I like to write junk…

The first time I heard the name Bass Reeves was on Bill O’Reilly’s, “Legends & Lies” television documentary. In 2017, an excellent movie came out on the famous lawman.

Bass Reeves was born to slave parents the year 1838 in Crawford County, Arkansas. Bass took the surname of his slave owner William Reeves, a farmer and politician. He worked alongside his slave parents bringing them water until he was old enough to be a field hand himself.

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, Bass separated ties with the Reeve’s family. Some say he simply ran away after hearing too much talk about ‘freeing of slaves’. He fled to Indian Territory seeking refuge with Seminole and Creek Indians.

While living with them he honed his firearm skills to perfection, becoming highly accurate with a pistol and rifle. Later on in life he was banned from competitive turkey shoots for being too good. His marksmanship would come in handy numerous times throughout the years.

In 1863, a couple of years before the war ended, Bass procured land near Van Buren, Arkansas where he took to farming and ranching. Being a strapping six-foot two he was easily up to the task. A year later he married Nellie Jennie from Texas. The couple had 10 children; 5 girls and 5 boys. Seemingly content and happy with his farming career, Bass’s life took a drastic change in direction when he took on the dangerous job as a U.S. Deputy.

Because crime was rampant in Indian Territory with murderers and thieves hiding behind every tree, orders came from Washington D.C. for Federal Western District Court Judge Isaac C. Parker to do something.

Judge Parker authorized U.S. Marshal James F. Fagan to deputize 200 people to help disperse the mess. Because of Bass Reeve’s knowledge of the terrain, and his ability to speak several tribal languages, his application was gladly accepted.

Bass Reeves’ patrolled most of Oklahoma via horse. On several occasions his guns were the deciding factor in an arrest. Bass Reeves claimed he only drew a weapon if his life was in danger. During the 35 years that Bass served as Deputy Marshal he brought in over 3,000 criminals.

One of the high points in Reeve’s career was the arrest of notorious outlaw Bob Dozier. This dangerous criminal had eluded lawmen for several years. Bob Dozier was known as a jack-of-all-trades. Dozier was wanted for murder, horse rustling, stage holdups, bank robberies, and land swindles. It seems there was no crime Bob Dozier hadn’t committed.

Dozier escaped Bass Reeves’ arrest several times until he was tracked to the Cherokee Hills. Refusing to surrender, the cagey killer went down in a hail of bullets. Bob Dozier died on December 20, 1878. Bass Reeves was generously rewarded for his work. Often times the reward money became his.

In 1907 law enforcement in Oklahoma was taken over by the state. Bass Reeve’s career as deputy marshal came to an end. He immediately accepted a job as patrolman with the Muskogee, Oklahoma Police Department.

During his two years with the force there were reportedly no crimes on his beat. In 1909, Bass Reeves became ill from Bright’s disease. Bass died on January 12, 1910. He’s buried in Muskogee although the exact grave location is unknown.

For those wanting to know more about Mr. Reeves’ life I highly suggest watching the movie, “Bass Reeves – U.S. Marshal”. It’s an excellent film. There are also many detailed articles written about the man.

It’s believed by many western scholars that Bass Reeves was the real “Lone Ranger”. His exploits in life seem to indicate such.

It’s sad we don’t have many lawmen like Bass patrolling the streets anymore. The country would be safer if we did. Unfortunately liberal politicians, extremist activists, along with help from A.C.L.U. lawyers have eliminated this type of law enforcement.

If Bass Reeves were alive today, I believe he’d shake his head at what’s going on in this country. Criminals seemingly having more rights than law abiding citizens would have him furious.

Judges making courtroom decisions based on their political beliefs, instead of going by written law would incense the man. More than likely Bass Reeves would forego law enforcement entirely, choosing a career much less micromanaged by clueless leaders!

Danny’s dad wasn’t a sports superstar in school. He wasn’t athletic at all. Tall and wiry as a child, Danny’s dad was mistaken by many as sickly. Some parents would not let their children play with him.

