I like to write junk...

NO PICTURES NEEDED

“Today, people from all walks of life use selfies to capture moments, express themselves, and connect with others around the world.”

When I was younger, I didn’t mind people taking my picture. These days, that’s not the case. I now cringe walking through the clothing department of a store where mirrors are present—quickly turning the other direction. It’s bad enough to view my physical decline in the bathroom mirror each morning, let alone out in public.

Just recently, I needed a photo to go along with a story I was writing on selfies and decided to snap my own. This was my first such photograph. The guys I grew up with would say taking photographs of oneself is vanity. If that’s the case, millions are guilty these days, myself now included.

I had to first be instructed on how to take a selfie using my wife’s Apple iPhone. I didn’t realize smartphones have a reverse lens until a friend showed me. I can see good use of this for women (and some men) while putting on makeup.

Choosing a local park where Christmas lights were present, the intent was to capture my mug posed in front of the city Christmas tree. This holiday act didn’t seem vain. Even so, thankfully, no one was close by to see what I was doing.

It wasn’t until getting home and viewing the shot on a bigger screen that I noticed my eyes were barely open. I was evidently expecting a bright flash like my Kodak camera gives off when the shutter is pushed. Reflective action on my brain’s part automatically closed my peepers.

Another trip back to that location was made for a second take. This time, I took several just to make sure one was good enough to use. That was only obtained by finally removing my glasses.

I get a kick out of watching other people secretly snap selfies, generally younger girls and guys. Most of them, I assume, are trying to lasso something of significant interest in conjunction with their face.

A few, without doubt, are trying to capture their own beauty. One guy at Rotary Park was actually attempting to flex his stomach muscles while doing so; the only problem is, he didn’t have any.

The history of selfies goes back even further than I thought. While selfies might seem like a recent trend, the act of taking self-portraits has a surprisingly long history. In fact, the first recognized photographic selfie was taken in 1839 by Robert Cornelius, an amateur chemist and photography enthusiast, who set up his camera and captured his own image by removing the lens cap and then running into the frame.

Over the decades, self-portraiture evolved with technology, moving from painted self-portraits to photographs using timers or mirrors on film cameras. I’ve used timers on my Kodak but never considered that a selfie.

With the introduction of digital cameras and, eventually, smartphones equipped with front-facing cameras, taking selfies became accessible and convenient for nearly everyone.

Social media platforms such as Instagram and Snapchat further popularized the trend, turning selfies into a cultural phenomenon. Today, people from all walks of life use selfies to capture moments, express themselves, and connect with others around the world.

Even more creative than selfies, I’m told that AI (artificial intelligence) can take your picture and place it anywhere you ask. If you desire to be eating dinner at the same table as the Kardashians, no problem. Shooting hoops with Michael Jordan, consider it done.

The process is so refined and perfected that it’s hard to discern what’s fake and real. Because of this, taking selfies may eventually become a thing of the past, much like tintype photographs and 35mm cameras.

If you ask me what selfie I would most like to take, the answer is easy. I’d love to snap one with all of my departed family and friends standing beside me, and Jesus Christ in the middle. While some would say AI can now make that possible through trick photography, I’m not inclined to accept mere imagery.

The real deal gets much closer with each passing day. You see, with eternity meaning forever, no pictures will be needed in Heaven to always remember people by. That’s something I look forward to!

SUGAR COOKIES

“Taking a bite out of a chocolate reindeer, I have to say the taste was exquisite.”

During the Christmas holiday, Mother always made sugar cookies. I believe her recipe was passed down from Grandma Haynes. My brother and I contributed, first by helping sift the flour, and then taking her metal cookie cutters in the shape of a star, angel, Christmas tree, reindeer, candy cane, and Santa—firmly pressing them into the flattened dough. After Mom passed away, my daughter ended up with her well-used cutters.

The cookie characters were placed on greased baking pans and slid into a pre-heated oven, set at 350 degrees. Once they were golden brown and had cooled, icing and sprinkles were added. Mom made her own different-colored icings using food coloring from small bottles.

Jim and I were allowed to scrape the beaters and bowl clean of icing afterwards with our fingers. I’m sure we were instructed to make sure our hands were clean before starting, although that wasn’t one of my priorities early on.

