to keep hands off as our parents deemed the machine dangerous.

“It’ll cut a finger off before you know it!”

I had no use for the tool being somewhat afraid of it. Jim on the other hand, found it extremely handy in cutting excess plastic off airplane and car model parts. He was clever enough to place the box back in its exact spot, so that our parents would never know.

As time slid by the once invincible cutting tool became impossible to use. The blades were so dull they wouldn’t cut through even the tenderest of meat. My father tried sharpening both serrated blades with zero success. He blamed this failure on them being made with low-quality steel.

Jim and I were the only ones knowing the true reason. My brother had placed both blades over a stove burner to help remove imbedded plastic. Years later we learned that doing so took the hardness out of metal.

After perhaps a three-year lifespan this once invaluable knife was tossed in the trash. Dad returned to using his always dependable wood-handle model.

Several years ago my wife decided we needed an electric carving knife. Without asking what I thought of the idea she came home one day with a rechargeable Sunbeam. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

At Thanksgiving, Joleen and the kids stood around watching me dissect a ham. After a few pieces rolled to the side of a serving plate Joleen didn’t hesitate in asking,

“How’s it cut?”

Remembering dad’s crass reply to this very question, I decided to add a little panache’ to my answer. Shutting the knife off while gazing down at the meat, I attempted to come across as a wise person searching precisely for the right words. With unrehearsed choreography I paused at least 15 seconds before replying,

“Like a knife!

Gunnar and Miranda cracked up while Joleen’s face went blank. She quickly saw through the wiseguy humor and smacked me. It was obvious on that Thanksgiving Day – my children Gunnar and Miranda had developed the same dry sense of humor I’d inherited from dad.

Joleen’s electric carver is seldom used these days. During holidays we opt for spiral cut hams instead of cumbersome turkeys or roasts. Just recently I put the Sunbeam to good use in slicing up pieces of foam for an upholstery job. The handy kitchen tool saved precious time in my not having to use scissors. Several pieces of thick foam were cut into squares with perfection.

Not only did I inherit a unique sense of humor from my father, but I picked up his Master Carver skills as well!