Contagious disease was not a problem. Danny’s dad ate as much as most kids, yet couldn’t put on weight. Doctors said his dilemma came from an inactive thyroid. One horrible year in grade school, a slightly plump teacher told the child that having such a problem was good. For Danny’s dad it was a social nightmare.

In his early teens, students nicknamed Danny’s dad “Bones”. That didn’t upset him. Danny’s dad was use to cruel words going way back. Girls would not give him a second look; all but one that is. Danny’s mom fell in love with his dad at church camp. She told closest friends back then that he reminded her of a homeless pup.

When Danny was born his dad was the happiest man in the world. The proud papa carried his boy everywhere. Danny’s dad took him fishing, or to a little ice cream store up the street. Danny’s dad made sure to attend every school play or little league game his son was in.

Sometimes that meant taking leave from work and suffering the consequences. Money didn’t mean as much to Danny’s dad as time spent with ‘the boy’.

When 18 year old Danny graduated from high school, his dad wiped salty tears from both eyes. You see Danny’s dad never made it past 11^th grade. He dropped out of school, helping take care of his mother and two younger sisters after their father developed lung cancer. That meant accepting a lowly laborers’ job at the local brick plant.

Meager pay at the brick plant didn’t bother Danny’s dad. The young man made ends meet by not spending a cent of his small paycheck on personal desires. He knew his family needed every penny.

On the creative side, Danny’s Dad could make scrumptious apple pies that were second to none. Danny’s mom showed him how at the age of nine. Danny was taught by her and dad, that women and elders were to be treated with upmost respect.

When Danny needed wheels for college, his dad traded a family heirloom for an old pickup. Danny’s dad had the vehicle up and running within weeks. After Danny obtained his law degree, dad and mom cried again. No one from the family had ever attended college other than Aunt Sarah. She went to beauty school but never graduated.

After Danny married and had children of his own, Danny’s dad was the proudest grandpa around. The man loved his grandchildren. He’d have them laughing hysterically by making strange clownlike faces.

Danny was on assignment in Washington D.C. when word arrived that his dad was terribly ill. Hopping on the first flight, he barely made it home in time. Danny’s dad died the following day. It was hard for Danny to take, because he’d just buried his mom two years previous.

At the funeral there was but a handful of people in attendance. Danny’s dad had been so busy scraping out a living, he found little time for socializing. A few folks that knew him from work and church came to pay their final respects.

Instead of flowers, a table on each side of the coffin held apple pies. Danny’s dad would have laughed at the sight. He probably did from high above. When Pastor Blake offered attendees a chance to talk, no one stepped forward.

At the last second an older businessman rose. A rich man, Bill Williams, owned the brick plant where Danny’s dad worked. Everyone in town knew him. They also knew the busy  entrepreneur had neglected his own son while building an empire.

Deprived of attention at birth, Bill Williams’ boy suffered terribly both emotionally and physically. For the past several he’d been in and out of trouble. Experimenting with drugs, the young man died of an overdose in the driver’s seat of a Porsche.

Finding it hard to walk, let alone talk, the stooped old man stared straight ahead as he limped to the podium. For several minutes he said nothing. Bill Williams finally looked at Danny with a solemn face before speaking,

“If I could’ve been like your dad, my Danny would still be with me!”

When I knock on a friend’s door and they ask,

“Who’s there?”

I’ll try to disguise my voice before replying,

“Avon calling!”

My brother and I have been pulling this lame joke forever. The saying goes back to the day when Avon used that famous line in television commercials.  I never do such at a stranger’s door for obvious reason. It could get a fellow shot!

One thing I tease my wife about is all the money she spends on expensive perfume.  When I say expensive perfume I’m not talking about the stuff made in Paris.  Joleen uses Avon and probably goes through one bottle a year.

I haven’t a clue to price, but with her being frugal in spending I’m sure the stuff is reasonable.  I remember the Avon lady stopping at our place as kids.