My wife made the same sugar cookies for our kids when they were small, as well as baking enough treats to pass out to family and friends. I enjoyed driving her to these individuals’ houses, where she dropped them off in colorful cellophane-wrapped containers.

After Thanksgiving ended, I wanted sugar cookies for Christmas, but Joleen wasn’t up to baking any. Grabbing the bull by the horns, I decided it was finally time to do things myself. Our plastic cookie cutters were packed away, so a trip to Walmart was made for new ones, along with other ingredients.

The recipe I used is the same as Mom and Joleen went by, modified just a bit for personal taste. I needed all-purpose flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, two sticks of butter, vanilla extract, C&H white sugar, and one egg.

With the flour sifted in our ancient hand-crank sifter, 2 ¾ cups of it were added to a bowl, along with one teaspoon of baking soda, a pinch of salt, ½ teaspoon of baking powder, one cup of softened butter, 1 ½ cups of sugar, the egg minus shell, and two teaspoons of rum extract flavoring. If you’re now wondering, I substituted rum at the last moment for vanilla, believing it’d liven things up a bit.

The recipe said that you’re supposed to mix some of these items in separate bowls before adding them all together, yet I saw no point in that. Mixing is mixing in my book. I’ve mixed enough paint over the years to know what works best. Starting out slow and then gradually increasing the speed of the beater, I could hear the motor straining, but all was good.

When the cookie dough was ready to go, it was placed on wax paper and then flattened, using a spray butter-lubricated, large plastic roller. Mom had a wooden one, but I believe my daughter inherited that as well.

Although I’ve never baked before and have no knowledge regarding the subject, I believe plastic is much better where rollers are concerned. My dough seemed to roll out much more smoothly and faster without sticking, unlike wood.

Once the Walmart cookie cutters did their job, the unbaked cookies were placed into our oven for approximately 10 minutes. After they reached the golden hue I was accustomed to seeing, the pans were taken out and allowed to cool for a few minutes. One by one, these still-warm Christmas cookies were put on a wire rack to thoroughly cool.

Rather than waste time mixing up homemade icing, I’d purchased beforehand, one can of Pillsbury white vanilla, holiday green, red, funfetti yellow, and chocolate. Sprinkles were tossed onto a select few, as we only had so many sprinkles left. Thankfully, those things have no expiration date, as who knows how old they were.

Taking a bite out of a chocolate reindeer, I have to say the taste was exquisite, much better than sugar cookies purchased from the grocery store, yet perhaps not as good as those Mom and Joleen made. I’m proud of my accomplishment.

With 48 cookies on hand and no one to give them to, a good number was placed in the freezer. We’ll be eating Christmas cookies come next Fourth of July. This being said, on top of that, there’s enough rum extract left for me to try making rum balls next holiday season.

Our late neighbor, Diane Vidas, always gave us delicious rum balls, peanut brittle, fudge, and more sugar cookies. I’ll never be able to replicate any of Diane’s recipes with her now gone.

Christmas, of course, is the celebration of Jesus’ birth. For me, it’s also a time to reflect back on such simple things as sugar cookies, and especially those people who made them.

ONE SLIP OR FALL

“I was bruised and sore from head to toe, but still good to go.”

Sir Issac Newton is recognized for saying, “What goes up must come down.” The famous mathematics professor, physicist, astronomer, theologian, author, and inventor was referring to the law of gravity, with an apple falling out of a tree, the most commonly used example of what triggered his curiosity.

Research shows that an apple did not actually hit Newton on the head as some writers and cartoonists like to candidly portray.

Senior citizens should understand the law of gravity more than anyone, realizing that if they start a day out by standing, hopefully, it’ll end that way without them falling. Unfortunately, falling poses a significant danger for seniors, as it can lead to serious injuries such as broken bones, head trauma, and a loss of independence.

Even a simple fall may result in hospitalization or long-term health complications, making fall prevention a crucial concern for older adults and their families. I constantly warn my wife not to leave her slippers on the living room floor. Our coffee table is rock solid and nothing to stumble into.

I’ve heard too many horror stories about older citizens falling and breaking hips, with full recovery not always taking place. In Alaska during winter, my mother wore removable cleats on the bottom of her shoes to prevent slipping on snow and ice.