Mom would be in a tizzy when she dropped in because our living room was always a mess. Mothers having boys know what I mean.

This sales lady would carry in a huge book with the entire cosmetic line in it.  Early on I began using Avon deodorant.  It must do its job because no one’s ever complained.

For the past several years I’ve purchased Avon Ironman deodorant. I’m not sure why they call it that other than the name sounds cool. If anyone should ask if I compete in triathlons, I’d honestly have to tell them,

“No, but I use the deodorant!”

A few months ago I ran out of the stuff.  Quickly, I hit a local Walgreen’s store and picked up Mennen Sport.  I figured an odor protectant with sport on it was what I needed. The name said a lot.

Putting some on, something didn’t feel right.  From the moment the deodorant hit my skin it wouldn’t let go.  Showering the next morning I felt as if melted wax or tree sap had been sprayed under my armpits.

The sticky deodorant attempted to set up permanent residency on my body.  It took two showers to finally remove the last clinging bit.

I still have that worthless deodorant in my medicine cabinet, thinking I’ll eventually need it for something. Recently I saw Mennen Sport had been discontinued. What does that tell you?

One thing that really puzzles me is how athletes like baseball pitchers or football quarterbacks were able to wear it.  You’d think their arm motion would’ve been hindered?

I was never so glad when the Avon lady dropped off my Ironman.  Thankfully she called beforehand. I had just wheeled a bicycle back into the garage.

Before she arrived I had my ancient Cannondale mountain bike tore apart on our living room floor. The chain needed cleaning and lubed.

For a brief second I thought about slapping Mennen Sport on the links as an experiment. The waxy chain oil I use doesn’t bind to metal for very long. I nixed the idea deciding it wouldn’t be wise.

If Mennen Sport was so good at hindering arm movement, I figured it would do the same to a bicycle chain!  

With July 4^th upon us every citizen should know what the holiday is about. On July 4, 1776 our United States Congress unveiled The Declaration of Independence.

This document was written and signed to show the world we were no longer under British rule. Since that time Americans celebrate each 4^th of July as this country’s Independence Day.

I was curious as to what other important events took place on July 4th after 1776. My research uncovered the following:

1802 – West Point military academy was opened.

1827 – Slavery was abolished in New York.

1862 – Charles Dodgson created Alice in Wonderland for friend Alice Liddell on a family boat trip.

1881 – Booker T. Washington started Tuskegee Institute.

1866 – An errantly tossed firecracker was responsible for torching half of Portland, Maine.

1939 – The Boston Red Sox Jim Tabor hit two grand slam homeruns in one game.

1959 – A 49 star flag honoring Alaska statehood was unfurled.

1960 – Mickey Mantle hit homerun number 300.

1982 – Jimmy Connors beat John McEnroe at the 96^th Wimbledon tennis championship.

1990 – Wrestler Brutus Beefcake was injured while parasailing.

2015 – Matt ‘Megatoad’ Stonie defeated eight-time champ Joey ‘Jaws’ Chestnut in a hotdog eating contest.

2016 – Joey ‘Jaws’ Chestnut captured the hotdog eating title by defeating Matt ‘Megatoad’ Stonie.

2018 – Joey ‘Jaws’ Chestnut wins the hotdog eating contest once again.

I’m not sure what significant milestone will be added to the list this coming Thursday, but let’s pray it’s a good one and not tragic.

If you’re like me you’ll be watching to see if Matt ‘Megatoad’ Stonie can dethrone Joey ‘Jaws’ Chestnut, regaining the hotdog eating title for 2019.

Hopefully there’ll be trained medical personnel standing by with stomach pumps, just in case competitors overdo it!

Have a safe 4th of July!

There are many phobias in this world.  Arachnophobia is the fear of spiders.  I possess that one because I insist on my wife killing the things.

Basophobia is the fear of falling while walking.  Many older folks should develop that fear, to help keep them from falling and breaking fragile bones.

A most unusual phobia is one I can hardly pronounce. Syngenesophobia is a fear of relatives. I know my wife has it because when she finds out they’re coming and the house isn’t clean, she freaks.

I have a phobia that’s not on the list.  It wasn’t hard creating a name that fits. I’m sure you’ll easily understand after reading. Outhouseholeaphobia is the fear of falling through an outhouse hole.

For me it started at my Grandpa & Grandma Hankins’ place.  To this day I have fear of an outhouse hole.  It’s not the building that scares me. The deep, dark, hole causes me great distress. What’s down there and how far does the hole go?

My older brother Jim didn’t help matters by telling me monsters and snakes lived at the bottom. He said the holes were so deep that you could never climb out. No amount of reassurance by my parents or grandparents could dissuade me from believing such. The lies were permanently etched in my brain.

Unfortunately while traveling, I find some states still use the primitive outhouse design.  I’ve gingerly stepped into a few such places where the hole looked to be miles deep.  I often found myself closing my eyes while at the same time holding my breath.

My grandparents knew I hated outhouses and they made special provision.  At their home they kept a white enameled pot with lid.  I won’t go into further detail. They allowed me use of this device until approximately six years of age.  After that I was on my own.

What they didn’t know was I discovered there were other places to go besides the outhouse.  Thankfully there were plenty of trees and bushes around their yard.

These days many kids have never seen nor used an outhouse.  Lucky for them! I’m sure there are rural homes still having these primitive outdoor facilities.

There is another phobia somewhat related to outhouseholeaphobia. It’s called portapotaphobia. As the name suggests it is the fear of portable toilets. I know several people with this affliction including my wife.

Seems to me the worse thing that could happen, is a strong wind come up while you’re inside and blow the hut over. I’ve seen this occur numerous times with no one inside.

I suppose it could be tipped quite easily by mere pushing. That’s why it’s best to only enter when friends aren’t around; at least my friends that is!

There are very few Vernon, Alabama residents still remembering HAYNES CURB MARKET.  My Grandpa George Perry Haynes (on mom’s side) owned the little grocery store from the late 1940’s until the early 1970’s.

Local folks knew my Grandpa as G.P.  We called him Papa Haynes. When Papa Haynes became physically unable to run the store it closed.  My records show this around 1973.

The business was located north on HWY 17 on the outskirts of town.  Vernon has since expanded beyond that location.  The last time I was in Vernon the wood and concrete building was weathered but intact.  That was millennium year 2000.

As a child I use to ride to the store with Papa Haynes in his old Chevrolet Apache pickup truck.  This was the same truck he drove to Birmingham weekly to pick up fresh produce.

During one of his buying trips another vehicle hit Papa head-on.  He was lucky to survive.  A photo in the newspaper showed the engine totally out of his pickup lying in the middle of the road.

A couple of products I remember him peddling were freshly-sliced bologna and lard.  One hardly hears the lard word anymore.

On one occasion a flatbed truck with wooden sides stopped by to sell Papa Haynes freshly picked watermelons.  It was one of those hot muggy Alabama days.  The man unloading the melons ‘accidentally’ dropped one with it breaking in half.  He gave my brother Jim and me the sweet remnants.  I truly believe the ‘drop’ was not by accident!

Papa & Mama Haynes lived on what was called Haynes’ Hill.  This property is located on Old HWY 18. Albert Drive now leads to their old house.

My grandparents had a small farm on Haynes Hill which Jim and I looked forward to visiting.  Papa & Mama Haynes lived there for many years raising 4 daughters, Katrulia, Cazaree, Flavius Gaye, Opal Claydean, and my mother Tallulah.

The property has since been sliced and diced, several homes now disturbing the dense woods we loved to roam.  The old house Grandpa built still stands.

Papa Haynes died October 18, 1979.  Mama Haynes died almost 12 years before him on August 15, 1967.  I’m not sure when Papa Haynes second wife Doris passed but believe it was 1981.