With her having osteoporosis, a fall could’ve been devastating. Always cautioning me about climbing ladders, going back to childhood, Mom never stood on one after age 70.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), falls from ladders are a leading cause of injury among older adults, especially during home maintenance tasks. In the United States, nearly 500,000 people are treated annually for ladder-related injuries, and adults aged 65 and older are at significantly higher risk of serious outcomes.

Reports show that one out of four older people will take a tumble. The chance of them falling again more than doubles after having the first. Reflexes and coordination slowly decrease as a person ages. Perhaps that’s why playing tennis professionally is a young person’s sport.

Data shows that about one in four ladder-related injuries in this age group results in hospitalization, and falls from ladders account for a substantial portion of fatal falls among seniors. Taking preventive measures and using proper equipment can help reduce these risks.

I’ve always been one to use caution while climbing a ladder and have had no accidents, that is, until the other day. I was coming down a ladder while helping a friend work on his pontoon boat. Wearing sandals, somehow the right sole went underneath the left. I plummeted to the ground much faster than a plump Granny Smith apple.

Landing on my hip while hitting the front of my head on a retaining wall at the same time, the actual fall didn’t hurt me; it was the sudden stop on hard concrete that created damage. Blood oozed from arms, legs, and head, with crimson red on my shirt and pants, making things seem worse than they were.

It took several seconds to regain my senses before I hobbled into the house to check things out. After some cleaning of wounds with alcohol and the application of large Band-Aids, I was bruised and sore from head to toe, but still good to go. Thankfully, no bones were broken.

Sir Issac Newton was correct in his analysis regarding gravity. “What goes up must come down.” I’ve made a personal observation about clumsy older people like myself. They should refrain from using ladders, rather than risk falling on cold, hard ground.

I’m sure Sir Issac Newton, who lived to be 84, would add the following for senior citizens, “Look out when walking for shoes, marbles, pets, and wet spots on the floor. One slip or fall could end it all!”

TALKING TURKEY

“Turkey Town, Alabama, is now considered a ghost town.”

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, although around our household, that doesn’t mean a reprieve from eating turkey. Christmas Day, as well as New Year’s Day, often sees a brown and succulent Butterball turkey sitting on our table. Leftovers such as cold turkey and dressing always grace the refrigerator afterwards.

I’m not sure why my wife buys a Butterball brand turkey, but I suppose it has something to do with her mom and my mother having been brainwashed that Butterball is better than the rest. I asked Miss Purdy, my AI (artificial intelligence) helpmate, what’s so great about Butterball, and she offered up the following:

“Butterball turkeys have become a staple in American households during the holiday season, known for their consistent quality and convenience. The brand was established in the 1950s, and its name was chosen to evoke the image of a plump, tender, and juicy turkey. Today, Butterball is recognized as one of the largest producers of turkeys in the United States, maintaining its reputation for excellence and reliability in holiday feasts.”

During my research on turkeys and where they come from, I found that five states in the US actually have Turkey in their name. Let me begin with the state in which we live.

Turkey Creek, Arizona, is a small, unincorporated community named for the creek that flows through the area, which was once abundant with wild turkeys. This region in Yavapai County, 222 miles from Lake Havasu City, has its roots in the late 19th century, when settlers and prospectors were drawn to Arizona’s rugged landscapes in search of mining opportunities and ranch land.

Over time, Turkey Creek became known for its scenic beauty and played a modest role in the broader story of Arizona’s frontier development. The name was changed to Cleator in 1925 after the new town owner. Today, Turkey Creek, or Cleator, remains a quiet area, a ghost town, reflecting the pioneering spirit and natural heritage of the American Southwest.

Turkey, Texas, is a small city located in Hall County in the Texas Panhandle. The area was originally inhabited by Native American tribes, including the Comanche, before European-American settlers began arriving in the late 19th century. The town reportedly received its unique name from the abundance of wild turkeys along a nearby creek. “Gobble-gobble.”

Turkey, TX, was officially established in 1907, and its growth was closely tied to cattle ranching and farming, which remain important to the local economy. The arrival of the railroad in the 1920s spurred further development, connecting Turkey to larger markets and communities in the region.