I have one photo of HAYNES CURB MARKET in my box of family mementoes.  The faded picture shows Papa and second wife Doris standing in front of the sign.  The snapshot was taken around the time the store closed. I have a glass TOM’S peanut canister from the store. It sits safely on a top shelf.

Papa & Mama Haynes and their little grocery store are gone, but the town they loved is alive and well.  I know both would be pleased!

Most everyone remembers their first car.  Let me rephrase that.  Most ‘guys’ remember their first car.

I’m not trying to be sexist, it’s just the plain truth.  Remembering their first car to a young man is akin to a girl recalling her first kiss.

My first automobile was a 1961 2-door Mercury Comet.  I believe it was the ugliest car I ever laid eyes on. On reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, there’s one just like it. The Mercury is often parked in front of the police station.

I didn’t have a choice in model selection because my ’61 was a hand-me-down from my brother.  Jim gave me the ‘good brother deal’.  $300.00 spread out over several months with zero interest. I was 16 at the time.

The Comet was blue with stylistic swept back fins.  I suppose the fins were for stability at speed, although the Mercury would only go 73 and that was downhill.  My brother named the car “Comet Cleanser”.  I’ll tell you how this came to be in a second.

Jim and I purchased transportation vehicles with our own funds.  We owned motorcycles before cars ever entered the picture.   Unlike some parents, dad or mom never came to our rescue.

We were labor intensive in creating income.  The usual mowing and raking yards, delivering morning and evening newspapers, plus a short lived foray into the car wash business.  Our car washing gig turned out to be an absolute nightmare.

A neighbor approached our father about ‘the boys’ washing his rig.  What the man didn’t tell dad was his car sat under a tree, and now had sap now all over it.  We eagerly took the job quickly finding soap and water wouldn’t touch the goo.  I can’t remember if Jim came up with the brilliant idea or me.  As Hillary Clinton would say,

“At this point does it really matter?”

One of us decided Comet sink cleaner would take the sticky stuff off.  To make a long story short the abrasive totally destroyed the paint.

When the owner came home from work he was not happy.  We tried waxing the Ford and that helped some.  The angry man initially thought about making us pay for a paint job, but thankfully didn’t follow through.  That was our first and last foray into the commercial car wash business.

Whenever I drift back to the ‘good ole days’ I start wondering if “Comet Cleanser” is still around. Could she have survived the crusher?

If you’re wondering if I’d like to find and buy her back; think again.

I truly believe that was the ugliest car I ever lay eyes on!

Many years ago in Selma, Alabama my brother and I came across a man in the woods with hands raised. He was yelling at the sky.  The fellow was so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t see us.  Crouched down and from a distance we watched as he asked forgiveness for something he’d done.

At the time it was spooky because I’d never seen an adult act like that.  Running home and telling mother, she said some folks have different ways of getting God’s attention during prayer.  She indicated there was nothing right or wrong about the methods used.

I often wondered why some folks pray in church with hands raised and others don’t.  I was told by one person it depends on denomination of faith.  That didn’t make sense because I’ve noticed Baptists as well as Pentecostals do the same.

Doing a bit of research I found various reasons for people raising their hands during worship.  They do so: to show submission, humility, surrender, dependence, or reverence to God.

Raising hand or hands during worship can be traced to early day Israel. Aaron, the first High Priest raised his hands in prayer as he blessed the Israelites.  This form of prayer is called a benediction.  Depending on denomination, often times only a minister is allowed to do such.

The book of Psalms shows many examples of raising hands to praise God.  I chose one as an example:

“Come, bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, lift up your hands to the holy place, and bless the Lord.”  (Psalms 124: 1 – 2)

I’ve never been a hand raiser in church but have no problem with folks that do.  I raise one or two hands while praying in privacy of my home.   My reasoning is different than most.

Just as a radio needs an antenna for better reception, I believe raising my hands to God gives me the same where transmitting is concerned.

I’m sure there are sceptics to my idea.  That’s okay.  Just as mom said there was nothing wrong with that man praying loudly in the woods, I see no problem with my utilizing hand antennas.

At times I wish I had longer arms!

When Aunt Dora Hankins-Guyton passed away at 99, her mind was sharp as a tack.  For all of Dora’s later years she continued to read; mostly she loved doing crossword puzzles. That’s one of the things she did in order to keep the upper gears turning.

My wife and I bought a couple of supposedly ‘easy’ crossword puzzle books at a grocery store.  We found nothing simple about them.  I suppose intelligent folks like Aunt Dora would have the things completed in days.  We’re still working on them two months later. I’ve threatened to cheat by looking at the answer sheet.  I know my aunt would frown on such.

For me, writing keeps the mind juices flowing.  Spelling and punctuation definitely makes a brain work. If it wasn’t for spell check I’d be looking words up in Webster’s all the time.  The whole writing process has been simplified because of this program. Maybe that’s not good?

Many things in life are now easier.  We no longer have to use checks.  Debit cards take care of withdrawing money.  I remember the hassle of writing a check made out to “cash”.  Along with the check I’d have to present two different ID’s to a bank teller. Even then the clerk might not cash it.

Paying for license plate renewal online is an excellent example of simplified hassle.  Is there anyone who likes going to the DMV?   Simplified life chores are good.  Sometimes they’re not where working our gray matter is concerned.

My wife’s on a 2 week trip and I have to fend for myself.  I just popped a ‘Lean Cuisine’ dinner in the microwave for four minutes. How simple is that! I know what it’ll taste like afterwards. No surprises there!  I’ll spice things up with Tabasco sauce and mustard. It’s a southern thing.

Sometimes I wonder what our loved ones in Heaven eat.  Surely they still like food?  My belief is they’re looking down on us as we go about our daily routines.

I visualize parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends watching as I pour Tabasco sauce and mustard on my eggs.  Somewhere in back of the group a twangy voice rings out,

“You learned that boy well!”

With my wife away for a spell it would be a perfect opportunity to finish my crossword puzzles.  I could have them completed in 15 minutes using the cheat sheet. Doing such won’t learn me anything, but it simplifies the whole book completion process.

I’m about to watch Jeopardy.  That was one of my Aunt’s favorite shows. The good thing about Jeopardy is even if you don’t know the answer to a question, host Alex Trebek will eventually give it to you. In a way it’s like using the cheat sheet on a crossword. The big difference being Trebek is the one cheating.

I’m not sure tuning in to Jeopardy will help me reach 99, but watching the show has learned me bunches. Overall. I believe it makes for good mind simplification!

This story isn’t about climbing one of Alaska’s tallest peaks. It’s not about kayaking the state’s wildest rivers or surfing the Gulf of Alaska. The tale is about how easy it was for a group of Anchorage teenagers in the 1960’s, to have a little simplistic fun in the great outdoors.

Almost 50 years ago at an area where Bear Creek meets Salmon Creek, several miles north of Seward, Alaska, a bluff overlooking both pristine waters became a refuge of solitude for me and others. When school let out for summer I’d happily pilgrimage from Anchorage with tent, backpack, never-enough-food, fishing line, sinkers, and treble hooks.

Fishing was illegal in the area but that didn’t concern me. My older brother Jim and a couple of friends, Jeff Cloud and Rod Sanborn, ventured with me on different occasions.

As teenagers we’d be dropped off by family or friends near the Bear Creek Bridge. The only structure in the area at that time was a rustic log cabin belonging to a long-time Seward family.

The trail alongside Bear Creek bordered both private property and the creek. A vintage 1900’s steel-wheeled Fordson tractor marked a starting point for the trail.

A most picturesque spot for camping was on ‘the bluff’ as we called it. We’d make sure our tent entrance faced outward towards the streams. At bluff edge was a fairly large fire pit.  It’d evidently been used hundreds of times over the years because it was fairly deep with large containment stones.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, research showed this locale to be a favorite picnic area for early Seward pioneers. It was also one of the town’s most popular fishing holes before ‘No Fishing’ signs went up.