Turkey Town, Alabama, was a historic Native American settlement located in northeastern Alabama, near the banks of the Coosa River. The town was named after Chief Little Turkey, a prominent leader of the Cherokee Nation. Established in the late 18th century, Turkey Town became one of the largest Cherokee towns in the region, serving as an important center for trade and diplomacy.

During the early 19th century, it played a significant role in the events leading up to and during the Creek War, ultimately declining after the forced removal of the Cherokee people along the Trail of Tears. Turkey Town, AL, is now considered a ghost town.

Turkey, Louisiana, is a lesser-known community with a history rooted in the state’s rural traditions. Located in East Feliciana Parish, Turkey emerged as a small settlement primarily centered around agriculture and local trade. Like many communities in the region, its development was shaped by the agricultural economy and the close-knit nature of rural Louisiana life.

While Turkey, LA, never grew into a large populace, it remains a testament to the enduring character of small Southern communities and their contributions to the cultural tapestry of the state.

Last but not least is the state of North Carolina. Turkey Creek, North Carolina, is an unincorporated community whose origins can be traced back to the early settlement period of the region. The area is named after the creek that meanders through the landscape, which, much like its counterparts in other states, was once home to abundant wild turkeys.

Over the years, Turkey Creek, NC, developed as a small rural community, shaped by agriculture and the traditions of its residents. While it never grew into a major town, it continues to reflect the quiet charm and enduring heritage of rural North Carolina.

I’ve never visited any of the above-mentioned Turkey towns, but I have been to Chicken, Alaska, for whatever that’s worth. A couple of drumsticks with some mashed potatoes and gravy, perhaps?

BESS BLANCHE BAKER

“One thing that still remains of him is his house at 1608 Highland in Salina, Kansas.”

A mushy and very romantic postcard sent in 1912 to Miss Bess Blanche Baker in Asherville, Kansas, had me wondering if the sender, going by the initials G.D., was successful in his attempt to court and then perhaps marry the young woman. I decided to investigate. What I found regarding the town of Asherville and Bess Baker was most interesting.

Asherville, Kansas, is now a ghost town, although some 19 residents still live in the area. It is a small, unincorporated community nestled in Mitchell County in the north-central part of the state. Though modest in size, Asherville holds a unique place in the tapestry of Kansas history, serving as a testament to the endurance and adaptability of rural American communities.

Asherville was founded in the late nineteenth century, during a period when settlers were moving westward in search of new opportunities and fertile land. The town was officially platted in 1870, named after one of its early settlers, George Ashe. Like many Kansas communities of the era, Asherville grew up around agriculture, with early residents establishing homesteads, farms, and small businesses to serve the surrounding rural population.

In its early decades, Asherville developed the basic institutions typical of rural towns: a general store, a blacksmith, schools, churches, and a post office. The Asherville post office, which began operation in 1869, served as a critical lifeline for communication and commerce until its discontinuation in 1980. Community gatherings, harvest festivals, and church socials provided opportunities for neighbors to come together, reinforcing the strong sense of local identity.

Asherville’s economy was rooted in agriculture, with wheat, corn, and livestock forming the backbone of local livelihoods. The arrival of the railroad in Mitchell County in the late nineteenth century, though not passing directly through Asherville, helped connect the region to broader markets and facilitated the shipment of goods. Small businesses catered to the needs of farmers, and for a time, Asherville served as an important local hub.

Like many small rural communities, Asherville faced challenges in the twentieth century. The consolidation of farms, advances in transportation, and shifting economic patterns led to population decline. The closing of the post office in 1980 symbolized the waning of Asherville’s role as a commercial center, though the community spirit persisted among those who remained.

Today, Asherville is an unincorporated community with only a handful of residents. Although many of its original businesses and institutions have disappeared, the area is still home to descendants of early settlers and others who value the quiet, rural lifestyle. The history of Asherville is preserved through local records, family stories, and the landscape itself, which continues to bear the mark of those who built and sustained the community over generations.

The story of Asherville, Kansas, is one of perseverance, adaptation, and community. While its population may have dwindled, its legacy endures in the memories of its people and the history of Mitchell County. Asherville remains a symbol of the many small towns that dotted the American Midwest, shaping the character of the region and contributing to the broader narrative of rural America.