Residents and railroad personnel alike often made the short journey out of town to wet their lines and socialize. A small railway excursion car was generally utilized to make the trip. The train stopped there if need be. An archived photograph in the Seward Public Library appears to show several well-dressed residents picnicking at this site.

There was one particular trip where my pal Rod Sanborn and I elected to forego higher ground for water-front property. We pitched our tent on an island in the middle of Salmon Creek. Shortly after going to bed it started raining cats and dogs. Somewhere in the wee hours of morning Rod woke me with a shout,

“I think the water is rising!”

My buddy didn’t need to tell me. It sounded like a raging river just outside the tent door.

Shining a flashlight into the misty cool air revealed we were surrounded by the wet stuff. A small newly formed tributary was already lapping at metal tent stakes. Using the cloth and nylon dwelling as a large storage bag, Rod took off for shore with everything inside.

Fortunately he had the size and stature to handle such. I stumbled along behind him sloshing through glacial currents. Rain continued to come down in buckets.

It took a while to get our little shelter back in place. When the project was complete we were soaked to the gills. An hour or so later a fire worthy of mention was snapping and popping.  Golden embers danced upwards until rain drops quickly doused them.

Wet wood has a way of making lots of smoke. There was plenty of burnt birch smell in our hair and clothes. As morning light began to reveal surrounding terrain, we immediately noticed our camping spot in the creek was completely under water. Thankfully we’d made it out safely without drowning. Hypothermia also escaped us.

Later on during that same trip a group of drunken loudmouths unexpectedly showed up. We heard their cursing and swearing before seeing any faces. They’d brought along plenty of beer with several fishing poles. When things began to get a bit too rambunctious for our liking, Rod pulled a toy sheriff’s badge from his pack.

Pinning the ‘star’ on a faded Levi jacket, my pal moseyed on over to where the folks were partying. They saw ‘The Man’ coming before he got there. In a tizzy the rabble-rousers took off running with one fellow leaving a tackle box behind. For the rest of our expedition Rod sported his badge to help keep tranquility. I jokingly referred to him as,

“Marshall Sanborn.”

On another trip Jeff Cloud and I ate all of our food several days before we were to be picked up. We attempted to walk, and then hitchhike into Seward through pouring rain. We knew there was a diner in the middle of town. After several miles of hoofing it plus sticking out thumps we gave up. No sane person would stop and give us a ride. I didn’t blame them.

Jeff and I looked like a couple of deadbeats from who knows where.  Because we were hungry and getting hungrier by the hour it became subsistence time. Back then we didn’t have a clue what subsistence meant. As my late Grandma Hankins from Alabama would say regarding our predicament,

“Dem growin’ boys need ta eat!”

Tying 80 pound test monofilament fishing line onto a long stick plus adding a heavy lure, I snagged a silver salmon then yanked it in. A couple of blows to the head with a rock finished things off. Jeff was able to entice some good-sized Dolly Varden onto his hook using eggs obtained from my silver.

Starting a fire at water’s edge we cooked the fish in foil before devouring every morsel. A Fish & Game officer came along at this time not saying a word. He took a long hard look, quickly turned around and left.

I suppose some folks would say we did wrong back then by poaching a few fish. Using a toy sheriff’s badge to intentionally misrepresent someone besides a western lawman would definitely draw the ire of a few individuals, especially law enforcement. I’d tend to agree what we did was wrong.

On the other hand, doing such provided much needed food, plus helped scare off potential troublemakers. There has to be some merit in that. As naïve teens we saw our actions as harmless. Evidently one local game warden thought the same.

Several years ago I stopped in the area to show my wife our old stomping grounds. The Fordson tractor was gone. A house now sits near the bluff where we camped.

This place of solitude is forever lost except to those folks permanently living there. I’ve since discovered other places to relax and unwind. Thankfully a toy sheriff’s badge hasn’t been needed to help keep the peace!