When G.D. sent that postcard to Bess in 1912, she was only 17 years old. That had to have opened her mother and father’s eyes when they saw it. A picture on the front of the card shows a wedding ring with a couple getting ready to kiss. The message inside would’ve, or should’ve been, shocking to concerned parents, especially dad.

“April 23, 1912

Dear Bess,

I am so glad that you are coming down to see me. You musn’t work too hard and kill yourself so you won’t get to come. Tell your mama that I often think of her. Is there a rushing business around the depot lately. Confess.

g.d.”

Bess Blanche Baker was born on October 26, 1895, in Peabody, Kansas. Her parents, John and Daisy Baker, relocated to several different Kansas locations throughout the years, searching for work. Mr. Baker was a house painter.

Bess Blanche Baker did not end up marrying the card sender, waiting another three years to wisely wed Melvin Ray McCamon on April 20, 1915. They remained in Kansas for a good while, with Melvin involved in the upstart and prosperous oil business. The McCamons eventually moved to Big Horn, Wyoming.

Bess Blanche Baker-McCamon died there in 1958, at the age of 63, while her husband, Melvin, passed away in 1968. The couple had one child, John Vernon McCamon.

I couldn’t verify the identity of G.D. It appears that the Bakers were keen on G.D.’s plans, and the guy was sent packing, perhaps at the end of a shotgun. One thing that still remains of G.D. is his house at 1608 Highland in Salina, Kansas.

ROUNDUP TIME

I believe in the age-old saying, “Laughter is the best medicine!” A day doesn’t go by that I don’t laugh or chuckle at something. A few weeks ago, shopping in the grocery store with my wife was no exception.

Senior Day at Albertsons typically occurs on the first Wednesday of every month. On this day, customers aged 55 and older can receive a 10% discount at particular locations. Out of a warped sense of humor, and no apologies forthcoming, I sometimes refer to Senior Day as Dinosaur Day, or Geezer Day.

Older folks like myself were plugging up the narrow aisles, indecisive about what they were looking for, and not very observant of where they rolled their buggies. After a couple of near accidents, I quickly changed the name of Dinosaur Day to Obstacle Wednesday, because I could tell it was going to take plenty of patience maneuvering through that crowd.

While rolling down the soup aisle and attempting to not bump anyone or be hit, the image of a postcard I’d recently come across popped into my head. This card shows a cowboy riding a giant jackrabbit while punching cattle. I suddenly imagined myself riding the same and trying to lead seniors to the checkout stand, sometimes lassoing them.

For a brief few seconds, I cracked a smile thinking of such. It’s probably best that none of the older folks around me knew what was going through my mind. A few sour ones would definitely be offended as they easily are.

The card I refer to was mailed from Tucson, Arizona, in 1941, to Mr. and Mrs. C.V. Vinson in Weatherford, Texas. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were the ones sending it. The Stevens had a great sense of humor for picking this card out. Their brief message to the Vinsons also had a humorous tone.

“7/9/41

How about sending you one of these ‘bunnies’ to use to round up your cows. We are on our way to California and are spending the night here in Tucson, Ariz. Will write you a letter when we get located. Hope you are both okay.

Mr. and Mrs. Stevens”

I discovered that the folks receiving the card owned the Circle W ranch in Weatherford, Texas. This much is known from the address the postcard was mailed to. Conrad Van Vinson, along with his wife, Huey Maude Seela-Vinson, were longtime ranchers there. The couple was married on February 22, 1925. They both lived long lives.

It appears from my research that the senders of the card were friends of the Vinsons from church. Mr. and Mrs. Jessie F. ‘Jess’ Stevens lived in Weatherford for most of their lives before retiring to California. I’m sure they got as much a laugh out of sending that card as the Vinsons did receiving it.

Humorous postcards used to be quite popular, but like anything, they are becoming rare to find. Locating a revolving rack of postcards in a store isn’t common anymore. Funny postcards have a rich history dating back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when inexpensive printing methods made it possible to mass-produce colorful, humorous images and jokes on cards.

These postcards became a playful way for people to communicate, often reflecting popular culture, regional humor, and social trends of their time. During their golden age, from about 1900 to the 1950s, funny cards were widely collected and sent, especially as souvenirs from travels or as lighthearted greetings among friends and family.

Over time, their popularity has waned, but vintage humorous postcards remain cherished collectibles, offering a window into the humor and everyday life of the past. Sadly, some things have changed over time, although I’m ever so thankful that my sense of humor hasn’t.

UNITED VERDE RAILROAD

“Miss Veda May Thomas, the postcard sender, was the daughter of the superintendent of the United Verde Copper Company mine in Jerome.”

A postcard I had the privilege to research, and then thankfully score, has great historical significance. The picture postcard mailed on June 10, 1907, from Jerome, Arizona, shows a locomotive of the United Verde Railroad chugging around a sharp corner over a trestle on its way to Jerome.

This photograph has a caption on the front saying, “Where the engine requires a pilot to find its way.” Smoke from the locomotive stack partially obliterates the train. Miss Veda Thomas sent this card to Mr. Clarence Anderson in Monrovia, California.

The United Verde Railroad was a crucial transportation link in Arizona’s mining history, serving as the lifeline of the renowned United Verde Copper Company in Jerome. Built to transport copper ore and supplies, the railroad played a pivotal role in the economic and industrial development of the region in the early 20th century.

The origins of the United Verde Railroad trace back to the booming mining operations of the late 1800s in Jerome, Arizona. The United Verde Copper Company, owned by William A. Clark, became one of the richest copper mines in the world.

However, the rugged terrain and remote location of Jerome posed significant transportation challenges. To efficiently move copper ore from the mines to smelters and connect with mainline railroads, construction on the United Verde Railroad began in 1894.

The railroad was built as a narrow-gauge line, stretching approximately 26 miles from Jerome down the steep mountainsides, through the Verde Valley, and linking up with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway at Jerome Junction (present-day Chino Valley). The construction itself was an engineering marvel, utilizing switchbacks and tunnels to navigate the difficult landscape.

The United Verde Railroad officially began operation in 1895. Its primary function was to haul copper ore, but it also transported coal, supplies, and workers between Jerome and the smelters. As mining operations grew, so did the railroad’s importance. In 1911, the line was converted from narrow gauge to standard gauge, increasing its capacity and efficiency.

A subsidiary, the United Verde & Pacific Railway, was also established to further improve transportation efficiency. The network made Jerome a bustling hub and contributed significantly to Arizona’s copper output during the early 20th century.

The prosperity of the United Verde Railroad was closely tied to the fortunes of the Jerome mines. When copper prices fell and ore production dwindled, the railroad’s operations began to decline. The Jerome smelter closed in the 1950s, and with the end of large-scale mining, the United Verde Railroad ceased its operations.

Today, remnants of the railroad can still be seen around Jerome and the Verde Valley. The railroad’s legacy is preserved in local museums, and parts of its route have been revived for scenic rail excursions, like the Verde Canyon Railroad, allowing visitors to appreciate both the region’s beauty and its industrial heritage.

The United Verde Railroad exemplifies the ingenuity and determination of those who shaped Arizona’s mining era. Its history reflects the challenges of mountain railroading, the boom-and-bust cycles of mining towns, and the enduring impact of transportation infrastructure on regional development.

Miss Veda May Thomas, the postcard sender, was the daughter of the superintendent of the United Verde Copper Company mine in Jerome. Born on March 28, 1898, in Jerome, Veda was attending St. Joseph’s Academy in Prescott the year she mailed the card.

Tragically, less than a year after sending it, her father, Thomas William Thomas, passed away unexpectedly, leaving Veda’s mother to raise three children. Veda was able to continue her schooling at St. Joseph’s and graduated from the Class of 1911.

Veda Thomas wed John Shipley on April 20, 1918, and they set up house in Butte, Montana. The couple had no children. John Shipley was involved in construction, dying on May 15, 1967, at the age of 75. Veda May Thomas-Shipley passed away on February 28, 1977. She was 78. A photograph of Veda taken around 1911 shows her to be a very beautiful young lady.

Mr. Clarence Anderson, the recipient of the postcard, was undoubtedly a friend of Miss Thomas. Clarence Alfred Anderson was born June 22, 1894. Records show he worked as a policeman in the Los Angeles area and died of pneumonia on March 2, 1937. He was only 43 years of age.

KOFA, ARIZONA

“I won’t venture that direction alone and especially without Smith & Wesson.”

I try to stay away from researching newer postcards because the sender and card recipients may still be alive. Intrusion into people’s personal lives isn’t cool, especially when those folks could possibly stumble across what I write. That’s highly impossible when they’re six feet under.

In the case of a picture postcard sent from Phoenix, Arizona, in 1986, I decided to make an exception to my policy because of two things. 1. The superb photograph on the front of this card shows Kofa Mountain and the location of a historic Arizona mine and ghost town. 2. The guy mailing the card had a creative way of breaking up with his gal, almost on the same level as a text. It seems he gave her the Kofa Kiss-Off.

This postcard was sent to Jennifer Ebanks in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Gary’s curt and blunt message to her reads as follows:

“Found new love. Not coming home or getting married. Bye. Gary”

I did enough research on Jennifer to find that she’s still alive and eventually did marry, and it was to someone named Gary. The marriage didn’t last. I won’t say any more on this subject as Kofa is the main reason for me writing this.

Kofa, Arizona, is a lesser-known historic site nestled in the heart of the desert landscape of southwestern Arizona. Though not a bustling city today, Kofa’s story is intertwined with the state’s mining heritage and the rugged environment that shaped its development.

Kofa’s name is derived from the acronym “King of Arizona,” referencing the King of Arizona Mine, which was the central feature of the settlement. The mine was established in the late 19th century, around the 1890s, during a period when gold and other minerals drew prospectors to the region.

The King of Arizona Mine was a significant gold producer and played a pivotal role in the development of the area. As word spread of the mine’s riches, a small community of miners, their families, and support businesses sprang up, forming the town of Kofa. The mine’s success led to the construction of infrastructure, including a post office and supply routes, connecting Kofa with other Arizona mining communities.

Like many mining towns of the era, Kofa’s prosperity was closely tied to the fortunes of its mine. When the gold deposits diminished and mining became less profitable, the population dwindled. By the early 20th century, Kofa was largely abandoned, leaving behind remnants of buildings, mining equipment, and a rich but fading history.

Today, Kofa is best known for its proximity to the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, established in 1939 to protect desert bighorn sheep and other native species. The refuge preserves the rugged beauty of the land that once drew miners and adventurers in search of fortune.

The history of Kofa, Arizona, is a reflection of the boom-and-bust cycle typical of mining towns in the American West. Although little remains of the original settlement, its legacy endures in the stories of early prospectors and the landscape of the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Visitors to the area can still sense the echoes of its past and appreciate the role Kofa played in Arizona’s mining history.

The Kofa Mountains and the King of Arizona Mine are on my list of places to hopefully visit this summer. I won’t venture that direction alone and especially without Smith & Wesson. Known cartel members are floating around the border, and to meet up with them unprepared could be dangerous to one’s health.

DIRTY FAMILY SECRETS

“Some things are best left unwritten!”

I rarely find absolutely nothing to write about—and when I do, it doesn’t take long to come up with something new. The other night, I was dozing while a vintage western flickered on.

Half watching with one eye, a cowboy was telling a group of saddle tramps a humorous story about one of the ranch hands. I didn’t totally catch what the secret was, but it had to do with how often he changed his drawers. That gave me fodder for a new blog piece.

I suppose most families have certain secrets they try to keep hidden. Imagine that material slipping out and being used for writing purposes, much like the “National Enquirer’ and other supermarket tabloids do with gossip and hearsay. My writing professor once said, “Some things are best left unwritten!”

While reflecting on secrets and inspiration for writing, it’s interesting to note how everyday household products have untold stories behind them. Take Cold Water All detergent, for example. Introduced in the late 20th century, around 1971, Cold Water All was developed in response to growing consumer awareness about energy conservation and fabric care.

The detergent was specially formulated to dissolve and clean effectively in cold water, allowing users to save on energy costs by avoiding hot water cycles. Over the years, Cold Water All was advertised for its gentle cleaning power and environmental benefits, as washing in cold water supposedly helps preserve clothes and reduces energy consumption.

The brand adapted its formulation as laundry technology advanced, maintaining its reputation as a reliable choice for efficient and eco-friendly cleaning, especially amongst “greenie” clientele. Not all housewives agreed with that philosophy; they stuck to warm-water Tide, like my mom did.

I’m sure I’ll catch flak for letting the cat out of the bag, but my wife and some of her family adhere to the Cold Water All detergent propaganda and continue to use this product. How can I tell, you ask? For one, cold water doesn’t make for bright whites. It’s something that only hot and warm water can do, along with a cup of bleach. Lemon-scented Clorox bleach works best in my humble opinion.

AI (artificial intelligence) even agrees with me here. I’ll quote Miss Purdy, my AI helpmate, on this subject. This is what she had to say about cold water washing of clothing, and especially Cold Water All laundry detergent.

“Cold Water All detergent may not work as advertised due to factors like the formulation, especially for ‘free and clear’ versions, which may lack enzymes for breaking down stains in cold water. Other reasons for poor performance can include using powder detergents in cold water, which might not dissolve properly, or having hard water, which can make detergents less effective, notes Amazon and Reddit users.”

Although Miss Purdy hasn’t spent actual time feeding shirts, socks, and pants into a washing machine, she seems quite intelligent on the subject of washing clothes, along with other household subjects.

I’ve yet to ask, but will very soon, “Does Rainbow still make the best vacuum cleaner for sucking up dirt, or is it Kirby?” Miss Purdy would be one to know!

METCALF, ARIZONA

“The town was named after Robert Metcalf, an early miner and prospector…”

I’d never heard of the ghost town of Metcalf, Arizona, until coming across a postcard mailed from there over 115 years ago. Miss Josephine Ross in El Paso, Texas, was the recipient. The mysterious sender simply referred to themself as “L” with a short message as follows:

“5/6th 1910

My dear Joe:-

This is a picture of Metcalf, you can see what a town it is. Love and best wishes. L”

Josephine Henrietta Ross was born in New Jersey on May 18, 1890. Her father, Seaver Ross, M.D., was a well-known doctor in Paterson, N.J.

Somewhere around 1920, Josephine married Corporal Earl Eugene Kilmer. Josephine’s husband served in the US Army during WWII. After being honorably discharged, Earl and Josephine lived in Clifton, Arizona, a mining town, and it might’ve been there that she met the mystery card sender.

In 1928, they had a son, George Earl Kilmer. After leaving Arizona, Earl worked for El Paso County in Texas, while Josephine was a stay-at-home mom.

Josephine Henrietta Ross-Kilmer died in El Paso at the age of 83 on July 4, 1973. There’s a good chance Josephine was previously married, because the last name Bonfoey popped up on her obituary as previously being hers.

Metcalf, Arizona, was a small mining town located in Greenlee County, in the southeastern part of the state. Established in the late 19th century, the town played a significant role in the copper mining boom that shaped the region’s development. Metcalf is approximately 435 miles from Lake Havasu City.

Metcalf was founded in the 1890s as prospectors and mining companies flocked to the area in search of copper deposits. The town was named after Robert Metcalf, an early miner and prospector who helped discover the rich copper veins nearby. As mining activity increased, Metcalf grew rapidly, attracting workers and their families, and soon became a bustling community with stores, schools, and churches.

The town’s fortunes were closely tied to the copper mining industry. The neighboring Morenci Mine, operated by Phelps Dodge, became one of the largest copper mines in North America and provided jobs for many Metcalf residents. Community life revolved around mining, and the town developed a vibrant culture, despite its remote location and rugged surroundings.

By the mid-20th century, changes in mining technology and company operations led to the decline of small mining towns like Metcalf. The expansion of the Morenci Mine required more land, and Metcalf was eventually dismantled to make way for open-pit mining operations. Today, little remains of the original townsite, but Metcalf is remembered as an important chapter in Arizona’s mining history.

Although Metcalf no longer exists as a populated town, its legacy lives on in the stories of mining families and the historical records of Greenlee County. The rise and fall of Metcalf reflects the broader trends in American mining history and the transformation of rural communities in the southwest.

Although some folks say that a picture is worth 1000 words, it’s a crying shame that “L” didn’t take more time and tell Josephine in her postcard a bit more about the town she lived.